Poems

Out from the shadows of seeming. Out from the darkness of dreaming, Out from a warring that's all in the wrong, Into the brightness of being, Into the sunlight of seeing; Out from the sadness and into a song.

Yellow fields, and the blue beyond, The blue of a summer sky. The golden fields are the ripened grain, And the harvest time is nigh.

No man is born too late To turn his back to hate; We may not all be great Or rich or wise. The chances may be few For winning fame, but who Succeeds by gazing through Ungrateful eyes? Mankind has never had Less cause for being sad Nor more for being glad Than we possess; Ne'er has the world before Encouraged kindness more Or had such gifts in store For cheerfulness.

Love's image thou art, on earth enshrined, Thy nature, endued with meekness and grace; Purity, pure as the gold refined, Shines like a halo around thy face. Unselfish art thou, in thy lowly love, Giving its all for another's good, Feeding with manna from heights above, A starving sinner with heavenly food.

The day will come, crowned as Earth's paradise, When freed mankind will have one hope, one aim, One true and perfect Principle, the same Fountain of living waters, pure and free, And but one span of life,—Eternity; One rule alone of Love and this all-wise,— This day will come, crowned as Earth's paradise. The day will come, crowned as Earth's paradise, When bitter tears will all be wiped away With the sweet peace of Spirit.

If every star of human hope has set, Yet look not down await the dawn! The turning of the earth has always met A rising sun of newness, won From Cosmic Light, which makes life roseate, As when Truth's pristine radiance shone, Its glory now wakes hearts from gloom's regret, The e'er-recurring joy to own. 'Tis true all good things come again: they point To one encircling Source; wherefore Their orb they never lose, nor disappoint The patient watchers who explore Earth's mysteries, seeking Light where time's disjoint.

It came into my life, a song of sweetest cadence, And never since I caught its first truth-tone has it departed utterly. When self, discordant, clamors loud with doubts and fears, And sin has thrust itself into my consciousness, Betimes I've almost lost the key-note of my song; But even in the anguish of despair, I hear the undertone, The saving rhythm of the still, small voice, that uttereth itself infinitely.

Two sorrie Thynges there be— Ay, three: A Neste from which ye Fledglings have been taken, A Lambe forsaken, A Redde leaf from ye Wilde rose rudely shaken. Of gladde Thynges there be more— Ay, four: A Larke above ye olde Neste blythely singing, A Wilde Rose clinging In safety to a Rock: a Shepherde bringing A Lambe, found, in his armes, and Chrystemasse Bells a-ringing.

Except we love we may not live In atmosphere of pure delight, For Love alone to us can give The freer life—the clearer sight. Through love alone we learn to see Our brother's needs, and them supply.

One has a wall so very high, They dream not of roses, the passers-by, And a gardener watches with wary eye, Lest children the fragrance scent, and pry. And one has no wall, the children play In the rose-scented air the live-long day, And men who pass on their weary way Pause to adore, perhaps to pray.