Poems

As in some vast cathedral, one looks up Through columns, carved and tinted deep by time, Up, up to where the light grows faint; and where Through windows, made by dust of ages dim. A few pale sunbeams strive to force their way; So in the redwoods.

Fling forth the triple-colored flag 'to dare The bright, untraveled highways of the air. Blow the undaunted bugles, blow, and yet Let not the boast betray us to forget.

It is not day, and yet the night is gone, Look eastward—see! that is not black, but gray— Cold gray, hard gray, dark gray; and yet if one Watches it, cold and hard, he hopes for day. Whiter and whiter—see, the night is done! The stars are frightened, and they pale away.

O little blade of grass, thy faith sublime Bids thee aspire to pierce the stubborn clod; Frosts cannot chill thy courage, upward still Thou pushest "boldly through the frozen sod, Up to the light and God. The piercing wind of March its arrows fling Full at thy heart, but thou art not afraid; The snowflakes bury thee in gelid robe.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,— Not light them for themselves. — Shakespeare.

Happy the man whose heart can rest, Sure that God's goodness ne'er will cease; Each day, complete, with joy is blessed, God keepeth him in perfect peace. God keepeth him, and God is one,— One Life, forevermore the same, One Truth unchanged while ages run, Eternal Love His holiest name.

Love hath touched with light divine The sable veil of gloom; Father, bid the night decline, And cause the dawn to bloom; Remove the clouds that roll Between me and my goal. Holy angels from above.

No evil can befall me, In Him I shall abide, His angels keep watch o'er me,— Are ever by my side. Why should I faint or falter With Love at hand to bless? It leads me through the shadows, And the seeming wilderness.

There is no law but the law of God, No power but the power of Good; No bending beneath the Almighty rod, No begging for daily food. For God in His tender, loving care, Knows not of sin or pain; And sendeth us not affliction sore, To bring us to Him again.

Unto thy service, oh my Father gracious, To do thy will alone, I gladly yield, To utter, day by day, thy words so precious, As for them, day by day, is need revealed; Unto thy service, as to tryst appointed, Content, though on my brow the thorns be pressed, For heart, hands, lips, have been by thee anointed,— The spirit of thy Love on me doth rest. Unto thy service, planning not, nor knowing The place, the hour, the task, of ministry.