Poems

What is Truth? said jesting Pilate, Waiting not for a reply; What is Truth? the laboring Helot Asks, while he his task doth fly. Not in meanness, can they bind it, Bondman low or noble Prince; But in God's right hand they find it, As His power they evince.

In Thee, oh Spirit, true and tender, I find my Life, as God's own child; Within Thy Light, of glorious splendor, I lose the earth-clouds, drear and wild. In Thee I have no pain or sorrow, No anxious thought, no load of care.

September again, with its gloss and its glory, Awaking the senses to fruitage divine. How oft shall we list to its wonderful story, Ere drinking the draft of its Truth-giving wine?

There's a wideness in this Science, Like the wideness of the sea. There is room in its blest harbor, Room for you and room for me.

There's always a river to cross, Always an effort to make, If there 's anything good to win, Any rich prize to take. Yonder 's the fruit we crave, Yonder the charming scene; But deep and wide, with a troubled tide, Is the river that rolls between.

Of old, when from the garden beautiful Our parents were self-exiled for their sin, Our Lord, who e'en to sin is merciful, Upon their darkness let His light shine in. He said: "Lest in the pain that they have earned, They curse their Maker and provoke worse doom,— Lest they, grief-stricken, be inhuman turned, I grant them in their hearts the love of home.

Oh grant, dear Lord, this prayer to me, That I may know the Truth in Thee; Onward, through night, I seek the Way, Guide Thou my steps to perfect day. Oh may I know that I am Thine, Thine own pure thought, oh Truth divine.

The Truth is spreading! Let it spread On earth from pole to pole, — The heavenly word that wakes the dead, And lights the darkened soul. We need not now with Pilate ask What Truth is! Truth divine Stands full revealed.

August again, with its heat and its splendor! What praise for its glory to God can we render? The praise of a true-hearted sunshine towards men, A gift sure to bring us the sunshine again.

Father, hast Thou not a message, To be borne in melody, To the hearts of suffering thousands, Unsustained by hope in Thee? Gladly would I bear the message. If a humble one might be Worthy to receive it, might not Seraphs whisper it to me? Low down in each heart are longings, That to song responsive spring; Songs of Heaven, I long to sing them, That they may with gladness ring.