Questions & Answers
"God never failed me yet!" she said, and peace Shone from the aged eyes undimmed and clear. Widowed, with nine young appetites to feed, I knew she sought His aid in every need And supplemented prayer with doughty deed.
There was a time when in my daily prayer I asked for all the things I deemed most fair, And necessary to my life,—success, Riches, of course, and ease, and happiness; A host of friends, a home without alloy; A primrose path of luxury and joy, Social distinction, and enough of fame To leave behind a well-remembered name. Ambition ruled my life.
Not for the love that this world gives, Do I now pray, Not for the love that only lives Just for a day. The love divine I seek is giv'n Of God above.
Mine is the music of the woods and waves, I strike the strings, and give the grand octaves; The mighty tones are mine Of mountain and of pine, And loud upon the listless ear of morn I wind my wakening horn. I am the wing-foot wanderer, that brings A thousand greetings of a thousand things! My chariot mists among I sing the welkin's song; And when the moon is on the moaning deep I sob the world to sleep.
Behold when skies are torn by trebled thunder, And daytime, foul with fury, seemeth night, Across the path of clashing hail there cometh The long-enduring sun's benignant light, And archeth over earth a beauteous halo, Which lusting hands all restlessly beseech— A silent, sevenfold wonder, out of chaos, The radiant rainbow bends, God's law to teach. Yea, clouds drop sweet distilment in their anger, And craving earth doth find her latter rain; Though needles of the frost seem, plied with blighting, They clothe with autumn splendor wood and plain; And nothing fails nor fades apart from being, Life's law of recompense hath countless signs,— The shriek of desert wind at length becometh The soft, balm-breathing discourse of the pines.
Before my heavy lids were raised, And almost mingled with my dreams. These words came clear: "A mortal seems A monster" Miscellaneous Writings, p.
What work is thine? No one of us, in his own single might, Is sent to set a wandering world aright, By call divine. Thy work lies near; Yea, next thy hand, with pregnant promise stored; Nearest of all things,—yet too oft ignored, Because so near.
A tiny thing came drifting through the air, And sought my heart—to find subsistence there. It strove to enter; but the door was fast, And cold the hearth within; the winds that passed Were not more cruel than the coldness drear That held the thing at bay, nor felt it near.
These are her fruits, kindness and gentleness, And gratefully we take them at her hands; Patience she has, and pity for distress, And love that understands. Ah, ask not how such rich reward was won, How sharp the harrow in the former years, Or mellowed in what agony of sun, Or watered with what tears.
When Love looks down from starlit skies, New joys appear and hope grows strong; The heart with tenderer speech replies And mightier themes pervade our song. Indeed, how blest the chosen way When Christ is near the livelong day.