 |
21.
Law is our schoolmaster. Our master, Christ, Lived under all our laws, yet always prayed— So walked the water when the storm was highest.— Law is Thy father's; thou hast it obeyed, And it thereby subject to thee hast made— To rule it, master, for thy brethren's sakes:— Well may he guide the law by whom law's maker makes.
22.
Death haunts our souls with dissolution's strife; Soaks them with unrest; makes our every breath A throe, not action; from God's purest gift Wipes off the bloom; and on the harp of faith Its fretted strings doth slacken still and shift: Life everywhere, perfect, and always life, Is sole redemption from this haunting death.
23.
God, thou from death dost lift me. As I rise, Its Lethe from my garment drips and flows. Ere long I shall be safe in upper air, With thee, my life—with thee, my answered prayer Where thou art God in every wind that blows, And self alone, and ever, softly dies, There shall my being blossom, and I know it fair.
24.
I would dig, Master, in no field but thine, Would build my house only upon thy rock, Yet am but a dull day, with a sea-sheen! Why should I wonder then that they should mock, Who, in the limbo of things heard and seen, Hither and thither blowing, lose the shine Of every light that hangs in the firmament divine.
25.
Lord, loosen in me the hold of visible things; Help me to walk by faith and not by sight; I would, through thickest veils and coverings, See into the chambers of the living light. Lord, in the land of things that swell and seem, Help me to walk by the other light supreme, Which shows thy facts behind man's vaguely hinting dream.
26.
I see a little child whose eager hands Search the thick stream that drains the crowded street For possible things hid in its current slow. Near by, behind him, a great palace stands, Where kings might welcome nobles to their feet. Soft sounds, sweet scents, fair sights there only go— There the child's father lives, but the child does not know.
27.
On, eager, hungry, busy-seeking child, Rise up, turn round, run in, run up the stair. Far in a chamber from rude noise exiled, Thy father sits, pondering how thou dost fare. The mighty man will clasp thee to his breast: Will kiss thee, stroke the tangles of thy hair, And lap thee warm in fold on fold of lovely rest.
28.
The prince of this world came, and nothing found In thee, O master; but, ah, woe is me! He cannot pass me, on other business bound, But, spying in me things familiar, he Casts over me the shadow of his flight, And straight I moan in darkness—and the fight Begins afresh betwixt the world and thee.
29.
In my own heart, O master, in my thought, Betwixt the woolly sheep and hairy goat Not clearly I distinguish; but I think Thou knowest that I fight upon thy side. The how I am ashamed of; for I shrink From many a blow—am borne on the battle-tide, When I should rush to the front, and take thy foe by the throat.
30.
The enemy still hath many things in me; Yea, many an evil nest with open hole Gapes out to him, at which he enters free. But, like the impact of a burning coal, His presence mere straight rouses the garrison, And all are up in arms, and down on knee, Fighting and praying till the foe is gone.
OCTOBER.
1.
REMEMBER, Lord, thou hast not made me good. Or if thou didst, it was so long ago I have forgotten—and never understood, I humbly think. At best it was a crude, A rough-hewn goodness, that did need this woe, This sin, these harms of all kinds fierce and rude, To shape it out, making it live and grow.
2.
But thou art making me, I thank thee, sire. What thou hast done and doest thou know'st well, And I will help thee:—gently in thy fire I will lie burning; on thy potter's-wheel I will whirl patient, though my brain should reel; Thy grace shall be enough the grief to quell, And growing strength perfect through weakness dire.
3.
I have not knowledge, wisdom, insight, thought, Nor understanding, fit to justify Thee in thy work, O Perfect. Thou hast brought Me up to this—and, lo! what thou hast wrought, I cannot call it good. But I can cry— "O enemy, the maker hath not done; One day thou shalt behold, and from the sight wilt run."
4.
The faith I will, aside is easily bent; But of thy love, my God, one glimpse alone Can make me absolutely confident— With faith, hope, joy, in love responsive blent. My soul then, in the vision mighty grown, Its father and its fate securely known, Falls on thy bosom with exultant moan.
5.
Thou workest perfectly. And if it seem Some things are not so well, 'tis but because They are too loving-deep, too lofty-wise, For me, poor child, to understand their laws: My highest wisdom half is but a dream; My love runs helpless like a falling stream: Thy good embraces ill, and lo! its illness dies!
6.
From sleep I wake, and wake to think of thee. But wherefore not with sudden glorious glee? Why burst not gracious on me heaven and earth In all the splendour of a new-day-birth? Why hangs a cloud betwixt my lord and me? The moment that my eyes the morning greet, My soul should panting rush to clasp thy father-feet.
7.
Is it because it is not thou I see, But only my poor, blotted fancy of thee? Oh! never till thyself reveal thy face, Shall I be flooded with life's vital grace. Oh make my mirror-heart thy shining-place, And then my soul, awaking with the morn, Shall be a waking joy, eternally new-born.
8.
Lord, in my silver is much metal base, Else should my being by this time have shown Thee thy own self therein. Therefore do I Wake in the furnace. I know thou sittest by, Refining—look, keep looking in to try Thy silver; master, look and see thy face, Else here I lie for ever, blank as any stone.
9.
But when in the dim silver thou dost look, I do behold thy face, though blurred and faint. Oh joy! no flaw in me thy grace will brook, But still refine: slow shall the silver pass From bright to brighter, till, sans spot or taint, Love, well content, shall see no speck of brass, And I his perfect face shall hold as in a glass.
10.
With every morn my life afresh must break The crust of self, gathered about me fresh; That thy wind-spirit may rush in and shake The darkness out of me, and rend the mesh The spider-devils spin out of the flesh— Eager to net the soul before it wake, That it may slumberous lie, and listen to the snake.
11.
'Tis that I am not good—that is enough; I pry no farther—that is not the way. Here, O my potter, is thy making stuff! Set thy wheel going; let it whir and play. The chips in me, the stones, the straws, the sand, Cast them out with fine separating hand, And make a vessel of thy yielding clay.
12.
What if it take a thousand years to make me, So me he leave not, angry, on the floor!— Nay, thou art never angry!—that would break me! Would I tried never thy dear patience sore, But were as good as thou couldst well expect me, Whilst thou dost make, I mar, and thou correct me! Then were I now content, waiting for something more.
13.
Only, my God, see thou that I content thee— Oh, take thy own content upon me, God! Ah, never, never, sure, wilt thou repent thee, That thou hast called thy Adam from the clod! Yet must I mourn that thou shouldst ever find me One moment sluggish, needing more of the rod Than thou didst think when thy desire designed me.
14.
My God, it troubles me I am not better. More help, I pray, still more. Thy perfect debtor I shall be when thy perfect child I am grown. My Father, help me—am I not thine own? Lo, other lords have had dominion o'er me, But now thy will alone I set before me: Thy own heart's life—Lord, thou wilt not abhor me!
15.
In youth, when once again I had set out To find thee, Lord, my life, my liberty, A window now and then, clouds all about, Would open into heaven: my heart forlorn First all would tremble with a solemn glee, Then, whelmed in peace, rest like a man outworn, That sees the dawn slow part the closed lids of the morn.
16.
Now I grow old, and the soft-gathered years Have calmed, yea dulled the heart's swift fluttering beat; But a quiet hope that keeps its household seat Is better than recurrent glories fleet. To know thee, Lord, is worth a many tears; And when this mildew, age, has dried away, My heart will beat again as young and strong and gay.
17.
Stronger and gayer tenfold!—but, O friends, Not for itself, nor any hoarded bliss. I see but vaguely whither my being tends, All vaguely spy a glory shadow-blent, Vaguely desire the "individual kiss;" But when I think of God, a large content Fills the dull air of my gray cloudy tent.
18.
Father of me, thou art my bliss secure. Make of me, maker, whatsoe'er thou wilt. Let fancy's wings hang moulting, hope grow poor, And doubt steam up from where a joy was spilt— I lose no time to reason it plain and clear, But fly to thee, my life's perfection dear:— Not what I think, but what thou art, makes sure.
19.
This utterance of spirit through still thought, This forming of heart-stuff in moulds of brain, Is helpful to the soul by which 'tis wrought, The shape reacting on the heart again; But when I am quite old, and words are slow, Like dying things that keep their holes for woe, And memory's withering tendrils clasp with effort vain?
20.
Thou, then as now, no less wilt be my life, And I shall know it better than before, Praying and trusting, hoping, claiming more. From effort vain, sick foil, and bootless strife, I shall, with childness fresh, look up to thee; Thou, seeing thy child with age encumbered sore, Wilt round him bend thine arm more carefully.
21.
And when grim Death doth take me by the throat, Thou wilt have pity on thy handiwork; Thou wilt not let him on my suffering gloat, But draw my soul out—gladder than man or boy, When thy saved creatures from the narrow ark Rushed out, and leaped and laughed and cried for joy, And the great rainbow strode across the dark.
22.
Against my fears, my doubts, my ignorance, I trust in thee, O father of my Lord! The world went on in this same broken dance, When, worn and mocked, he trusted and adored: I too will trust, and gather my poor best To face the truth-faced false. So in his nest I shall awake at length, a little scarred and scored.
23.
Things cannot look all right so long as I Am not all right who see—therefore not right Can see. The lamp within sends out the light Which shows the things; and if its rays go wry, Or are not white, they must part show a lie. The man, half-cured, did men not trees conclude, Because he moving saw what else had seemed a wood.
24.
Give me, take from me, as thou wilt. I learn— Slowly and stubbornly I learn to yield With a strange hopefulness. As from the field Of hard-fought battle won, the victor chief Turns thankfully, although his heart do yearn, So from my old things to thy new I turn, With sad, thee-trusting heart, and not in grief.
25.
If with my father I did wander free, Floating o'er hill and field where'er we would, And, lighting on the sward before the door, Strange faces through the window-panes should see, And strange feet standing where the loved had stood, The dear old place theirs all, as ours before— Should I be sorrowful, father, having thee?
26.
So, Lord, if thou tak'st from me all the rest, Thyself with each resumption drawing nigher, It shall but hurt me as the thorn of the briar, When I reach to the pale flower in its breast. To have thee, Lord, is to have all thy best, Holding it by its very life divine— To let my friend's hand go, and take his heart in mine.
27.
Take from me leisure, all familiar places; Take all the lovely things of earth and air Take from me books; take all my precious faces; Take words melodious, and their songful linking; Take scents, and sounds, and all thy outsides fair; Draw nearer, taking, and, to my sober thinking, Thou bring'st them nearer all, and ready to my prayer.
28.
No place on earth henceforth I shall count strange, For every place belongeth to my Christ. I will go calm where'er thou bid'st me range; Whoe'er my neighbour, thou art still my nighest. Oh my heart's life, my owner, will of my being! Into my soul thou every moment diest, In thee my life thus evermore decreeing.
29.
What though things change and pass, nor come again! Thou, the life-heart of all things, changest never. The sun shines on; the fair clouds turn to rain, And glad the earth with many a spring and river. The hearts that answer change with chill and shiver, That mourn the past, sad-sick, with hopeless pain, They know not thee, our changeless heart and brain.
30.
My halting words will some day turn to song— Some far-off day, in holy other times! The melody now prisoned in my rimes Will one day break aloft, and from the throng Of wrestling thoughts and words spring up the air; As from the flower its colour's sweet despair Issues in odour, and the sky's low levels climbs.
31.
My surgent thought shoots lark-like up to thee. Thou like the heaven art all about the lark. Whatever I surmise or know in me, Idea, or but symbol on the dark, Is living, working, thought-creating power In thee, the timeless father of the hour. I am thy book, thy song—thy child would be.
NOVEMBER
1.
THOU art of this world, Christ. Thou know'st it all; Thou know'st our evens, our morns, our red and gray; How moons, and hearts, and seasons rise and fall; How we grow weary plodding on the way; Of future joy how present pain bereaves, Rounding us with a dark of mere decay, Tossed with a drift Of summer-fallen leaves.
2.
Thou knowest all our weeping, fainting, striving; Thou know'st how very hard it is to be; How hard to rouse faint will not yet reviving; To do the pure thing, trusting all to thee; To hold thou art there, for all no face we see; How hard to think, through cold and dark and dearth, That thou art nearer now than when eye-seen on earth.
3.
Have pity on us for the look of things, When blank denial stares us in the face. Although the serpent mask have lied before, It fascinates the bird that darkling sings, And numbs the little prayer-bird's beating wings. For how believe thee somewhere in blank space, If through the darkness come no knocking to our door?
4.
If we might sit until the darkness go, Possess our souls in patience perhaps we might; But there is always something to be done, And no heart left to do it. To and fro The dull thought surges, as the driven waves fight In gulfy channels. Oh! victorious one, Give strength to rise, go out, and meet thee in the night.
5.
"Wake, thou that sleepest; rise up from the dead, And Christ will give thee light." I do not know What sleep is, what is death, or what is light; But I am waked enough to feel a woe, To rise and leave death. Stumbling through the night, To my dim lattice, O calling Christ! I go, And out into the dark look for thy star-crowned head.
6.
There are who come to me, and write, and send, Whom I would love, giving good things to all, But friend—that name I cannot on them spend; 'Tis from the centre of self-love they call For cherishing—for which they first must know How to be still, and take the seat that's low: When, Lord, shall I be fit—when wilt thou call me friend?
7.
Wilt thou not one day, Lord? In all my wrong, Self-love and weakness, laziness and fear, This one thing I can say: I am content To be and have what in thy heart I am meant To be and have. In my best times I long After thy will, and think it glorious-dear; Even in my worst, perforce my will to thine is bent.
8.
My God, I look to thee for tenderness Such as I could not seek from any man, Or in a human heart fancy or plan— A something deepest prayer will not express: Lord, with thy breath blow on my being's fires, Until, even to the soul with self-love wan, I yield the primal love, that no return desires.
9.
Only no word of mine must ever foster The self that in a brother's bosom gnaws; I may not fondle failing, nor the boaster Encourage with the breath of my applause. Weakness needs pity, sometimes love's rebuke; Strength only sympathy deserves and draws— And grows by every faithful loving look.
10.
'Tis but as men draw nigh to thee, my Lord, They can draw nigh each other and not hurt. Who with the gospel of thy peace are girt, The belt from which doth hang the Spirit's sword, Shall breathe on dead bones, and the bones shall live, Sweet poison to the evil self shall give, And, clean themselves, lift men clean from the mire abhorred.
11.
My Lord, I have no clothes to come to thee; My shoes are pierced and broken with the road; I am torn and weathered, wounded with the goad, And soiled with tugging at my weary load: The more I need thee! A very prodigal I stagger into thy presence, Lord of me: One look, my Christ, and at thy feet I fall!
12.
Why should I still hang back, like one in a dream, Who vainly strives to clothe himself aright, That in great presence he may seemly seem? Why call up feeling?—dress me in the faint, Worn, faded, cast-off nimbus of some saint? Why of old mood bring back a ghostly gleam— While there He waits, love's heart and loss's blight!
13.
Son of the Father, elder brother mine, See thy poor brother's plight; See how he stands Defiled and feeble, hanging down his hands! Make me clean, brother, with thy burning shine; From thy rich treasures, householder divine, Bring forth fair garments, old and new, I pray, And like thy brother dress me, in the old home-bred way.
14.
My prayer-bird was cold—would not away, Although I set it on the edge of the nest. Then I bethought me of the story old— Love-fact or loving fable, thou know'st best— How, when the children had made sparrows of clay, Thou mad'st them birds, with wings to flutter and fold: Take, Lord, my prayer in thy hand, and make it pray.
15.
My poor clay-sparrow seems turned to a stone, And from my heart will neither fly nor run. I cannot feel as thou and I both would, But, Father, I am willing—make me good. What art thou father for, but to help thy son? Look deep, yet deeper, in my heart, and there, Beyond where I can feel, read thou the prayer.
16.
Oh what it were to be right sure of thee! Sure that thou art, and the same as thy son, Jesus! Oh, faith is deeper, wider than the sea, Yea, than the blue of heaven that ever flees us! Yet simple as the cry of sore-hurt child, Or as his shout, with sudden gladness wild, When home from school he runs, till morn set free.
17.
If I were sure thou, Father, verily art, True father of the Nazarene as true, Sure as I am of my wife's shielding heart, Sure as of sunrise in the watching blue, Sure as I am that I do eat and drink, And have a heart to love and laugh and think, Meseems in flame the joy might from my body start.
18.
But I must know thee in a deeper way Than any of these ways, or know thee not; My heart at peace far loftier proof must lay Than if the wind thou me the wave didst roll, Than if I lay before thee a sunny spot, Or knew thee as the body knows its soul, Or even as the part doth know its perfect whole.
19.
There is no word to tell how I must know thee; No wind clasped ever a low meadow-flower So close that as to nearness it could show thee; No rainbow so makes one the sun and shower. A something with thee, I am a nothing fro' thee. Because I am not save as I am in thee, My soul is ever setting out to win thee.
20.
I know not how—for that I first must know thee. I know I know thee not as I would know thee, For my heart burns like theirs that did not know him, Till he broke bread, and therein they must know him. I know thee, knowing that I do not know thee, Nor ever shall till one with me I know thee— Even as thy son, the eternal man, doth know thee.
21.
Creation under me, in, and above, Slopes upward from the base, a pyramid, On whose point I shall stand at last, and love. From the first rush of vapour at thy will, To the last poet-word that darkness chid, Thou hast been sending up creation's hill, To lift thy souls aloft in faithful Godhead free.
22.
I think my thought, and fancy I think thee.— Lord, wake me up; rend swift my coffin-planks; I pray thee, let me live—alive and free. My soul will break forth in melodious thanks, Aware at last what thou wouldst have it be, When thy life shall be light in me, and when My life to thine is answer and amen.
23.
How oft I say the same things in these lines! Even as a man, buried in during dark, Turns ever where the edge of twilight shines, Prays ever towards the vague eternal mark; Or as the sleeper, having dreamed he drinks, Back straightway into thirstful dreaming sinks, So turns my will to thee, for thee still longs, still pines.
24.
The mortal man, all careful, wise, and troubled, The eternal child in the nursery doth keep. To-morrow on to-day the man heaps doubled; The child laughs, hopeful, even in his sleep. The man rebukes the child for foolish trust; The child replies, "Thy care is for poor dust; Be still, and let me wake that thou mayst sleep."
25.
Till I am one, with oneness manifold, I must breed contradiction, strife, and doubt; Things tread Thy court—look real—take proving hold— My Christ is not yet grown to cast them out; Alas! to me, false-judging 'twixt the twain, The Unseen oft fancy seems, while, all about, The Seen doth lord it with a mighty train.
26.
But when the Will hath learned obedience royal, He straight will set the child upon the throne; To whom the seen things all, grown instant loyal, Will gather to his feet, in homage prone— The child their master they have ever known; Then shall the visible fabric plainly lean On a Reality that never can be seen.
27.
Thy ways are wonderful, maker of men! Thou gavest me a child, and I have fed And clothed and loved her, many a growing year; Lo! now a friend of months draws gently near, And claims her future—all beyond his ken— There he hath never loved her nor hath led: She weeps and moans, but turns, and leaves her home so dear.
28.
She leaves, but not forsakes. Oft in the night, Oft at mid-day when all is still around, Sudden will rise, in dim pathetic light, Some childish memory of household bliss, Or sorrow by love's service robed and crowned; Rich in his love, she yet will sometimes miss The mother's folding arms, the mother's sealing kiss.
29.
Then first, I think, our eldest-born, although Loving, devoted, tender, watchful, dear, The innermost of home-bred love shall know! Yea, when at last the janitor draws near, A still, pale joy will through the darkness go, At thought of lying in those arms again, Which once were heaven enough for any pain.
30.
By love doth love grow mighty in its love: Once thou shalt love us, child, as we love thee. Father of loves, is it not thy decree That, by our long, far-wandering remove From thee, our life, our home, our being blest, We learn at last to love thee true and best, And rush with all our loves back to thy infinite rest?
DECEMBER.
1.
I AM a little weary of my life— Not thy life, blessed Father! Or the blood Too slowly laves the coral shores of thought, Or I am weary of weariness and strife. Open my soul-gates to thy living flood; I ask not larger heart-throbs, vigour-fraught, I pray thy presence, with strong patience rife.
2.
I will what thou will'st—only keep me sure That thou art willing; call to me now and then. So, ceasing to enjoy, I shall endure With perfect patience—willing beyond my ken Beyond my love, beyond my thinking scope; Willing to be because thy will is pure; Willing thy will beyond all bounds of hope.
3.
This weariness of mine, may it not come From something that doth need no setting right? Shall fruit be blamed if it hang wearily A day before it perfected drop plumb To the sad earth from off its nursing tree? Ripeness must always come with loss of might. The weary evening fall before the resting night.
4.
Hither if I have come through earth and air, Through fire and water—I am not of them; Born in the darkness, what fair-flashing gem Would to the earth go back and nestle there? Not of this world, this world my life doth hem; What if I weary, then, and look to the door, Because my unknown life is swelling at the core?
5.
All winged things came from the waters first; Airward still many a one from the water springs In dens and caves wind-loving things are nursed:— I lie like unhatched bird, upfolded, dumb, While all the air is trembling with the hum Of songs and beating hearts and whirring wings, That call my slumbering life to wake to happy things.
6.
I lay last night and knew not why I was sad. "'Tis well with God," I said, "and he is the truth; Let that content me."—'Tis not strength, nor youth, Nor buoyant health, nor a heart merry-mad, That makes the fact of things wherein men live: He is the life, and doth my life outgive; In him there is no gloom, but all is solemn-glad,
7.
I said to myself, "Lo, I lie in a dream Of separation, where there comes no sign; My waking life is hid with Christ in God, Where all is true and potent—fact divine." I will not heed the thing that doth but seem; I will be quiet as lark upon the sod; God's will, the seed, shall rest in me the pod.
8.
And when that will shall blossom—then, my God, There will be jubilation in a world! The glad lark, soaring heavenward from the sod, Up the swift spiral of its own song whirled, Never such jubilation wild out-poured As from my soul will break at thy feet, Lord, Like a great tide from sea-heart shoreward hurled.
9.
For then thou wilt be able, then at last, To glad me as thou hungerest to do; Then shall thy life my heart all open find, A thoroughfare to thy great spirit-wind; Then shall I rest within thy holy vast, One with the bliss of the eternal mind; And all creation rise in me created new.
10.
What makes thy being a bliss shall then make mind For I shall love as thou, and love in thee; Then shall I have whatever I desire, My every faintest wish being all divine; Power thou wilt give me to work mightily, Even as my Lord, leading thy low men nigher, With dance and song to cast their best upon thy fire.
11.
Then shall I live such an essential life That a mere flower will then to me unfold More bliss than now grandest orchestral strife— By love made and obedience humble-bold, I shall straight through its window God behold. God, I shall feed on thee, thy creature blest With very being—work at one with sweetest rest.
12.
Give me a world, to part for praise and sunder. The brooks be bells; the winds, in caverns dumb, Wake fife and flute and flageolet and voice; The fire-shook earth itself be the great drum; And let the air the region's bass out thunder; The firs be violins; the reeds hautboys; Rivers, seas, icebergs fill the great score up and under!
13.
But rather dost thou hear the blundered words Of breathing creatures; the music-lowing herds Of thy great cattle; thy soft-bleating sheep; O'erhovered by the trebles of thy birds, Whose Christ-praised carelessness song-fills the deep; Still rather a child's talk who apart doth hide him, And make a tent for God to come and sit beside him.
14.
This is not life; this being is not enough. But thou art life, and thou hast life for me. Thou mad'st the worm—to cast the wormy slough, And fly abroad—a glory flit and flee. Thou hast me, statue-like, hewn in the rough, Meaning at last to shape me perfectly. Lord, thou hast called me fourth, I turn and call on thee.
15.
'Tis thine to make, mine to rejoice in thine. As, hungering for his mother's face and eyes, The child throws wide the door, back to the wall, I run to thee, the refuge from poor lies: Lean dogs behind me whimper, yelp, and whine; Life lieth ever sick, Death's writhing thrall, In slavery endless, hopeless, and supine.
16.
The life that hath not willed itself to be, Must clasp the life that willed, and be at peace; Or, like a leaf wind-blown, through chaos flee; A life-husk into which the demons go, And work their will, and drive it to and fro; A thing that neither is, nor yet can cease, Which uncreation can alone release.
17.
But when I turn and grasp the making hand, And will the making will, with confidence I ride the crest of the creation-wave, Helpless no more, no more existence' slave; In the heart of love's creating fire I stand, And, love-possessed in heart and soul and sense, Take up the making share the making Master gave.
18.
That man alone who does the Father's works Can be the Father's son; yea, only he Who sonlike can create, can ever be; Who with God wills not, is no son, not free. O Father, send the demon-doubt that lurks Behind the hope, out into the abyss; Who trusts in knowledge all its good shall miss.
19.
Thy beasts are sinless, and do live before thee; Thy child is sinful, and must run to thee. Thy angels sin not and in peace adore thee; But I must will, or never more be free. I from thy heart came, how can I ignore thee?— Back to my home I hurry, haste, and flee; There I shall dwell, love-praising evermore thee.
20.
My holy self, thy pure ideal, lies Calm in thy bosom, which it cannot leave; My self unholy, no ideal, hies Hither and thither, gathering store to grieve— Not now, O Father! now it mounts, it flies, To join the true self in thy heart that waits, And, one with it, be one with all the heavenly mates.
21.
Trusting thee, Christ, I kneel, and clasp thy knee; Cast myself down, and kiss thy brother-feet— One self thou and the Father's thought of thee! Ideal son, thou hast left the perfect home, Ideal brother, to seek thy brothers come! Thou know'st our angels all, God's children sweet, And of each two wilt make one holy child complete.
22.
To a slow end I draw these daily words, Nor think such words often to write again— Rather, as light the power to me affords, Christ's new and old would to my friends unbind; Through words he spoke help to his thought behind; Unveil the heart with which he drew his men; Set forth his rule o'er devils, animals, corn, and wind.
23.
I do remember how one time I thought, "God must be lonely—oh, so lonely lone! I will be very good to him—ah, nought Can reach the heart of his great loneliness! My whole heart I will bring him, with a moan That I may not come nearer; I will lie prone Before the awful loveliness in loneliness' excess."
24.
A God must have a God for company. And lo! thou hast the Son-God to thy friend. Thou honour'st his obedience, he thy law. Into thy secret life-will he doth see; Thou fold'st him round in live love perfectly— One two, without beginning, without end; In love, life, strength, and truth, perfect without a flaw.
25.
Thou hast not made, or taught me, Lord, to care For times and seasons—but this one glad day Is the blue sapphire clasping all the lights That flash in the girdle of the year so fair— When thou wast born a man, because alway Thou wast and art a man, through all the flights Of thought, and time, and thousandfold creation's play.
26.
We all are lonely, Maker—each a soul Shut in by itself, a sundered atom of thee. No two yet loved themselves into a whole; Even when we weep together we are two. Of two to make one, which yet two shall be, Is thy creation's problem, deep, and true, To which thou only hold'st the happy, hurting clue.
27.
No less than thou, O Father, do we need A God to friend each lonely one of us. As touch not in the sack two grains of seed, Touch no two hearts in great worlds populous. Outside the making God we cannot meet Him he has made our brother: homeward, thus, To find our kin we first must turn our wandering feet.
28.
It must be possible that the soul made Should absolutely meet the soul that makes; Then, in that bearing soul, meet every other There also born, each sister and each brother. Lord, till I meet thee thus, life is delayed; I am not I until that morning breaks, Not I until my consciousness eternal wakes.
29.
Again I shall behold thee, daughter true; The hour will come when I shall hold thee fast In God's name, loving thee all through and through. Somewhere in his grand thought this waits for us. Then shall I see a smile not like thy last— For that great thing which came when all was past, Was not a smile, but God's peace glorious.
30.
Twilight of the transfiguration-joy, Gleam-faced, pure-eyed, strong-willed, high-hearted boy! Hardly thy life clear forth of heaven was sent, Ere it broke out into a smile, and went. So swift thy growth, so true thy goalward bent, Thou, child and sage inextricably blent, Wilt one day teach thy father in some heavenly tent
31.
Go, my beloved children, live your life. Wounded, faint, bleeding, never yield the strife. Stunned, fallen-awake, arise, and fight again. Before you victory stands, with shining train Of hopes not credible until they are. Beyond morass and mountain swells the star Of perfect love—the home of longing heart and brain
THE END |
|
