A THOUGHT.
GOD, in his power, keeps making more men,
Peopling the great world again and again;
Age after age, as the centuries roll,
Never he makes a mistake with a soul,
Never neglects them, and never forgets.
Atoms in space from their birth to their end,
Dead or alive, he is always their friend.
Those who lived first, when the world was all new,
Still are as dear in his sight as are you;
Perished their names from the earth that they trod,
But every name is remembered by God,—
All that they sought for, and all that they wrought.
Fixed in unlikeness each separate soul,
Brethren and kin in the infinite whole.
Is God not tired, though almighty He is,
As the long years form the slow centuries,
And the slow centuries linked in embrace
Wearies He never, nor ceaseth His toil,
Nor says, “It is finished; creation is done”?—
Men are so many, and God is but one!
Foolish and childish the thought that I frame.
Meteors fall in, but the sun is the same.
What are the birds to the air-spaces free?
What are the fish to the surge or the sea,
Grains to the desert sands, motes to the beam?
Time hides its face at Eternity’s call;
Men may be many, but God he is all.