Poems of Progress and New Thought Pastels

Ahasueras

What were thy thoughts, sweet Esther?  Something passed
Across thy face, that for a moment veiled
Thy soul from mine, and left me desolate.
Thy thoughts were not of me?

Esther

      Ay, all of thee!
I wondered, if in truth, thou wert content
With me—thy choice.  Was there no other one
Of all who passed before thee at thy court
Whose memory pursues thee with regret?

Ahasueras

I do confess I much regret that day
And wish I could relive it.

      Oh!  My lord!

Ahasueras

Yea!  I regret those hours I wasted on
The poor procession that preceded thee.
Hadst thou come first, then all the added wealth

   Of one long day of loving thee were mine—
A boundless fortune squandered.  Though I live
To three score years and ten, as I do hope,
In wedded love beside thee, that one day
Was filched from me and cannot be restored.

Esther

And then to think how frightened and abashed
I hung outside thy gates from early morn,
Not daring to go in and meet thine eyes,
Till pitying twilight clothed me in her veil,
And evening walked beside me to thy door.

Ahasueras

So it was thou, fair thief, who stole that day,
And made me poorer, by—how many hours?

Esther

Full eight, I think.  They seemed a hundred then,
And now time flies a hundred times too fast.

Then eight more kisses do I claim from thee,
This very hour—first tithes of many due.
I shall exact these payments as I will,
And if they be not ready on demand,
I’ll lock thee in the prison of my arms,
Like this—and take them so—and so—and so!

Esther

But kings must think of other things than love
And live for other aims than happiness.
I would not drag thee from thy altitude
Of mighty ruler and great conqueror
To chain thee by my side.

Ahasueras

      Such slavery
Would please me better than to conquer earth
Without thee, Esther.  I have stood on heights
And heard the cheers of multitudes below;
Have known the loneliness of being great.
Now, let me live and love thee, like a man,
Forgetting I am king—
I am content.

Content is not the pathway to great deeds.
As man, I hold thee higher than all kings;
As king, thou must stand higher than all men
In other eyes.  Let no one say of me:
‘She spoiled his greatness by her littleness;
She made a languorous lover of a king,
And silenced war-cries on commanding lips—
With honeyed kisses; made her woman’s arms
Preferred to armour, and her couch to tents,
Until the kingdom, with no guiding hand,
Plunged down to ruin.’

Ahasueras

      Thou wouldst have me go—
So soon thy heart hath wearied?

Esther

Ahasueras

Thou art most noble, Esther; thou art fit
To be the consort of a king of kings.
But I have chewed upon ambition’s husks
And starved for love through all my manhood’s years;
And now the mighty gods have seen it fit
To spread love’s banquet and to name thee host,
May I not feast my fill?  O Esther, take
The tempting nectar of those lips away
And give me wine to rouse the brute in me,
To make me thirst for blood instead of love!
Wine!  Wine!  I say!

Esther

      Ahasueras, wait!
Methinks good music is wine turned to sound.
Here comes thy minstrel with an offering
Pressed from the ripened fruit of my fond heart.
Mine own the words and mine the melody
And may it linger longer in thine ear
Than on thy lip would stay the taste of wine.
Sing on!

Ahasueras

No less a lover but a greater man,
A better warrior and a nobler king,
I will be from this hour for thy dear sake.

God finished woman in the twilight hour
And said, ‘To-morrow thou shalt find thy place:
Man’s complement, the mother of the race—
   With love the motive power—
   The one compelling power.’

All night she dreamed and wondered.  With the light
Her lover came—and then she understood
The purpose of her being.  Life was good
   And all the world seemed right—
   And nothing was, but right.

She had no wish for any wider sway:
By all the questions of the world unvexed,
Supremely loving and superbly sexed,
   She passed upon her way—
   Her feminine fair way.

She asked so little, and so much she gave,
That man grew selfish: and she soon became,
To God’s great sorrow and the whole world’s shame,
   Man’s sweet and patient slave—
   His uncomplaining slave.

Yet in the nights (oh! nights so dark and long)
She clasped her little children to her breast
And wept.  And in her anguish of unrest
   She thought upon her wrong;
   She knew how great her wrong.

And one sad hour, she said unto her heart,
‘Since thou art cause of all my bitter pain,
I bid thee abdicate the throne: let brain
   Rule now, and do his part—
   His masterful, strong part.’

Still on and up, from sphere to widening sphere,
Till thorny paths bloomed with the rose of fame.
Who once demurred, now followed with acclaim:
   The hiss died in the cheer—
   The loud applauding cheer.

She stood triumphant in that radiant hour,
Man’s mental equal, and competitor.
But ah! the cost! from out the heart of her
   Had gone love’s motive power—
   Love’s all-compelling power.

I dreamed a Voice, of one God-authorised,
Cried loudly thro’ the world, ‘Disarm!  Disarm!’
And there was consternation in the camps;
And men who strutted under braid and lace
Beat on their medalled breasts, and wailed, ‘Undone!’
The word was echoed from a thousand hills,
And shop and mill, and factory and forge,
Where throve the awful industries of death,
Hushed into silence.  Scrawled upon the doors,
The passer read, ‘Peace bids her children starve.’
But foolish women clasped their little sons
And wept for joy, not reasoning like men.

And then a sudden, comprehensive joy
Shone in the eyes of men; and one who thought
Only of conquests and of victories
Woke from his gloomy reverie and cried,
‘Ay, come and build!  I challenge all to try.
And I will make a world more beautiful
Than Eden was before the serpent came.’
And like a running flame on western wilds,
Ambition spread from mind to listening mind,
And lo! the looms were busy once again,
And all the earth resounded with men’s toil.

Vast palaces of Science graced the world;
Their banquet tables spread with feasts of truth
For all who hungered.  Music kissed the air,
Once rent with boom of cannons.  Statues gleamed
From wooded ways, where ambushed armies hid
In times of old.  The sea and air were gay
With shining sails that soared from land to land.
A universal language of the world
Made nations kin, and poverty was known

Oh, that a Voice, of one God-authorised
Might cry to all mankind, Disarm!  Disarm!

Once in a time of trouble and of care
I dreamed I talked with God about my pain;
With sleepland courage, daring to complain
Of what I deemed ungracious and unfair.
‘Lord, I have grovelled on my knees in prayer
   Hour after hour,’ I cried; ‘yet all in vain;
   No hand leads up to heights I would attain,
No path is shown me out of my despair.’

Then answered God: ‘Three things I gave to thee—
   Clear brain, brave will, and strength of mind and heart,
      All implements divine, to shape the way.
Why shift the burden of thy toil on Me?
   Till to the utmost he has done his part
      With all his might, let no man dare to pray.’

Two thousand years had passed since Christ was born,
When suddenly there rose a mighty host
Of women, sweeping to a central goal
As many rivers sweep on to the sea.
They came from mountains, valleys, and from coasts,
And from all lands, all nations, and all ranks,
Speaking all languages, but thinking one.
And that one language—Peace.

      And the world was still
While men considered.

At times I am the mother of the world;
And mine seem all its sorrows, and its fears.
That rose, which in each mother-heart is curled,
   The rose of pity, opens with my tears,
And, waking in the night, I lie and hark
   To the lone sobbing, and the wild alarms,
Of my World-child, a wailing in the dark:
   The child I fain would shelter in my arms.
I call to it (as from another room
   A mother calls, what time she cannot go):
‘Sleep well, dear world; Love hides behind this gloom.
   There is no need for wakefulness or woe,
The long, long night is almost past and gone,
The day is near.’  And yet the world weeps on.

I cried, ‘Dear Angel, lead me to the heights,
   And spur me to the top.’
   The Angel answered, ‘Stop
And set thy house in order; make it fair
For absent ones who may be speeding there.
   Then will we talk of heights.’

I put my house in order.  ‘Now lead on!’
   The Angel said, ‘Not yet;
   Thy garden is beset
By thorns and tares; go weed it, so all those
Who come to gaze may find the unvexed rose;
   Then will we journey on.’

The beggar left me singing.  ‘Now at last—
   At last the path is clear.’
   ‘Nay, there is one draws near
Who seeks, like thee, the difficult highway.
He lacks thy courage; cheer him through the day
   Then will we cry, “At last!”’

I helped my weaker brother.  ‘Now the heights;
   Oh, Guide me, Angel, guide!’
   The Presence at my side,
With radiant face, said, ‘Look, where are we now?’
And lo! we stood upon the mountain’s brow—
   The heights, the shining heights!

Not great Vesuvius, in all his ire,
Nor all the centuries, could hide your shame.
There is the little window where you came,
With eyes that woke the demon of desire,
And lips like rose leaves, fashioned out of fire;
   And from the lava leaps the molten flame
   Of your old sins.  The walls cry out your name—
Your face seems rising from the funeral pyre.

There must have dwelt, within your fated town,
   Full many a virtuous dame, and noble wife
      Who made your beauty seem as star to sun;
How strange the centuries have handed down
   Your name, fair Julia, of immoral life,
      And left the others to oblivion.

Master of sweet and loving lore,
   Give us the open mind
To know religion means no more,
   No less, than being kind.

Give us the comprehensive sight
   That sees another’s need;
And let our aim to set things right
   Prove God inspired our creed.

Give us the soul to know our kin
   That dwell in flock and herd,
The voice to fight man’s shameful sin
   Against the beast and bird.

Give us a heart with love so fraught
   For all created things,
That even our unspoken thought
   Bears healing on its wings.

Give us the mastery of our fate
   In thoughts so warm and white,
They stamp upon the brows of hate
   Love’s glorious seal of light.

Give us the strong, courageous faith
   That makes of pain a friend,
And calls the secret word of death
   ‘Beginning,’ and not ‘end.’

What is right living?  Just to do your best
When worst seems easier.  To bear the ills
Of daily life with patient cheerfulness
Nor waste dear time recounting them.
      To talk
Of hopeful things when doubt is in the air.
To count your blessings often, giving thanks,
And to accept your sorrows silently,
Nor question why you suffer.  To accept
The whole of life as one perfected plan,
And welcome each event as part of it.
To work, and love your work; to trust, to pray
For larger usefulness and clearer sight.
This is right living, pleasing in God’s eyes,
Though you be heathen, heretic or Jew.

However inexplicable may seem
   Event and circumstance upon this earth,
Though favours fall on those whom none esteem,
   And insult and indifference greet worth;
Though poverty repays the life of toil,
   And riches spring where idle feet have trod,
And storms lay waste the patiently tilled soil—
   Yet Justice sways the universe of God.

As undisturbed the stately stars remain
   Beyond the glare of day’s obscuring light,
So Justice dwells, though mortal eyes in vain
   Seek it persistently by reason’s sight.
But when, once freed, the illumined soul looks out.
Its cry will be, ‘O God, how could I doubt!’

Time looked me in the eyes while passing by
The milestone of the year.  That piercing gaze
Was both an accusation and reproach.
No speech was needed.  In a sorrowing look
More meaning lies than in complaining words,
And silence hurts as keenly as reproof.

Oh, opulent, kind giver of rich hours,
How have I used thy benefits!  As babes
Unstring a necklace, laughing at the sound
Of priceless jewels dropping one by one,
So have I laughed while precious moments rolled
Into the hidden corners of the past.
And I have let large opportunities
For high endeavour move unheeded by,
While little joys and cares absorbed my strength.

Be patient with me.  Though the sun slants west,
The day has not yet finished, and I feel
Necessity for action and resolve
Bear in upon my consciousness.  I know
The earth’s eternal need of earnest souls,
And the great hunger of the world for Love.
I know the goal to high achievement lies
Through the dull pathway of self-conquest first;
And on the stairs of little duties done
We climb to joys that stand thy test.  O Time,
Be patient with me, and another day,
Perchance, in passing by, thine eyes may smile.

In what I do I note the marring flaw,
The imperfections of the work I see;
Nor am I one who rather do than be,
Since its reversal is Creation’s law.

Nay, since there lies a better and a worse,
A lesser and a larger, in men’s view,
I would be better than the thing I do,
As God is greater than His universe.

He shaped Himself before He shaped one world:
A million eons, toiling day and night,
He built Himself to majesty and might,
Before the planets into space were hurled.

And when Creation’s early work was done,
What crude beginnings out of chaos came—
A formless nebula, a wavering flame,
An errant comet, a voracious sun.

And now, behold the poor unfinished state
Of this, His latest masterpiece!  Then why,
Seeing the flaws in my own work, should I
Be troubled that no voice proclaims it great?

Before me lie the cycling rounds of years;
With this small earth will die the thing I do:
The thing I am, goes journeying onward through
A million lives, upon a million spheres.

My work I build, as best I can and may,
Knowing all mortal effort ends in dust.
I build myself, not as I may, but must,
Knowing, or good, or ill, that self must stay.

Along the ages, out, and on, afar,
Its journey leads, and must perforce be made.
Likewise its choice, with things of shame and shade,
Or up the path of light, from star to star.

When all these solar systems shall disperse,
Perchance this labour, and this self-control,
May find reward; and my completed soul
Will fling in space, a little universe.

Art thou alive?  Nay, not too soon reply,
Tho’ hand, and foot, and lip, and ear, and eye,
Respond, and do thy bidding yet may be
Grim death has done his direst work with thee.
Life, as God gives it, is a thing apart
From active body and from beating heart.
It is the vital spark, the unseen fire,
That moves the mind to reason and aspire;
It is the force that bids emotion roll,
In mighty billows from the surging soul.

It is the light that grows from hour to hour,
And floods the brain with consciousness of power;
It is the spirit dominating all,
And reaching God with its imperious call,
Until the shining glory of His face
Illuminates each sorrowful, dark place;

I love this age of energy and force,
   Expectantly I greet each pregnant hour;
Emerging from the all-creative source,
   Supreme with promise, imminent with power.
The strident whistle and the clanging bell,
   The noise of gongs, the rush of motored things
Are but the prophet voices which foretell
   A time when thought may use unfettered wings.

Too long the drudgery of earth has been
   A barrier ’twixt man and his own mind.
Remove the stone, and lo! the Christ within;
   For He is there, and who so seeks shall find.
The Great Inventor is the Modern Priest.
   He paves the pathway to a higher goal.
Once from the grind of endless toil released
   Man will explore the kingdom of his soul.

Unto each mortal who comes to earth
A ladder is given by God, at birth,
And up this ladder the soul must go,
Step by step, from the valley below;
Step by step, to the centre of space,
On this ladder of lives, to the Starting Place.

In time departed (which yet endures)
I shaped my ladder, and you shaped yours.
Whatever they are—they are what we made:
A ladder of light, or a ladder of shade,
A ladder of love, or a hateful thing,
A ladder of strength, or a wavering string.
A ladder of gold, or a ladder of straw,
Each is the ladder of righteous law.

If toil and trouble and pain are found,
Twisted and corded, to form each round,
If rusted iron or mouldering wood
Is the fragile frame, you must make it good.
You must build it over and fashion it strong,
Though the task be hard as your life is long;
For up this ladder the pathway leads
To earthly pleasures and spirit needs;
And all that may come in another way
Shall be but illusion, and will not stay.

In useless effort, then, waste no time;
Rebuild your ladder, and climb and climb.

Who is a Christian in this Christian land
Of many churches and of lofty spires?
Not he who sits in soft upholstered pews
Bought by the profits of unholy greed,
And looks devotion, while he thinks of gain.
Not he who sends petitions from the lips
That lie to-morrow in the street and mart.
Not he who fattens on another’s toil,
And flings his unearned riches to the poor,
Or aids the heathen with a lessened wage,
And builds cathedrals with an increased rent.

Though he be pagan, heretic or Jew,
That man is Christian and beloved of Christ.

All your wonderful inventions,
   All your houses vast and tall,
All your great gun-fronted vessels,
   Every fort and every wall,
With the passing of the ages,
   They shall pass and they shall fall.

As you sit among the idols
   That your avarice gave birth,
As you count the hoarded treasures
   That you think of priceless worth,
Time is digging tombs to hide them
   In the bosom of the earth.

There shall come a great convulsion
   Or a rushing tidal wave,
Or a sound of mighty thunders
   From a subterranean cave,
And a boasting world’s possessions
   Shall be buried in one grave.

Did they steal, and lie, and slaughter?
   Did they steep their souls in shame?
Did they sell eternal virtues
   Just to win a passing fame?
Did they give the gold of honour
   For the tinsel of a name?

We are hurrying all together
   Toward the silence and the night;
There is nothing worth the seeking
   But the sun-kissed moral height—
There is nothing worth the doing
   But the doing of the right.

I asked the rock beside the road what joy existence lent.
It answered, ‘For a million years my heart has been content.’

I asked the truffle-seeking swine, as rooting by he went,
‘What is the keynote of your life?’  He grunted out, ‘Content.’

I asked a slave, who toiled and sung, just what his singing meant.
He plodded on his changeless way, and said, ‘I am content.’

I asked a plutocrat of greed, on what his thoughts were bent.
He chinked the silver in his purse, and said, ‘I am content.’

I asked the message speeding on, by what great law was rent
God’s secret from the waves of space.  It said, ‘From discontent.’

I asked the marble, where the works of God and man were blent,
What brought the statue from the block.  It answered, ‘Discontent.’

I asked an Angel, looking down on earth with gaze intent,
How man should rise to larger growth.  Quoth he, ‘Through discontent.’

This is the weightiest moment of all time,
And on the issues of the present hour
A nation’s honour and a country’s peace,
A People’s future, ay, a World’s, depends.

Until the vital questions of the day
Are solved and settled, and the spendthrift thieves
Who rob the coffers of the saving poor
Are led from fashion’s feasts to prison fare,
And taught the saving grace of honest work—
Till Labour claims the privilege of toil
And toil the proceeds of its labour shares—
Let no man sleep, let no man dare to sleep!

I am sorry in the gladness
   Of the joys that crown my days,
For the souls that sit in sadness
   Or walk uninviting ways.

On the radiance of my labour
   That a loving fate bestowed,
Falls the shadow of my neighbour,
   Crushed beneath a thankless load.

As the canticle of pleasure
   From my lovelit altar rolls,
There is one discordant measure,
   As I think of homeless souls.

And I know that grim old story,
   Preached from pulpits, is not so,
For no God could sit in glory
   And see sinners writhe below.

And all souls in sin or sorrow
   Are but passing through the night,
And I know on some to-morrow
   God will love them into light.

‘Let go the Cross’—Gertrude Runshon.

I heard a strange voice in the distance calling
As from a star an echo might be falling.

It spoke four syllables, concise and brief,
Charged with a God-sent message of relief:

Let go the cross!  Oh, you who cling to sorrow,
Hark to the new command and comfort borrow.

Even as the Master left His cross below
And rose to Paradise, let go, let go.

Forget your wrongs, your troubles and your losses,
For with the tools of thought we build our crosses.

Forget your griefs, all grudges and all fear
And enter Paradise—its gates are near.

Love, hope and trust; believe all joys are yours,
Life pays the soul whose confidence endures,

The blows of adverse fate, by larger pleasures,
As after storms the soil yields fuller measures.

Let go the cross; roll self—the stone—away
And dwell with Love in Paradise to-day.

When the Summer sun is shining,
   And the green things push and grow,
Oft my heart runs over measure,
With its flowing fount of pleasure,
   As I feel the sea winds blow;
   Ah, then life is good, I know.

And I think of sweet birds building,
   And of children fair and free;
And of glowing sun-kissed meadows,
And of tender twilight shadows,
   And of boats upon the sea.
   Oh, then life seems good to me!

Then unbidden and unwanted,
   Come the darker, sadder sights;
City shop and stifling alley,
Where misfortune’s children rally;
   And the hot crime-breeding nights,
   And the dearth of God’s delights.

And I long to lift the burden
   Of man’s selfishness and sin;
And to open wide earth’s treasures
Of God’s storehouse, full of pleasures,
   For my dumb and human kin,
   And to ask the whole world in.

Between the ringing of bells and the musical clang of chimes
I hear a sound like the breaking of chains, all through these Christmas times.
For the thought of the world is waking out of a slumber deep and long,
And the race is beginning to understand how Right can master Wrong.

And the eyes of the world are opening wide, and great are the truths they see;
And the heart of the world is singing a song, and its burden is ‘Be free!’
Now the thought of the world and the wish of the world and the song of the world will make
A force so strong that the fetters forged for a million years must break.

The thought of the world has climbed above old paths for centuries trod;
And cloth and crown no longer mean the ‘vested power of God.’
The race no longer bends beneath the weight of Adam’s sin,
But stands erect and knows itself the Maker’s first of kin.

And the need of the world and the wish of the world and the song of the world I hear,
All through the clanging and clashing of bells, this Christmas time o’ the year;
And I hear a sound like the breaking of chains, and it seems to say to me,
In the voice of One who spoke of old, ‘The Truth shall make men free.’

However certain of the way thou art,
Take not the self-appointed leader’s part.
Follow no man, and by no man be led,
And no man lead.  Awake, and go ahead.
Thy path, though leading straight unto the goal
Might prove confusing to another soul.
The goal is central; but from east, and west,
And north, and south, we set out on the quest;
From lofty mountains, and from valleys low:—
How could all find one common way to go?

Lord Buddha to the wilderness was brought.
Lord Jesus to the Cross.  And yet, think not
By solitude, or cross, thou canst achieve,
Lest in thine own true Self thou dost believe.
Know thou art One, with life’s Almighty Source,
Then are thy feet set on the certain Course.

What shall the leader be in that great day
When we who sleep and dream that we are slaves
Shall wake and know that Liberty is ours?
Mark well that word—not yours, not mine, but ours.
For through the mingling of the separate streams
Of individual protest and desire,
In one united sea of purpose, lies
The course to Freedom.

         When Progression takes
Her undisputed right of way, and sinks
The old traditions and conventions where
They may not rise, what shall the leader be?

No mighty warrior skilled in crafts of war,
Sowing earth’s fertile furrows with dead men
And staining crimson God’s cerulean sea,
To prove his prowess to a shuddering world.

No ruler, purchased by the perjured votes
Of striving demagogues whose god is gold.
Not one of these shall lead to Liberty.
The weakness of the world cries out for strength.
The sorrow of the world cries out for hope.
Its suffering cries for kindness.

         He who leads
Must then be strong and hopeful as the dawn
That rises unafraid and full of joy
Above the blackness of the darkest night.
He must be kind to every living thing;
Kind as the Krishna, Buddha and the Christ,
And full of love for all created life.
Oh, not in war shall his great prowess lie,
Nor shall he find his pleasure in the chase.
Too great for slaughter, friend of man and beast,
Touching the borders of the Unseen Realms
And bringing down to earth their mystic fires
To light our troubled pathways, wise and kind
And human to the core, so shall he be,
The coming leader of the coming time.

Hear thou my prayer, great God of opulence;
Give me no blessings, save as recompense
For blessings which I lovingly bestow
On needy stranger or on suffering foe.
If Wealth, by chance, should on my path appear,
Let Wisdom and Benevolence stand near,
And Charity within my portal wait,
To guard me from acquaintance intimate.

Yet in this intricate great art of living
Guide me away from misdirected giving,
And show me how to spur the laggard soul
To strive alone once more to gain the goal.

Repay my worldly efforts to attain
Only as I develop heart and brain;
Nor brand me with the ‘Dollar Sign’ above
A bosom void of sympathy and love.

Thank God for life, in such an age as this,
   Rich with the promises of better things.
Thank God for being part of this great nation’s heart,
   Whose strong pulsations are not ruled by kings.

Our thanks for fearless and protesting speech
   When cloven hoofs show ’neath the robes of state.
For us no servile song of ‘Kings can do no wrong.’
   Not royal birth, but worth, makes rulers great.

Thank God for peace within our border lands,
   And for the love of peace within each soul.
Who thinks on peace has wrought, mosaic-squares of thought
   In the foundation of our future goal.

Our thanks for that increasing torch of light
   The tireless hand of science holds abroad.
And may its growing blaze shine on all hidden ways
   Till man beholds the silhouette of God.

I know it is early morning,
   And hope is calling aloud,
And your heart is afire with Youth’s desire
   To hurry along with the crowd.
But linger a bit by the roadside,
   And lend a hand by the way,
’Tis a curious fact that a generous act
Brings leisure and luck to a day.

I know it is only the noontime—
   There is chance enough to be kind;
But the hours run fast when noon has passed,
   And the shadows are close behind.
So think while the light is shining,
   And act ere the set of the sun,
For the sorriest woe that a soul can know
   Is to think what it might have done.

When with clanging and with ringing
   Comes the year’s initial day,
I can feel the rhythmic swinging
   Of the world upon its way;
And though Right still wears a fetter,
   And though Justice still is blind,
Time’s beyond is always better
   Than the paths he leaves behind.

In our eons of existence,
   As we circle through the night,
We annihilate the distance
   ’Twixt the darkness and the light.
From beginnings crude and lowly,
   Round and round our souls have trod
Through the circles, winding slowly
   Up to knowledge and to God.

Though in folly and in blindness
   And in sorrow still we grope,
Yet in man’s increasing kindness
   Lies the world’s stupendous hope;
For our darkest hour of errors
   Is as radiant as the dawn,
Set beside the awful terrors
   Of the ages that have gone.

And above the sad world’s sobbing,
   And the strife of clan with clan,
I can hear the mighty throbbing
   Of the heart of God in man;
And a voice chants through the chiming
   Of the bells, and seems to say,
We are climbing, we are climbing,
   As we circle on our way.

Life is a privilege.  Its youthful days
Shine with the radiance of continuous Mays.
To live, to breathe, to wonder and desire,
To feed with dreams the heart’s perpetual fire;
To thrill with virtuous passions and to glow
With great ambitions—in one hour to know
The depths and heights of feeling—God! in truth
How beautiful, how beautiful is youth!

Life is a privilege.  Like some rare rose
The mysteries of the human mind unclose.
What marvels lie in earth and air and sea,
What stores of knowledge wait our opening key,
What sunny roads of happiness lead out
Beyond the realms of indolence and doubt,
And what large pleasures smile upon and bless
The busy avenues of usefulness.

Life is a privilege.  If some sad fate
Sends us alone to seek the exit gate;
If men forsake us as the shadows fall,
Still does the supreme privilege of all
Come in that reaching upward of the soul
To find the welcoming presence at the goal,
And in the knowledge that our feet have trod
Paths that lead from and must lead back to God.

Before the statue of a giant Hun,
There stood a dwarf, misshapen and uncouth.
His lifted eyes seemed asking: ‘Why, in sooth,
Was I not fashioned like this mighty one?
Would God show favour to an older son
   Like earthly kings, and beggar without ruth
   Another, who sinned only by his youth?
Why should two lives in such divergence run?’

Strange, as he gazed, that from a vanished past
   No memories revived of war and strife,
      Of misused prowess, and of broken law.
That old Hun’s spirit, in the dwarf re-cast,
   Lived out the sequence of an earthly life.
      It was the statue of himself he saw!

God, what a world, if men in street and mart
Felt that same kinship of the human heart
Which makes them, in the face of flame and flood,
Rise to the meaning of true Brotherhood!

Among the virile hosts he passed along,
Conspicuous for an undetermined grace
Of sexless beauty.  In his form and face
God’s mighty purpose somehow had gone wrong.
Then on his loom, he wove a careful song,
   Of sensuous threads; a wordy web of lace
   Wherein the primal passions of the race
And his own sins made wonder for the throng.

A little pen prick opened up a vein,
   And gave the finished mesh a crimson blot—
      The last consummate touch of studied art.
But those who knew strong passion and keen pain,
   Looked through and through the pattern and found not
      One single great emotion of the heart.

When God had formed the Universe, He thought
Of all the marvels therein to be wrought
And to His aid then Motherhood was brought.

‘My lesser self, the feminine of Me,
She will go forth throughout all time,’ quoth He,
‘And make My world what I would have it be.

‘For I am weary, having laboured so,
And for a cycle of repose would go
Into that silence which but God may know.

‘Therefore I leave the rounding of My plan
To Motherhood; and that which I began
Let woman finish in perfecting man.

‘She is the soil: the human Mother Earth:
She is the sun, that calls the seed to earth.
She is the gardener, who knows its worth.

Thus having spoken to Himself aloud,
His glorious face upon His breast He bowed,
And sought repose behind a wall of cloud.

Come forth, O God! though great Thy thought and good,
In shaping woman for true Motherhood,
Lord, speak again; she has not understood.

The centuries pass: the cycles roll along—
The earth is peopled with a mighty throng,
Yet men are fighting and the world goes wrong.

Lord, speak again, ere yet it be too late,
Unloved, unwanted souls come through earth’s gate:
The unborn child is given a dower of hate.

Thy world progresses in all ways save one.
In Motherhood, for which it was begun,
Lord, Lord, behold how little has been done!

Children are spawned like fishes in the sand.
With ignorance and crime they fill the land.
Lord, speak again, till mothers understand.

Better a barren soil than weed and tare,
Or sickly plants that die for want of care
In poisonous jungles, void of sun and air.

True Motherhood is not alone to breed
The human race; it is to know and heed
Its holiest purpose and its highest need.

Lord, speak again, so woman shall be stirred
With the full meaning of that mighty word
True Motherhood.  She has not rightly heard.