Bees in Amber | Page 2

glorious deeds;--?Of help swift-born to drowning mariners;?Of cheer to ships dismasted in the gale;?Of succours given unasked and joyfully;?Of mighty service to all needy souls.
_So--Ho for the Pilot's orders,?Whatever course He makes!?For He sees beyond the sky-line,?And He never makes mistakes_.
And, maybe, Golden Days,
Full freighted with delight!?--And wide free seas of unimagined bliss,?--And Treasure Isles, and Kingdoms to be won,?--And Undiscovered Countries, and New Kin.
_For each man captains his own Soul,?And chooses his own Crew,?But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas,?And He will bring us through_.
PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN
"_See this my garden,?Large and fair_!"?--Thus, to his friend,?The Philosopher.
"'Tis not too long,"?His friend replied,?With truth exact,--?"_Nor yet too wide.?But well compact,?If somewhat cramped?On every side_."
Quick the reply--?"_But see how high!--?It reaches up?To God's blue sky_!"
Not by their size?Measure we men?Or things.?Wisdom, with eyes?Washed in the fire,?Seeketh the things?That are higher--?Things that have wings,?Thoughts that aspire.
FLOWERS OF THE DUST
The Mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small-- So soft and slow the great wheels go they scarcely move at all; But the souls of men fall into them and are powdered into dust, And in that dust grow the Passion-Flowers--Love, Hope, Trust.
Most wondrous their upspringing, in the dust of the Grinding-Mills, And rare beyond the telling the fragrance each distils.?Some grow up tall and stately, and some grow sweet and small, But Life out of Death is in each one--with purpose grow they all.
For that dust is God's own garden, and the Lord Christ tends it fair, With oh, such loving tenderness! and oh, such patient care! In sorrow the seeds are planted, they are watered with bitter tears, But their roots strike down to the Water-Springs and the Sources of the
Years.
These flowers of Christ's own providence, they wither not nor die, But flourish fair, and fairer still, through all eternity.?In the Dust of the Mills and in travail the amaranth seeds are sown, But the Flowers in their full beauty climb the Pillars of the Throne.
NOTE.--The first line only is adapted from the Sinngedichte of Friedrich von Logau.
THE PILGRIM WAY
But once I pass this way,?And then--no more.?But once--and then, the Silent Door?Swings on its hinges,--?Opens ... closes,--?And no more?I pass this way.?So while I may,?With all my might,?I will essay?Sweet comfort and delight,?To all I meet upon the Pilgrim Way.?For no man travels twice?The Great Highway,?That climbs through Darkness up to Light,--?Through Night?To Day.
EVERYMAID
King's Daughter!?Wouldst thou be all fair,?Without--within--?Peerless and beautiful,?A very Queen?
Know then:--?Not as men build unto the Silent One,--?With clang and clamour,?Traffic of rude voices,?Clink of steel on stone,?And din of hammer;--?Not so the temple of thy grace is reared.?But,--in the inmost shrine?Must thou begin,?And build with care?A Holy Place,?A place unseen,?Each stone a prayer.?Then, having built,?Thy shrine sweep bare?Of self and sin,?And all that might demean;?And, with endeavour,?Watching ever, praying ever,?Keep it fragrant-sweet, and clean:?So, by God's grace, it be fit place,--?His Christ shall enter and shall dwell therein.?Not as in earthly fane--where chase?Of steel on stone may strive to win?Some outward grace,--?Thy temple face is chiselled from within.
BETTER AND BEST
Better in bitterest agony to lie,?Before Thy throne,?Than through much increase to be lifted up on high,?And stand alone.
Better by one sweet soul, constant and true,?To be beloved,?Than all the kingdoms of delight to trample through,?Unloved, unloved.
Yet best--the need that broke me at Thy feet,?In voiceless prayer,?And cast my chastened heart, a sacrifice complete,?Upon Thy care.
For all the world is nought, and less than nought,?Compared with this,--?That my dear Lord, with His own life, my ransom bought,?And I am His.
THE SHADOW
Shapeless and grim,?A Shadow dim?O'erhung the ways,?And darkened all my days.?And all who saw,?With bated breath,?Said, "It is Death!"
And I, in weakness?Slipping towards the Night,?In sore affright?Looked up. And lo!--?No Spectre grim,?But just a dim?Sweet face,?A sweet high mother-face,?A face like Christ's Own Mother's face,?Alight with tenderness?And grace.
"Thou art not Death!" I cried;--?For Life's supremest fantasy?Had never thus envisaged Death to me;--?"Thou art not Death, the End!"
In accents winning,?Came the answer,--"_Friend,
There is no Death!?I am the Beginning,?--Not the End_!"
THE POTTER
A Potter, playing with his lump of clay,?Fashioned an image of supremest worth.?"_Never was nobler image made on earth,?Than this that I have fashioned of my clay.?And I, of mine own skill, did fashion it,--?I--from this lump of clay_."
The Master, looking out on Pots and Men,?Heard his vain boasting, smiled at that he said.?"_The clay is Mine, and I the Potter made,?As I made all things,--stars, and clay, and men.?In what doth this man overpass the rest??--Be thou as other men_!"
He touched the Image,--and it fell to dust,?He touched the Potter,--he to dust did fall.?Gently the Master,--"_I did make them all,--?All things and men, heaven's glories, and the dust.?Who with Me works shall quicken death itself,?Without Me--dust is dust_."
NIGHTFALL
Fold up the tent!?The sun is in the West.?To-morrow my untented soul will range?Among the blest.
And I am well content,?For what