Bees in Amber | Page 2

bids me look beyond the tomb
The larger life to live?--

Not what I do believe,
BUT WHOM!
Not what,
But WHOM!
NEW YEAR'S DAY--AND EVERY DAY
_Each man is Captain of his Soul,
And each man his own Crew,
But the Pilot knows
the Unknown Seas,
And He will bring us through_.
We break new seas to-day,--
Our eager keels quest unaccustomed waters,
And, from
the vast uncharted waste in front,
The mystic circles leap
To greet our prows with
mightiest possibilities;
Bringing us--what?
--Dread shoals and shifting banks?

--And calms and storms?
--And clouds and biting gales?
--And wreck and loss?

--And valiant fighting-times?
And, maybe, Death!--and so, the Larger Life!
_For should the Pilot deem it best
To cut the voyage short,
He sees beyond the
sky-line, and
He'll bring us into Port_.
And, maybe, Life,--Life on a bounding tide,
And chance of 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