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 pa.s.s, 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 G.o.d, 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.