30.

By love doth love grow mighty in its love: Once thou shalt love us, child, as we love thee.

Father of loves, is it not thy decree That, by our long, far-wandering remove From thee, our life, our home, our being blest, We learn at last to love thee true and best, And rush with all our loves back to thy infinite rest?

DECEMBER.

1.

I AM a little weary of my life-- Not thy life, blessed Father! Or the blood Too slowly laves the coral sh.o.r.es of thought, Or I am weary of weariness and strife.

Open my soul-gates to thy living flood; I ask not larger heart-throbs, vigour-fraught, I pray thy presence, with strong patience rife.

2.

I will what thou will'st--only keep me sure That thou art willing; call to me now and then.

So, ceasing to enjoy, I shall endure With perfect patience--willing beyond my ken Beyond my love, beyond my thinking scope; Willing to be because thy will is pure; Willing thy will beyond all bounds of hope.

3.

This weariness of mine, may it not come From something that doth need no setting right?

Shall fruit be blamed if it hang wearily A day before it perfected drop plumb To the sad earth from off its nursing tree?

Ripeness must always come with loss of might.

The weary evening fall before the resting night.

4.

Hither if I have come through earth and air, Through fire and water--I am not of them; Born in the darkness, what fair-flashing gem Would to the earth go back and nestle there?

Not of this world, this world my life doth hem; What if I weary, then, and look to the door, Because my unknown life is swelling at the core?

5.

All winged things came from the waters first; Airward still many a one from the water springs In dens and caves wind-loving things are nursed:-- I lie like unhatched bird, upfolded, dumb, While all the air is trembling with the hum Of songs and beating hearts and whirring wings, That call my slumbering life to wake to happy things.

6.

I lay last night and knew not why I was sad.

"'Tis well with G.o.d," I said, "and he is the truth; Let that content me."--'Tis not strength, nor youth, Nor buoyant health, nor a heart merry-mad, That makes the fact of things wherein men live: He is the life, and doth my life outgive; In him there is no gloom, but all is solemn-glad,

7.

I said to myself, "Lo, I lie in a dream Of separation, where there comes no sign; My waking life is hid with Christ in G.o.d, Where all is true and potent--fact divine."

I will not heed the thing that doth but seem; I will be quiet as lark upon the sod; G.o.d's will, the seed, shall rest in me the pod.

8.

And when that will shall blossom--then, my G.o.d, There will be jubilation in a world!

The glad lark, soaring heavenward from the sod, Up the swift spiral of its own song whirled, Never such jubilation wild out-poured As from my soul will break at thy feet, Lord, Like a great tide from sea-heart sh.o.r.eward hurled.

9.

For then thou wilt be able, then at last, To glad me as thou hungerest to do; Then shall thy life my heart all open find, A thoroughfare to thy great spirit-wind; Then shall I rest within thy holy vast, One with the bliss of the eternal mind; And all creation rise in me created new.

10.

What makes thy being a bliss shall then make mind For I shall love as thou, and love in thee; Then shall I have whatever I desire, My every faintest wish being all divine; Power thou wilt give me to work mightily, Even as my Lord, leading thy low men nigher, With dance and song to cast their best upon thy fire.

11.

Then shall I live such an essential life That a mere flower will then to me unfold More bliss than now grandest orchestral strife-- By love made and obedience humble-bold, I shall straight through its window G.o.d behold.

G.o.d, I shall feed on thee, thy creature blest With very being--work at one with sweetest rest.

12.

Give me a world, to part for praise and sunder.

The brooks be bells; the winds, in caverns dumb, Wake fife and flute and flageolet and voice; The fire-shook earth itself be the great drum; And let the air the region's ba.s.s out thunder; The firs be violins; the reeds hautboys; Rivers, seas, icebergs fill the great score up and under!

13.

But rather dost thou hear the blundered words Of breathing creatures; the music-lowing herds Of thy great cattle; thy soft-bleating sheep; O'erhovered by the trebles of thy birds, Whose Christ-praised carelessness song-fills the deep; Still rather a child's talk who apart doth hide him, And make a tent for G.o.d to come and sit beside him.

14.

This is not life; this being is not enough.

But thou art life, and thou hast life for me.

Thou mad'st the worm--to cast the wormy slough, And fly abroad--a glory flit and flee.

Thou hast me, statue-like, hewn in the rough, Meaning at last to shape me perfectly.

Lord, thou hast called me fourth, I turn and call on thee.

15.

'Tis thine to make, mine to rejoice in thine.

As, hungering for his mother's face and eyes, The child throws wide the door, back to the wall, I run to thee, the refuge from poor lies: Lean dogs behind me whimper, yelp, and whine; Life lieth ever sick, Death's writhing thrall, In slavery endless, hopeless, and supine.

16.

The life that hath not willed itself to be, Must clasp the life that willed, and be at peace; Or, like a leaf wind-blown, through chaos flee; A life-husk into which the demons go, And work their will, and drive it to and fro; A thing that neither is, nor yet can cease, Which uncreation can alone release.

17.

But when I turn and grasp the making hand, And will the making will, with confidence I ride the crest of the creation-wave, Helpless no more, no more existence' slave; In the heart of love's creating fire I stand, And, love-possessed in heart and soul and sense, Take up the making share the making Master gave.

18.

That man alone who does the Father's works Can be the Father's son; yea, only he Who sonlike can create, can ever be; Who with G.o.d wills not, is no son, not free.

O Father, send the demon-doubt that lurks Behind the hope, out into the abyss; Who trusts in knowledge all its good shall miss.