A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul Part 13

28.

I clasp thy feet, O father of the living!

Thou wilt not let my fluttering hopes be more, Or lovelier, or greater, than thy giving!

Surely thy s.h.i.+ps will bring to my poor sh.o.r.e, Of gold and peac.o.c.ks such a s.h.i.+ning store As will laugh all the dreams to holy scorn, Of love and sorrow that were ever born.

29.

Sometimes it seems pure natural to trust, And trust right largely, grandly, infinitely, Daring the splendour of the giver's part; At other times, the whole earth is but dust, The sky is dust, yea, dust the human heart; Then art thou nowhere, there is no room for thee In the great dust-heap of eternity.

30.

But why should it be possible to mistrust-- Nor possible only, but its opposite hard?

Why should not man believe because he must-- By sight's compulsion? Why should he be scarred With conflict? worn with doubting fine and long?-- No man is fit for heaven's musician throng Who has not tuned an instrument all shook and jarred.

31.

Therefore, O Lord, when all things common seem, When all is dust, and self the centre clod, When grandeur is a hopeless, foolish dream, And anxious care more reasonable than G.o.d,-- Out of the ashes I will call to thee-- In spite of dead distrust call earnestly:-- Oh thou who livest, call, then answer dying me.

SEPTEMBER.

1.

WE are a shadow and a s.h.i.+ning, we!

One moment nothing seems but what we see, Nor aught to rule but common circ.u.mstance-- Nought is to seek but praise, to shun but chance; A moment more, and G.o.d is all in all, And not a sparrow from its nest can fall But from the ground its chirp goes up into his hall.

2.

I know at least which is the better mood.

When on a heap of cares I sit and brood, Like Job upon his ashes, sorely vext, I feel a lower thing than when I stood The world's true heir, fearless as, on its stalk, A lily meeting Jesus in his walk: I am not all mood--I can judge betwixt.

3.

Such differing moods can scarce to one belong; Shall the same fountain sweet and bitter yield?

Shall what bore late the dust-mood, think and brood Till it bring forth the great believing mood?

Or that which bore the grand mood, bald and peeled, Sit down to croon the shabby sensual song, To hug itself, and sink from wrong to meaner wrong?

4.

In the low mood, the mere man acts alone, Moved by impulses which, if from within, Yet far outside the centre man begin; But in the grand mood, every softest tone Comes from the living G.o.d at very heart-- From thee who infinite core of being art, Thee who didst call our names ere ever we could sin.

5.

There is a coward sparing in the heart, Offspring of penury and low-born fear:-- Prayer must take heed nor overdo its part, Asking too much of him with open ear!

Sinners must wait, not seek the very best, Cry out for peace, and be of middling cheer:-- False heart! thou cheatest G.o.d, and dost thy life molest.

6.

Thou hungerest not, thou thirstest not enough.

Thou art a temporizing thing, mean heart.

Down-drawn, thou pick'st up straws and wretched stuff, Stooping as if the world's floor were the chart Of the long way thy lazy feet must tread.

Thou dreamest of the crown hung o'er thy head-- But that is safe--thou gatherest hairs and fluff!

7.

Man's highest action is to reach up higher, Stir up himself to take hold of his sire.

Then best I love you, dearest, when I go And cry to love's life I may love you so As to content the yearning, making love, That perfects strength divine in weakness' fire, And from the broken pots calls out the silver dove.

8.

Poor am I, G.o.d knows, poor as withered leaf; Poorer or richer than, I dare not ask.

To love aright, for me were hopeless task, Eternities too high to comprehend.

But shall I tear my heart in hopeless grief, Or rise and climb, and run and kneel, and bend, And drink the primal love--so love in chief?

9.

Then love shall wake and be its own high life.

Then shall I know 'tis I that love indeed-- Ready, without a moment's questioning strife, To be forgot, like bursting water-bead, For the high good of the eternal dear; All hope, all claim, resting, with spirit clear, Upon the living love that every love doth breed.

10.

Ever seem to fail in utterance.

Sometimes amid the swift melodious dance Of fluttering words--as if it had not been, The thought has melted, vanished into night; Sometimes I say a thing I did not mean, And lo! 'tis better, by thy ordered chance, Than what eluded me, floating too feathery light.

11.

If thou wouldst have me speak, Lord, give me speech.

So many cries are uttered now-a-days, That scarce a song, however clear and true, Will thread the jostling tumult safe, and reach The ears of men buz-filled with poor denays: Barb thou my words with light, make my song new, And men will hear, or when I sing or preach.

12.

Can anything go wrong with me? I ask-- And the same moment, at a sudden pain, Stand trembling. Up from the great river's brim Comes a cold breath; the farther bank is dim; The heaven is black with clouds and coming rain; High soaring faith is grown a heavy task, And all is wrong with weary heart and brain.

13.

"Things do go wrong. I know grief, pain, and fear.

I see them lord it sore and wide around."

From her fair twilight answers Truth, star-crowned, "Things wrong are needful where wrong things abound.

Things go not wrong; but Pain, with dog and spear, False faith from human hearts will hunt and hound.

The earth shall quake 'neath them that trust the solid ground."

14.

Things go not wrong when sudden I fall p.r.o.ne, But when I s.n.a.t.c.h my upheld hand from thine, And, proud or careless, think to walk alone.

Then things go wrong, when I, poor, silly sheep, To shelves and pits from the good pasture creep; Not when the shepherd leaves the ninety and nine, And to the mountains goes, after the foolish one.