Poems of Power Part 9

The mighty forces of mysterious s.p.a.ce Are one by one subdued by lordly man.

The awful lightning that for eons ran Their devastating and untrammelled race, Now bear his messages from place to place Like carrier doves. The winds lead on his van; The lawless elements no longer can Resist his strength, but yield with sullen grace.

His bold feet scaling heights before untrod, Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold, He bids go forth and bring him power and pelf.

And yet, though ruler, king and demi-G.o.d, He walks with his fierce pa.s.sions uncontrolled, The conqueror of all things--save himself.

WILL

You will be what you will to be; Let failure find its false content In that poor word "environment,"

But spirit scorns it, and is free.

It masters time, it conquers s.p.a.ce, It cowes that boastful trickster Chance, And bids the tyrant Circ.u.mstance Uncrown and fill a servant's place.

The human Will, that force unseen, The offspring of a deathless Soul, Can hew the way to any goal, Though walls of granite intervene.

Be not impatient in delay, But wait as one who understands; When spirit rises and commands, The G.o.ds are ready to obey.

The river seeking for the sea Confronts the dam and precipice, Yet knows it cannot fail or miss; YOU WILL BE WHAT YOU WILL TO BE!

TO AN ASTROLOGER

Nay, seer, I do not doubt thy mystic lore, Nor question that the tenor of my life, Past, present, and the future, is revealed There in my horoscope. I do believe That yon dead moon compels the haughty seas To ebb and flow, and that my natal star Stands like a stern-browed sentinel in s.p.a.ce And challenges events; nor lets one grief, Or joy, or failure, or success, pa.s.s on To mar or bless my earthly lot, until It proves its Karmic right to come to me.

All this I grant, but more than this I KNOW!

Before the solar systems were conceived, When nothing was but the unnamable, My spirit lived, an atom of the Cause.

Through countless ages and in many forms It has existed, ere it entered in This human frame to serve its little day Upon the earth. The deathless Me of me.

The spark from that great all-creative fire, Is part of that eternal source called G.o.d, And mightier than the universe.

Why, he Who knows, and knowing, never once forgets The pedigree divine of his own soul, Can conquer, shape, and govern destiny, And use vast s.p.a.ce as 'twere a board for chess With stars for p.a.w.ns; can change his horoscope To suit his will; turn failure to success, And from preordained sorrows, harvest joy.

There is no puny planet, sun, or moon, Or zodiacal sign which can control The G.o.d in us! If we bring THAT to bear Upon events, we mould them to our wish; 'Tis when the infinite 'neath the finite gropes That men are governed by their horoscopes.

THE TENDRIL'S FATE

Under the snow, in the dark and the cold, A pale little sprout was humming; Sweetly it sang, 'neath the frozen mould, Of the beautiful days that were coming.

"How foolish your songs!" said a lump of clay; "What is there, I ask, to prove them?

Just look at the walls between you and the day, Now, have you the strength to move them?"

But under the ice and under the snow The pale little sprout kept singing, "I cannot tell how, but I know, I know, I know what the days are bringing.

"Birds, and blossoms, and buzzing bees, Blue, blue skies above me, Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees And the great glad sun to love me."

A pebble spoke next: "You are quite absurd,"

It said, "with your song's insistence; For _I_ never saw a tree or a bird, So of course there are none in existence."

"But I know, I know," the tendril cried, In beautiful sweet unreason; Till lo! from its prison, glorified, It burst in the glad spring season.

THE TIMES

The times are not degenerate. Man's faith Mounts higher than of old. No crumbling creed Can take from the immortal soul the need Of that supreme Creator, G.o.d. The wraith Of dead beliefs we cherished in our youth Fades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.

Man may not wors.h.i.+p at the ancient shrine p.r.o.ne on his face, in self-accusing scorn.

That night is past. He hails a fairer morn, And knows himself a something all divine; Not humble worm whose heritage is sin, But, born of G.o.d, he feels the Christ withal.

Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time, But deep his reverence for that mighty force, That occult working of the great All-Source, Which makes the present era so sublime.

Religion now means something high and broad.

And man stood never half so near to G.o.d.

THE QUESTION

Beside us in our seeking after pleasures, Through all our restless striving after fame, Through all our search for worldly gains and treasures, There walketh one whom no man likes to name.

Silent he follows, veiled of form and feature, Indifferent if we sorrow or rejoice, Yet that day comes when every living creature Must look upon his face and hear his voice.

When that day comes to you, and Death, unmasking, Shall bar your path, and say, "Behold the end,"

What are the questions that he will be asking About your past? Have you considered, friend?

I think he will not chide you for your sinning, Nor for your creeds or dogmas will he care; He will but ask, "From your life's first beginning How many burdens have you helped to bear?"

SORROW'S USES

The uses of sorrow I comprehend Better and better at each year's end.

Deeper and deeper I seem to see Why and wherefore it has to be.