“_I know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door, and
grasp your hand to ask his way._”
--_Rabindranath Tagore._
You may not question why he chose you
From so many more--
Why his tiny hands have fumbled
At your door.
To a land of fifty cross-roads
He has come to-day,
Placed his eager hands in yours,
And asked his way.
He will follow where you lead him--
Bright and stormy skies;
And at evening still beside you
Close his eyes.
Keep his trust, O You the Chosen--
Far shall be his way.
Clasp him to your heart and bless him
With all you may.