(_Freely adapted from a Foreign Tongue_)
You speak of worlds with rainbow prospects vaulted.
But not for these the service that I hoard.
You know the sweet; but I--the pure, exalted:
My soul spreads wings to her exalted Lord.
My sphere of lowly service is more spacious
Than earthly masters and their tasks afford;
For gentle is my Lord, and very gracious:
I serve with willing hands my gracious Lord.
I know dark realms where no glad light is burning,
Where Life meets Death, and bows beneath his sword;
But yet I fear not; for He is discerning:
I lean upon my wise, discerning Lord.
And when I'm stripped of all, requited latest,
His kind "Well Done" my guerdon, my reward:
Though yours be richer, yet my Lord's the greatest.
I follow Him--the mightiest, greatest Lord.
[_Some of these poems have already appeared in_ The English
Review, Country Life, T. P.'s Magazine _and the_ Wesleyan
Methodist Magazine. _I thank the Editors for permission to
reproduce them._]