I hold that Christian grace abounds
Where charity is seen; that when
We climb to heaven 'tis on the rounds
Of love to men.
I hold all else named piety
A selfish scheme, a vain pretense;
Where center is not--can there be
Circumference?
This I moreover hold, and dare
Affirm where'er my ryme may go--
Whatever things be sweet or fair
Love makes them so.
Whether it be the lullabies
That charm to rest the nursling bird,
Or the sweet confidence of sighs
And blushes, made without a word.
Whether the dazzling and the flush
Of softly sumptuous garden bowers,
Or by some cabin door a bush
Of ragged flowers.
'Tis not the wide phylactery,
Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers,
That makes us saints; we judge the tree
By what it bears.
And when a man can live apart
From works, on theologic trust,
I know the blood about his heart
Is dry as dust. --_Alice Cary._