One summer day, to a young child I said,
“Write to thy mother, boy.” With earnest face,
And laboring fingers all unused to trace
The mystic characters, he bent his head
(That should have danced amid the flowers instead)
Over the blurred page for a half-hour’s space;
Then with a sigh that burdened all the place
Cried, “Mamma knows!” and out to sunshine sped.
O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long,
And life so crowds thee with its stress and strain
That thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray,
Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong!
God knows! What though the lips be dumb with pain,
Or the pen drops? He knows what thou wouldst say.
A THOUGHT
(SUGGESTED BY READING “A MIRACLE IN STONE”)
Oh, thou supreme, all-wise, eternal One,
Thou who art Lord of lords, and King of kings,
In whose high praise each flaming seraph sings;
Thou at whose word the morning stars begun
With song and shout their glorious course to run;
Thou unto whom the great sea lifts its wings,
And earth, with laden hands, rich tribute brings
From every shore that smiles beneath the sun;
Thou who didst write thy name upon the hills
And bid the mountains speak for thee alway,
Yet gave sweet messages to murmuring rills,
And to each flower that breathes its life away—
Oh! dost thou smile, or frown, when man’s conceit
Seeks in this pile of stone the impress of thy feet?