at wry o’ melody, and others sing them true. And lo, they who sing
awry shall mingle much and drown in melody. And I tell thee, o’er
and above shall sound the note o’ me!”
And then she gave them to understand that she had listened to their
discussion!
“Ye spake ye of eye for eye. Yea, and tooth for tooth. Yea, but be
thy brother’s eye not the ope o’ thine, then ’tis a measure less the
full thou hast at taking o’ the eye o’ him. Yea, and should the
tooth o’ him put crave for carrion, and thine for sweets, then how
doth the tooth o’ him serve thee?”
Here the sitters asked: “How about a life for a life, Patience?”
_Patience._—“Ye fill thy measure full o’ sands that trickle waste at
each and every putting. I tell thee thou hast claimed life; aye, and
life be not thine or yet thy brother’s for the taking or giving.
Yea, and such an soul hath purged at the taking or giving, and rises
to smile at thy folly.
“Aye, and more. List! The earth’s baggage, hate, and might, and
scorn, fall at earth’s leave, a dust o’ naught, like the dust o’ thy
body crumbleth.
“Thou canst strip the body, yea, but the soul defieth thee!”
* * * * *
The visitor referred to in the preceding talk is a frequent guest of the
Currans, and is one of the loved ones of Patience. This visitor, who is
a widow, remarked one evening that Patience was deep and lived in a deep
place.
“Aye,” said Patience, “a deeper than word. There be ahere what thou
knowest abetter far than word o’ me might tell. (This seems to refer
to the visitor’s husband.) Ayea thou hungereth, and bread be thine,
for from off lips that spaked not o’ the land o’ here in word o’
little weight, thou hast supped of love, and know the path that be
atrod by him shall be atrod even so by thee, e’en tho’ thou shouldst
find the mountain’s height and pits o’ depth past Earth’s tung.
“Shouldst thou at come o’ here to hark unto the sound of this voice,
thinkest thou that heights, aye or depths, might keep thee from
there? And even so, doth not the one thou seeketh too, haste e’en
now to find the path and waiteth?
“Then thinkest thou this journey be lone? Nay, I tell thee, thou art
areach e’en past the ye o’ ye, and he areach ato. Then shall the
path’s ope be its end and beginning. In love is the end and
beginning of things.
“Yea, yea, yea, the earth suppeth o’ the word o’ me, and e’en at the
supping stoppeth and speaketh so. What that one not o’ me doth brew.
Thou knowest this, dame. Aye, but what then? And why doth not the
blood o’ me speak unto me?
“’Tis a merry I be. Lo, have I not fetched forth unto a day that
holdeth little o’ the blood o’ me, that I might deal alike unto my
brother and bring forth word that be ahungered for aye, and they
speak them o’ her ahere and wag and hark not? Yea, and did the blood
o’ them spake out unto their very ears I vow me ’twould set the
earth ariot o’ fearing. Yea, man loveth blood that hath not flowed,
but sicketh o’er spilled blood. Yea, then weave.”
There was some discussion following this, to the effect that whatever
explanations might be given of this phenomenon, many would believe in
Patience Worth as an independent personality, which brought from her the
following discourse which may well conclude these conversations:
“Yea, the tooth o’ him who eateth up the flesh I did to cloak me
athin, shall rot and he shalt wither. Aye, and the word o’ me shalt
stand. Fires but bake awell.
“Sweet hath the sound of the word o’ Him asounded unto the ears o’
Earth that hark not.
“Yea, and He hath beat upon the busom of Earth and sounded out a
loud noise, and Earth harkened not.
“And He hath sung thro’ the mother’s songs o’ Earth, and Earth
harkened not.
“Yea, and He hath sent His own with word, and Earth harkened not.
“Then ’tis Earth’s own folly that batheth her.
“Yea, and Folly cometh astreaming ribbands, and showering color, and
grinning ’pon his way.
“Yea, but Folly masketh and leadeth Earth and man assuredly unto
Follies pit—self. And self is blind.
“Then whence doth Earth to turn for aid? For Folly followeth not the
blind, and the voice of him who falleth unto the pit of Folly
soundeth out a loud note. Yea, and it echoeth ’self.’
“And lo, the Earth filled up o’ self, hearketh not unto the words of
Him, the King of Wisdom.
“Yea, and I say unto thee, though them o’ Him fall pierced and rent
athin the flow o’ their own blood thro’ the self-song o’ his
brother, he doeth this for Him.
“And the measuring rod shall weight out for him who packeth the
least o’ self athin him, afull o’ measure, and light for him who
packeth heavy o’ self.
“Ayea, and more. I speak me o’ lands wherein the high estate be
self. Yea, yea, yea, o’ thy lands do I to speak. Woe unto him who
feareth that might shall slay! Self may wield a mighty blow, but it
slayeth never.
“’Tis as the dame who watcheth o’er her brood, and lo, this one hath
sorry, and that one hath sorry. And she flitteth here and yon, and
lo, afore she hath fetched out the herbs, they sleep them peaceful.
So shall it be at this time. The herbs shall be fetched forth but
lo, the lands shall sleep them peaceful.
“Yea, for Folly leadeth, and Wisdom warreth Folly.”
RELIGION
“Teach me that I be Ye.”
And now we well may ask: What is the purpose of all this? Here we appear
to have an invisible intelligence, speaking an obsolete language,
producing volumes of poetry containing many evidences of profound
wisdom. So far as I have been able to find out, no such phenomenon has
occurred before since the world began. Do not misunderstand that
assertion. There is nothing extraordinary in the manner of its coming,
as I have said before. The publications of the Society for Psychical
Research are filled with examples of communications received in the same
or a similar way. The fact that makes this phenomenon stand out, that
altogether isolates it from everything else of an occult nature, is the
character and quality of its literature. Literature is something
tangible, something that one can lay hands on, so to speak. It is in a
sense physical; it can be seen with the eyes. And this literature is the
physical evidence which Patience Worth presents of herself as a separate
and distinct personality.
But why is it contributed? Is there in it any intimation or assertion of
a definite purpose?
If we may assume that Patience is what she seems to be—a voice from
another world, then indeed we may discern a purpose. She has a message
to deliver, and she gives the impression that she is a messenger.
“Do eat that which I offer thee,” she says. “’Tis o’ Him. I but bear the
pack apacked for the carry o’ me by Him.”
Constantly she speaks of herself as bearing food or drink in her words.
“I bid thee eat,” she said to one, “and rest ye, and eat amore, for ’tis
the wish o’ me that ye be filled.” The seed, the loaf, the cup, are
frequently used symbolically when referring to her communications.
“There be a man who buyeth grain and he telleth his neighbor and his
neighbor’s neighbor, and lo, they come asacked and clamor for the grain.
And what think ye? Some do make price, and yet others bring naught. But
I be atelling ye, ’tis not a price I beg. Nay, ’tis that ye drink my
cup.”
“’Tis truth o’ earth that ’tis the seed aplanted deep that doth cause
the harvester for to watch. For lo, doth he to hold the seed athin
(within) his hand, ’tis but a seed. And aplanted he doth watch him in
wondering. Verily do I say, ’tis so with me. I be aplanted deep; do thee
then to watch.”
And with greater significance she has exclaimed: “Morn hath broke, and
ye be the first to see her light. Look ye wide-eyed at His workings. He
hath offered ye a cup.”
It is thus she announces herself to be a herald of a new day, a bearer
of tidings divinely commissioned.
What, then, is her message? For answer it may be said that it is at once
a revelation, a religion and a promise. Whatever we may think of the
nature of this phenomenon, Patience herself is a revelation, and there
are many revelations in her words. The religion she presents is not a
new one. It is as old as that given to the world nineteen centuries ago;
for fundamentally it is the same. It is that religion, stripped of all
the doctrines and creeds and ceremonials and observances that have grown
up about it in all the ages since His coming, and paring it down to the
point where it can be expressed by the one word—Love. Love, going out to
fellow man, to all nature and overflowing toward God.
In the consideration of this religion let us begin at the beginning, at
the ground, so to speak, with this expression of love for the loveless:
Ah, could I love thee,
Thou, the loveless o’ the earth,
And pry aneath the crannies
Yet untouched by mortal hand
To send therein this love o’ mine—
Thou creeping mite, and winged speck,
And whirled waters o’ the mid o’ sea
Where no man seeth thee?
And could I love thee, the days
Unsunned and laden with hate o’ sorrying?
Ah, could I love thee,
Thou who beareth blight;
And thou the fruit bescorched
And shrivelling, to fall unheeded
’Neath thy mother-stalk?
Ah, could I love thee, love thee?
Aye, for Him who loveth thee,
And blightest but through loving;
Like to him who bendeth low the forest’s king
To fashion out a mast.
Love for everything is the essence of her thought and of her song. And
as she thus sings for the loveless, so she sings for the wearied ones
and the failures of the earth:
I’d sing.
Wearied word adropped by weary ones,
And broked mold afashioned out by wearied hands;
A falter-song sung through tears o’ wearied one;
A fancied put o’ earth’s fair scene
Afallen at awry o’ weariness. Love’s task
Unfinished, aye, o’ertaken by sore weariness—
O’ thee I’d sing.
Aye, and put me such an songed-note
That earth, aye, and heaven, should hear;
And thou, aye all o’ ye, the soul-songs
O’ my brothers, be afinished,
At the closing o’ my song.
Aye, and wearied, aye and wearied, I’d sing.
I’d sing for them, the loved o’ Him,
And brothers o’ thee and me. Amen.
This is the prelude and now comes the song:
I choose o’ the spill
O’ love and word and work,
The waste o’ earth, to build.
Ye hark unto the sages,
And oft a way-singer’s song
Hath laden o’erfull o’ truth,
And wasteth ’pon the air,
And falleth not unto thine ear.
Think ye He scattereth whither
E’en such an grain? Nay.
And do ye seek o’ spill
And put unto thy song,
’Twill fill its emptiness.
Ye seek to sing but o’ thy song,
And ’tis an empty strain. ’Tis need
O’ love’s spill for to fill.
The spill of earth, the love that goes unnoticed and unappreciated, the
words that are unheard or unheeded, the work that seems to be for
naught—none of these is waste. A song it is for the wearied ones, the
heart-sick and discouraged, “the loved of Him and brothers of thee and
me.”
--------------
And yet she calls them waste but to show that they are not. “The waste
of earth,” she says, “doth build the Heaven,” and this is the theme of
much of her song.
Earth hath filled it up o’ waste and waste.
The sea’s fair breast, that heaveth as a mother’s,
Beareth waste o’ wrecks and wind-blown waste.
The day doth hold o’ waste.
The smiles that die, that long to break,
The woes that burden them already broke,
’Tis waste, ah yea, ’tis waste.
And yet, and yet, at some fair day,
E’en as the singing thou dost note
Doth bound from yonder hill’s side green
As echo, yea, the ghost o’ thy voice;
So shall all o’ this to sound aback
Unto the day.
Of waste, of waste, is heaven builded up.
It is to the waste of earth that she speaks in this message of love and
sympathy:
Ah, emptied heart! The weary o’ the path!
How would I to fill ye up o’ love!
I’d tear this lute, that it might whirr
A song that soothed thy lone, awearied path.
I’d steal the sun’s pale gold,
And e’en the silvered even’s ray,
To treasure them within this song
That it be rich for thee.
From out the wastes o’ earth I’d seek
And catch the woe-tears shed,
That I might drink them from the cup
And fill it up with loving.
From out the hearts afulled o’ love
Would I to steal the o’er-drip
And pack the emptied hearts of earth.
The bread o’ love would I to cast
Unto thy bywayed path, and pluck me
From the thornèd bush that traileth o’er
The stepping-place, the thorn, that brothers
O’ the flesh o’ me might step ’pon path acleared.
Yea, I’d coax the songsters o’ the earth
To carol thee upon thy ways,
And fill ye up o’ love and love and love.
And a message of cheer and encouragement she gives to those who sorrow,
in this:
“The web o’ sorrow weaveth ’bout the days o’ earth, and ’tis but
Folly who plyeth o’ the bobbin. I tell thee more, the bobbins stick
and threads o’ day-weave go awry. But list ye; ’tis he who windeth
o’ his web ’pon smiles and shuttleth ’twixt smiles and woe who
weaveth o’ a day afull and pleantious. And sorrow then wilt rift and
show a light athrough.”
Smiles amid sorrows. He who windeth of his web upon smiles not only
rifts his own woes but those of others, as she expresses it in this
verse:
The smile thou cast today that passed
Unheeded by the world; the handclasp
Of a friend, the touch of baby palms
Upon its mother’s breast—
Whither have they flown along the dreary way?
Mayhap thy smile
Hath fallen upon a daisy’s golden head,
To shine upon some weary traveler
Along the dusty road, and cause
A softening of the hard, hard way.
Perchance the handclasp strengthened wavering love
And lodged thee in thy friend’s regard.
And where the dimpled hands caress,
Will not a well of love spring forth?
Who knows, but who will tell
The hiding of these fleeting gifts!
And she gives measure to the same thought in this:
Waft ye through the world sunlight;
Throw ye to the sparrows grain
That runneth o’er the heaping measure.
Scatter flower petals, like the wings
Of fluttering butterflies, to streak
The dove-gray day with daisy gold,
And turn the silver mist to fleece of gold.
Hath the king a noble who is such
An wonder-worker? Or hath his jester
Such a pack of tricks as thine?
Both of these last have to do with the hands and with the use of the
hands in the expression of love for others, but in the following poem
Patience pays a tender and yet somewhat mystical tribute to the hands
themselves, empty hands filled with the gifts of Him, the power to build
and weave and soothe:
Hands. Hands. The hands o’ Earth;
Abusied at fashioning, Aye,
And put o’ this, aye, and that.
Hands. Hands upturned at empty.
Hands. Hands untooled, aye, but builders
O’ the soothe o’ Earth.
Hands. Hands aspread, aye, and sending forth
That which they do hold—the emptiness.
Aye, at empty they be, afulled o’ the give o’ Him.
At put at up, aye, and down, ’tis at weave
O’ cloth o’ Him they be.
Hands. Hands afulled o’ work o’ Him;
Aye, and ever at a spread o’ doing in His name.
Aye, and at put o’ weave
For naught but loving.
There are no doubt such hands on earth, many of them “ever at a spread
of doing in His name,” but not often have their work and their mission
been so beautifully and so fittingly expressed as in this strange verse
which, to me at least, grows in wonder at every reading. And this not so
much because of the quaintness of the words and the singularity of the
construction, as for the thought. This, however, is characteristic of
all of her work. There is always more in it than appears upon the
surface. And yet when one analyzes it, one finds that whatever may be
the nature or the subject of the composition, in nearly every instance
love is the inspiration.
The love that she expresses is universal. It goes out to nature in all
its forms, animate and inanimate, lovely and unlovely. It is manifested
in all her references to humanity, from the infant to doddering age; and
her compositions are filled with appeals for the application of love to
the relations between man and man. But it is when she sings of God that
she expresses love with the most tender and passionate fervency—His love
for man, her love for Him. “For He knoweth no beginning, no ending to
loving,” she says, “and loveth thee and me and me and thee ever and
afore ever.” “Sighing but bringeth up heart’s weary; tears but wash the
days acleansed; hands abusied for them not thine do work for Him;
prayers that fall ’pon but the air and naught, ye deem, sing straight
unto Him. Close, close doth He to cradle His own to Him.” She gives
poetic expression to this divine love in the song which follows:
Brother, weary o’ the plod,
Art sorried sore o’ waiting?
Brother, bowed aneath the pack o’ Earth,
Art seeking o’ the path
That leadest thee unto new fields
O’ green, and breeze-kissed airs?
Art bowed and bent o’ weight o’ sorry?
Art weary, weary, sore?
Then come and hark unto this song o’ Him.
Hast thou atrodden ’pon the Earth,
And worn the paths o’ folly
Till thou art foot-sore?
And hast the day grinned back to thee,
A folly-mask adown thy path
That layeth far behind thee?
Thy heart, my brother, hast thou then
Alost it ’pon the path?
And filled thee up o’ word and tung
O’ follysingers long the way?
Ah, weary me, ah, weary me!
Come thou unto this breast.
For though thou hast suffered o’ the Earth,
And though thy robe be stained
O’ travel o’er the stoney way,
And though thy lips deny thy heart,
Come thou unto this breast,
The breast o’ Him.
For He knoweth not the stain.
Aye, and the land o’ Him doth know
No stranger ’mid its hosts.
Ayea, and though thou comest mute,
This silence speaketh then to Him,
And He doth hold Him ope His arms.
So come thou brother, weary one,
To Him, for ’tis but Earth and men
Who ask thee WHY.
She pours out her love for God in many verses of praise and prayer.
Bird skimming to the south,
Bear thou my song,
Sand slipping to the wave’s embrace,
Do thou but bear it too!
And, shifting tide, take thou
Unto thy varied paths
The voicing of my soul!
I’d build me such an endless
Chant to sing of Him
That days to follow days
Would be but builded chord
Of this my lay.
Still more ardently does she express her love in these lines:
Spring, thou art but His smile
Of happiness in me, and sullen days
Of weariness shall fall when Spring is born
In winds of March and rains of April’s tears.
Methinks ’tis weariness of His that I,
His loved, should tarry o’er the task
And leave life’s golden sheaves unbound.
And, Night, thou too art mine, of Him.
Thy dim and veiled stars are but the eyes
Of Him that through the curtained mystery
Watch on and sever dark from me.
And, Love, thou too art His,
His words of wooing to my soul.
Should I, then, crush thee in embrace,
And bruise thee with my kiss,
And drink thy soul through mine?
What, then! ’Tis He, ’tis He, my love,
That gave me thee, and while my love is thine,
What wonder is it causeth here
This heart of mine to stifle so
And seek expression in a prayer of thanks?
With equal fervency of devotion and gratitude she sings this tribute to
the day:
Ah, what a day He hath made, He hath made!
It flasheth abright and asweet, and asweet.
It showeth His love and His smile, yea, His smile.
The hills stand abrown, aye astand brown,
And peaked as a monk in his cowl, aye, his cowl!
The grass it hath seared, aye, hath seared
And scenteth asweet, yea, asweet.
Ayonder a swallow doth whirl, aye, doth whirl,
And skim mid the grey o’ the blue,
Aye, the grey o’ the blue.
The young wave doth lap ’pon the sands,
Yea, lap soft and soft ’pon the sands.
The field’s maid doth seek, yea, doth seek,
And send out her song to the day,
Yea, send out her song to the day.
My heart it is full, yea, ’tis full,
For the love of Him batheth the day,
Yea, the love of Him batheth the day.
Ah, what a day He hath made,
Yea, He hath made it for me!
Her prayers are not appeals for aid; they are not begging petitions.
They are outpourings of love and trust and gratitude.
To an old couple, friends of Mr. and Mrs. Curran, who passed a
round-eyed evening with Patience, she said:
Keep ye within thy heart a song
And murmur thou this prayer:
“My God, am I then afraid
Of heights or depths?
And doth this dark benumb my quaking limbs?
And do I stop my song in fear
Lest Thee do then forsake me?
Nay, for I do love Thee so,
I fain would choose a song
Built from my chosen tung,
And though it be but chattering
Of a soul bereft of reasoning,
I know Thou would’st love it as Thine own,
For I do love Thee so!”
This was not given for another, but is her own cry:
I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught!
But cry aloud unto the sunlight
Who bathes the earth in gold
And boldly breaketh into crannies
Yet unseen by man:
Flash thou in flaming sheen!
Mine own song of love doth falter
And my throat, it is afail!
And thou, the greening shrub along the way,
And earth at bud-season,
Do thou then spurt thy shoots
And pierce the air with loving!
And age-wabbled brother—
I do love thee for thy spending,
And I do gaze in loving at thy face,
Whereon I find His peace,
And trace the withered cheek
For record of His love.
Around thy lips doth hang
The child-smile of a trusting heart;
And world hath vanished
From thine eyes, bedimmed
To gard thee at awakening.
Thou, too, art of my song of love.
I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught.
These hands are Thine for loving,
And this heart, already Thine,
Why offer it?
I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught.
This one does ask for something, but only to know Him:
Teach me, O God,
To say, “’Tis not enough.”
Aye, teach me, O Brother,
To sing, and though the weight
Be past this strength,
Teach me, O God, to say,
“’Tis not enough—to pay!”
Teach me, O God, for I be weak.
Teach me to learn
Of strength from Thee.
Teach me, O God, to trust, and do.
Teach me, O God, no word to pray.
Teach me, O God, the heart Thou gavest me.
Teach me, O God, to read thereon.
Teach me, O God, to waste not word.
Teach me that I be Ye!
That last line presents the most impressive principle of the religion
she expresses, and which, we might almost say, she embodies. “Who are
you?” she was once asked abruptly.
“I be Him,” she replied; “alike to thee. Ye be o’ Him.”
At another time she said:
“I be all that hath been, and all that is, all that shalt be, for that
be He.”
Taken alone this would seem to be a declaration that she herself was
God, but when it is read in connection with the previous affirmation it
is readily understood.
“Thou art of Him,” she said again, “aye, and I be of Him, and ye be of
Him, and He be all and of all.”
In this prayer, where she says “Teach me, O God, no word to pray,” it is
evident from her other prayers that she uses the word pray in the sense
of “to beg.” Her prayers are merely expressions of love and gratitude.
She herself interprets the line, “Teach me, O God, to waste not word,”
in this verse:
Speak ye a true tongue,
Or waste ye with words the Soul’s song?
A damning evidence is with wasted words;
For need I prate to yonder star
When hunger fills the world wherein I dwell?
Cast I a glance so precious as His
Which wakes at every dawn?
Speak I a tongue one half so true
As sighing winds who sing amid
Aeolian harps strung with siren tress?
For lo, the sea murmureth a thousand tones,
Wrung from its world within,
But telleth only of Him,
And so His silence keeps.
In the order in which we have chosen to present these poems, they are
more and more mystical as we go on. We trust, then, that the reader
meeting them for the first time will feel no impertinence in increasing
attempts at elucidation from one who has read them often and pondered
them much.
There is another and a very interesting phase of these communications in
the place Christ holds in them. Patience’s attitude toward the Savior is
one of deep and loving reverence.
“Didst thou then,” she says, “with those drops so worth, buy the
throbbing at thy memory set aflutter? And is this love of mine so freely
thine by that same purchase, or do I love thee for thy love of me? And
do I, then, my father’s tilling for love of Him, like thee to shed my
blood and tears for reapers in an age to come, because He wills it so?
God grant ’tis so!”
Nor does she hesitate to assert His divinity with definiteness. “Think
ye,” she cries, “that He who doth send the earth aspin athrough the blue
depth o’ Heaven, be not a wonder-god who springeth up where’er He doth
set a wish! Yea, then doth He to spring from out the dust a lily; so
also doth He to breathe athin (within) the flesh, and come unto the
earth, born from out flesh athout the touch o’ man. ’Tis so, and from
off the lute o’ me hath song aflowed that be asweeted o’ the blood o’
Him that shed for thee and me.”
And she puts the same assertion of His divine birth into this tribute to
the Virgin:
Mary, mother, thou art the Spring
That flowereth, though nay man aplanteth thee.
Mary, mother, the song of thee
That lulled His dreams to come,
Sing them athrough the earth and bring
The hope of rest unto the day.