And when this mildew, age, has dried away, My heart will beat again as young and strong and gay.
17.
Stronger and gayer tenfold!--but, O friends, Not for itself, nor any hoarded bliss.
I see but vaguely whither my being tends, All vaguely spy a glory shadow-blent, Vaguely desire the "individual kiss;"
But when I think of God, a large content Fills the dull air of my gray cloudy tent.
18.
Father of me, thou art my bliss secure.
Make of me, maker, whatsoe'er thou wilt.
Let fancy's wings hang moulting, hope grow poor, And doubt steam up from where a joy was spilt--I lose no time to reason it plain and clear, But fly to thee, my life's perfection dear:--Not what I think, but what thou art, makes sure.
19.
This utterance of spirit through still thought, This forming of heart-stuff in moulds of brain, Is helpful to the soul by which 'tis wrought, The shape reacting on the heart again;
But when I am quite old, and words are slow, Like dying things that keep their holes for woe, And memory's withering tendrils clasp with effort vain?
20.
Thou, then as now, no less wilt be my life, And I shall know it better than before, Praying and trusting, hoping, claiming more.
>From effort vain, sick foil, and bootless strife, I shall, with childness fresh, look up to thee;
Thou, seeing thy child with age encumbered sore, Wilt round him bend thine arm more carefully.
21.
And when grim Death doth take me by the throat, Thou wilt have pity on thy handiwork;
Thou wilt not let him on my suffering gloat, But draw my soul out--gladder than man or boy, When thy saved creatures from the narrow ark Rushed out, and leaped and laughed and cried for joy, And the great rainbow strode across the dark.
22.
Against my fears, my doubts, my ignorance, I trust in thee, O father of my Lord!
The world went on in this same broken dance, When, worn and mocked, he trusted and adored:
I too will trust, and gather my poor best To face the truth-faced false. So in his nest I shall awake at length, a little scarred and scored.
23.
Things cannot look all right so long as I Am not all right who see--therefore not right Can see. The lamp within sends out the light Which shows the things; and if its rays go wry, Or are not white, they must part show a lie.
The man, half-cured, did men not trees conclude, Because he moving saw what else had seemed a wood.
24.
Give me, take from me, as thou wilt. I learn--Slowly and stubbornly I learn to yield With a strange hopefulness. As from the field Of hard-fought battle won, the victor chief Turns thankfully, although his heart do yearn, So from my old things to thy new I turn, With sad, thee-trusting heart, and not in grief.
25.
If with my father I did wander free, Floating o'er hill and field where'er we would, And, lighting on the sward before the door, Strange faces through the window-panes should see, And strange feet standing where the loved had stood, The dear old place theirs all, as ours before--Should I be sorrowful, father, having thee?
26.
So, Lord, if thou tak'st from me all the rest, Thyself with each resumption drawing nigher, It shall but hurt me as the thorn of the briar, When I reach to the pale flower in its breast.
To have thee, Lord, is to have all thy best, Holding it by its very life divine--To let my friend's hand go, and take his heart in mine.
27.
Take from me leisure, all familiar places;
Take all the lovely things of earth and air Take from me books; take all my precious faces;
Take words melodious, and their songful linking;
Take scents, and sounds, and all thy outsides fair;
Draw nearer, taking, and, to my sober thinking, Thou bring'st them nearer all, and ready to my prayer.
28.
No place on earth henceforth I shall count strange, For every place belongeth to my Christ.
I will go calm where'er thou bid'st me range;
Whoe'er my neighbour, thou art still my nighest.
Oh my heart's life, my owner, will of my being!
Into my soul thou every moment diest, In thee my life thus evermore decreeing.
29.
What though things change and pass, nor come again!
Thou, the life-heart of all things, changest never.
The sun shines on; the fair clouds turn to rain, And glad the earth with many a spring and river.
The hearts that answer change with chill and shiver, That mourn the past, sad-sick, with hopeless pain, They know not thee, our changeless heart and brain.
30.
My halting words will some day turn to song--Some far-off day, in holy other times!
The melody now prisoned in my rimes Will one day break aloft, and from the throng Of wrestling thoughts and words spring up the air;
As from the flower its colour's sweet despair Issues in odour, and the sky's low levels climbs.
31.
My surgent thought shoots lark-like up to thee.
Thou like the heaven art all about the lark.
Whatever I surmise or know in me, Idea, or but symbol on the dark, Is living, working, thought-creating power In thee, the timeless father of the hour.
I am thy book, thy song--thy child would be.