Part 35

“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: