Part 40

These are the sorrows that are “ripened to a mellow heart,” and she was asked if there were new sorrows to be borne in that other life. She replied:

“Nay. Earth be a home of sorrow’s dream. For sorrow be but dream of the soul asleep. ’Tis wake (death) that setteth free.”

And after such assurance comes the cry of faith and content and peace:

Then do I cease to clutch the emptiness, And sleep, and sleep me unafeared!

With this comforting assurance in mind one may cheerfully approach her solemn address to Death:

Who art thou, Who tracketh ’pon the path o’ me— O’ each turn, aye, and track?

Thou! And thou astand! And o’er thy face a cloud, Aye, a darked and somber cloud! Who art thou, Thou tracker ’mid the day’s bright, And ’mid the night’s deep; E’en when I be astopped o’ track?

Who art thou, That toucheth o’ the flesh o’ me, And sendeth chill unto the heart o’ me? Aye, and who art thou, Who putteth forth thy hand And setteth at alow the hopes o’ me?

Aye, who art thou, Who bideth ever ’mid a dream? Aye, and that the soul o’ me Doth shrink at know?

Who art thou? Who art thou, Who steppeth ever to my day, And blotteth o’ the sun away?

Who art thou, Who stepped to Earth at birth o’ me, And e’en ’mid wail o’ weak, Aye, at the birth o’ wail, Did set a chill ’pon infant flesh; And at the track o’ man ’pon Earth Doth follow ever, and at height afollow, And doth touch, And all doth crumble to a naught. Thou! Thou! Who art thou? Ever do I to ask, and ever wish To see the face o’ thee, And ne’er, ne’er do I to know thee— Thou, the Traveler ’pon the path o’ me. And, Brother, thou dost give That which world doth hold From see o’ me!

Stand thou! Stand thou! And draw thy cloak from o’er thy face! Ever hath the dread o’ thee Clutched at the heart o’ me. Aye, and at the end o’ journey, I beseech thee, Cast thy cloak and show thee me! Aye, show thee me!

Ah, thou art the gift o’ Him! The Key to There! The Love o’ Earth! Aye, and Hate hath made o’ man To know thee not— Thou! Thou! O Death!

She finds Death terrible from the human point of view, and reveals him at the end as “the gift of Him, the Key to There!”

One of her constant objects seems to be to rob death of its terrors, and to bring the “There” into closer and more intimate connection with us. Here is another effort:

Spring’s morn afulled o’ merry-song, Aye, and tickle o’ streams-thread through Summer’s noon;

Arock o’ hum o’ hearts-throb, And danced awhite the air at scorch;

Winter’s rage asing o’ cold And wail o’ Winter’s sorry at the Summer’s leave;

Ashivered breeze, abear o’ leaf’s rustling At dry o’ season’s ripe;

Night’s deep, where sound astarteth silence; Morn’s sweet, awooed by bird’s coax.

Earth’s sounds, ye deem? I tell thee ’tis but the echoing o’ Here.

Thy days be naught Save coax o’ Here athere!

All that is worth while on earth is but the echoes of Heaven, and there would be nothing to life but for the joys that have been “coaxed” from there. How closely that thought unites the here and the there. Earth sounds but the echoes of the other land adjoining! She makes it something tangible, something almost material, something we may nearly comprehend; and then, having opened the door a little way, as far, no doubt, as it is possible for her to do, she presents this response to human desires, this promise of joys to come:

Swift as light-flash o’ storm, swift, swift, Would I send the wish o’ thine asearch. Swift, swift as bruise o’ swallows’ wing ’pon air, I’d send asearch thy wish, areach to lands unseen; I’d send aback o’ answer laden. Swift, swift, would I to flee unto the Naught Thou knowest as the Here. Swift, swift I’d bear aback to thee What thou wouldst seek. Swift, swift, Would I to bear aback to thee.

Dost deem the path ahid doth lead to naught? Dost deem thy footfall leadest thee to nothingness? Dost pin not ’pon His word o’ promising, And art at sorry and afear to follow Him? I’d put athin thy cup a sweet, a pledge o’ love’s-buy. I’d send aback a glad-song o’ this land. Sing thou, sing on, though thou art ne’er aheard— Like love awaked, the joy o’ breath Anew born o’ His loving. Set thee at rest, and trod the path unfearing. For He who putteth joy to earth, aplanted joy Athin the reach o’ thee, e’en through The dark o’ path at end o’ journey. His smile! His word! His loving! Put forth thy hand at glad, and I do promise thee That Joy o’ earth asupped shall fall as naught, And thou shalt sup thee deep o’ joys, O’ Bearer, aye, and Source; and like glad light o’ day And sweet o’ love, thy coming here shall be!

With this promise, this covenant, we bring the narrative of Patience to an end. There will be many and widely varied views of the nature of this intelligence, but surely there can be but one opinion of the beauty of her words and the purity of her purpose. She has brought a message of love at a time when the world is sadly deficient in that attribute, wisely believed to be the best thing in earth or heaven; and an inspiration to faith that was never so greatly in need of strength as now. An inevitable consequence of the world-war will be a universal introspection. There will be a great turning of thought to serious things. That tendency is already discernible. May it not be possible that it is the mission of Patience Worth to answer the question that is above all questions at a time when humanity is filled with interrogation?

FINIS.

INDEX