Part 11

Give us the mastery of our fate In thoughts so warm and white, They stamp upon the brows of hate Love’s glorious seal of light.

Give us the strong, courageous faith That makes of pain a friend, And calls the secret word of death ‘Beginning,’ and not ‘end.’

WHAT IS RIGHT LIVING?

What is right living? Just to do your best When worst seems easier. To bear the ills Of daily life with patient cheerfulness Nor waste dear time recounting them. To talk Of hopeful things when doubt is in the air. To count your blessings often, giving thanks, And to accept your sorrows silently, Nor question why you suffer. To accept The whole of life as one perfected plan, And welcome each event as part of it. To work, and love your work; to trust, to pray For larger usefulness and clearer sight. This is right living, pleasing in God’s eyes, Though you be heathen, heretic or Jew.

JUSTICE

However inexplicable may seem Event and circumstance upon this earth, Though favours fall on those whom none esteem, And insult and indifference greet worth; Though poverty repays the life of toil, And riches spring where idle feet have trod, And storms lay waste the patiently tilled soil— Yet Justice sways the universe of God.

As undisturbed the stately stars remain Beyond the glare of day’s obscuring light, So Justice dwells, though mortal eyes in vain Seek it persistently by reason’s sight. But when, once freed, the illumined soul looks out. Its cry will be, ‘O God, how could I doubt!’

TIME’S GAZE

Time looked me in the eyes while passing by The milestone of the year. That piercing gaze Was both an accusation and reproach. No speech was needed. In a sorrowing look More meaning lies than in complaining words, And silence hurts as keenly as reproof.

Oh, opulent, kind giver of rich hours, How have I used thy benefits! As babes Unstring a necklace, laughing at the sound Of priceless jewels dropping one by one, So have I laughed while precious moments rolled Into the hidden corners of the past. And I have let large opportunities For high endeavour move unheeded by, While little joys and cares absorbed my strength.

And yet, dear Time, set to my credit this: Not one white hour have I made black with hate, Nor wished one living creature aught but good.

Be patient with me. Though the sun slants west, The day has not yet finished, and I feel Necessity for action and resolve Bear in upon my consciousness. I know The earth’s eternal need of earnest souls, And the great hunger of the world for Love. I know the goal to high achievement lies Through the dull pathway of self-conquest first; And on the stairs of little duties done We climb to joys that stand thy test. O Time, Be patient with me, and another day, Perchance, in passing by, thine eyes may smile.

THE WORKER AND THE WORK

In what I do I note the marring flaw, The imperfections of the work I see; Nor am I one who rather do than be, Since its reversal is Creation’s law.

Nay, since there lies a better and a worse, A lesser and a larger, in men’s view, I would be better than the thing I do, As God is greater than His universe.

He shaped Himself before He shaped one world: A million eons, toiling day and night, He built Himself to majesty and might, Before the planets into space were hurled.

And when Creation’s early work was done, What crude beginnings out of chaos came— A formless nebula, a wavering flame, An errant comet, a voracious sun.

And, still unable to perfect His plan, What awful creatures at His touch found birth— Those protoplasmic monsters of the earth, That owned the world before He fashioned Man.

And now, behold the poor unfinished state Of this, His latest masterpiece! Then why, Seeing the flaws in my own work, should I Be troubled that no voice proclaims it great?

Before me lie the cycling rounds of years; With this small earth will die the thing I do: The thing I am, goes journeying onward through A million lives, upon a million spheres.

My work I build, as best I can and may, Knowing all mortal effort ends in dust. I build myself, not as I may, but must, Knowing, or good, or ill, that self must stay.

Along the ages, out, and on, afar, Its journey leads, and must perforce be made. Likewise its choice, with things of shame and shade, Or up the path of light, from star to star.

When all these solar systems shall disperse, Perchance this labour, and this self-control, May find reward; and my completed soul Will fling in space, a little universe.

ART THOU ALIVE?

Art thou alive? Nay, not too soon reply, Tho’ hand, and foot, and lip, and ear, and eye, Respond, and do thy bidding yet may be Grim death has done his direst work with thee. Life, as God gives it, is a thing apart From active body and from beating heart. It is the vital spark, the unseen fire, That moves the mind to reason and aspire; It is the force that bids emotion roll, In mighty billows from the surging soul.

It is the light that grows from hour to hour, And floods the brain with consciousness of power; It is the spirit dominating all, And reaching God with its imperious call, Until the shining glory of His face Illuminates each sorrowful, dark place;

It is the truth that sets the bondsman free, Knowing he will be what he wills to be. With its unburied dead the earth is sad. Art thou alive? proclaim it and be glad. Perchance the dead may hear thee and arise, Knowing they live, and here is Paradise.

TO-DAY