Empty the sphere of glass, exhaust its last spent air, Seal it and make it sure, and deem your work complete, Let but a pin pierce through the fabric anywhere, And the urgent and crowding ether, for all your guarding care, Will enter and fill the space, and laugh at your swift defeat.
So to the empty chambers of these craving souls of ours Comes the invisible grace which breathes from the Lord of heaven, Comes as comes to the sand the tide with its freshening powers, Comes as come to the harvest the solacing summer showers, As to thirst of the desert the draft which is life is given.
Only be ready and wait, and Heaven shall haste to bless. Empty thy old wine out and make a place for the new; Swifter than rushing wind shall the force divine down press, And the pitiful Lord, instead of the want and the loneliness, Shall give the peace of peace and the fulness of joy to you.
“It is better to be lost than to be saved all alone.” HENRI AMIEL.
WHAT! heaven all to one’s self and the rest of men shut out? Better were hell than that, with a share in the common doom, Than to bask and smile content, with never a fear and doubt, In the vast, vast Paradise space with the countless flowers abloom.
To lie by the River of Life and see it run to waste, To eat of the Tree of Heaven while the nations go unfed, To taste the full salvation—the only one to taste— To live while the rest are lost,—oh, better by far be dead!
For to share is the bliss of heaven, as it is the joy of earth, And the unshared bread lacks savor, and the wine unshared lacks zest, And the joy of the soul redeemed would be little, little worth, If, content with its own security, it could forget the rest.
WHERE the mighty walls of Kronberg Tower o’er the cold blue tides, Like a couching lion set to guard A treasure which he hides, In a deep, deep vault shut out from day, In the heart of the dungeon place, There sleepeth Holger Danske, The noblest of his race.
There sleeps he in his rusted mail, With his sword across his knees, His snowy beard has grown ell long Through the long centuries. And if ever a faint, far murmur stirs, Or the sound of a bell’s dim chime, He moves, and fumbles at the hilt, And mutters, “Is it time?”