Theirs the dower of happy giving, theirs the heritage of Fate Which, when faith has grown to fulness, and the little is made great, Brings to love its true rewarding, harvested or soon or late.
Jacob Boehme, by-gone mystic, gifted with a strange insight, As I read your yellowed pages, which in former times were white, And review my men and women, half I deem that you were right.
’TIS said when pious Moslem walk abroad, If on the path they spy a floating bit Of paper, reverently they turn aside And shun the scrap, nor set a foot on it, Lest haply thereupon the awful name Of mighty Allah should by chance be writ.
We smile at the vain dread; but blind and dull The soul that only smiles, and cannot see A thought of perfect beauty folded in The zealot’s reverent fear, as in some free And flaunting flower-cup may be hived and held One drop of precious honey for the bee.
Small wind-blown things there are, which any day Float by in air or on our pathway lie, Swift-winged moments speeding on their way, Brief opportunities, which we pass by Heedless and smiling, little subtle threads Of influence—intimations soft and sly.
Careless we tread them down, as, pressing on, Our eager inconsiderate feet we set On the unvalued treasures where they lie. We are too blind to prize or to regret, Too dull to recognize the mystic Name Graven upon them as on amulet.
Ah! dears, let us no longer do this thing, And thus the sweeter life lose and let fall; But with anointed eyes and reverent feet Pass on our way, noting and prizing all, Knowing that God’s great token-sign is set, Not on the large things only, but the small.
ART Thou the way, Lord? Yet the way is steep! And hedged with cruel thorns and set with briars; We stumble onward, or we pause to weep, And still the hard road baffles our desires, And still the hot noon beats, the hours delay, The end is out of sight,—Art Thou the way?
Art Thou the way, Lord? Yet the way is blind! We grope and guess, perplexed with mists and suns; We only see the guide-posts left behind, Invisible to us the forward ones; The chart is hard to read, we wind and stray, Beset with hovering doubts,—Art Thou the way?
Art Thou the way, Lord? Yet the way is long! Year follows year while we are journeying still, The limbs are feeble grown which once were strong, Dimmed are the eyes and quenched the ardent will, The world is veiled with shadows sad and gray; Yet we must travel on,—Art Thou the way?