Chapter 3

There’s not a day in all the year But holds some hidden pleasure, And, looking back, joys oft appear To brim the past’s wide measure. But blessings are like friends, I hold, Who love and labour near us. We ought to raise our notes of praise While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise Of worry or of trouble; Far-seeing is the soul, and wise, Who knows the mask is double. But he who has the faith and strength To thank his God for sorrow Has found a joy without alloy To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes Of happy, glad Thanksgiving; The hours and days a silent phrase Of music we are living. And so the theme should swell and grow As weeks and months pass o’er us, And rise sublime at this good time, A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

CONTRASTS

I see the tall church steeples— They reach so far, so far; But the eyes of my heart see the world’s great mart Where the starving people are.

I hear the church bells ringing Their chimes on the morning air; But my soul’s sad ear is hurt to hear The poor man’s cry of despair.

Thicker and thicker the churches, Nearer and nearer the sky— But alack for their creeds while the poor man’s needs Grow deeper as years roll by!

THY SHIP

Hadst thou a ship, in whose vast hold lay stored The priceless riches of all climes and lands, Say, wouldst thou let it float upon the seas Unpiloted, of fickle winds the sport, And of wild waves and hidden rocks the prey?

Thine is that ship; and in its depths concealed Lies all the wealth of this vast universe— Yea, lies some part of God’s omnipotence, The legacy divine of every soul. Thy will, O man, thy will is that great ship, And yet behold it drifting here and there— One moment lying motionless in port, Then on high seas by sudden impulse flung, Then drying on the sands, and yet again Sent forth on idle quests to no-man’s land To carry nothing and to nothing bring; Till, worn and fretted by the aimless strife And buffeted by vacillating winds, It founders on a rock, or springs a leak, With all its unused treasures in the hold.

Go save thy ship, thou sluggard; take the wheel And steer to knowledge, glory, and success. Great mariners have made the pathway plain For thee to follow; hold thou to the course Of Concentration Channel, and all things Shall come in answer to thy swerveless wish As comes the needle to the magnet’s call, Or sunlight to the prisoned blade of grass That yearns all winter for the kiss of spring.

LIFE

All in the dark we grope along, And if we go amiss We learn at least which path is wrong, And there is gain in this.

We do not always win the race By only running right; We have to tread the mountain’s base Before we reach its height.

The Christs alone no errors made; So often had they trod The paths that lead through light and shade, They had become as God.

As Krishna, Buddha, Christ again, They passed along the way, And left those mighty truths which men But dimly grasp to-day.

But he who loves himself the last And knows the use of pain, Though strewn with errors all his past, He surely shall attain.

Some souls there are that needs must taste Of wrong, ere choosing right; We should not call those years a waste Which led us to the light.

A MARINE ETCHING

A yacht from its harbour ropes pulled free, And leaped like a steed o’er the race-track blue, Then up behind her the dust of the sea, A gray fog, drifted, and hid her from view.

“LOVE THYSELF LAST”

Love thyself last. Look near, behold thy duty To those who walk beside thee down life’s road. Make glad their days by little acts of beauty And help them bear the burden of earth’s load.

Love thyself last. Look far and find the stranger Who staggers ’neath his sin and his despair; Go, lend a hand, and lead him out of danger, To heights where he may see the world is fair.

Love thyself last. The vastnesses above thee Are filled with Spirit-Forces; strong and pure And fervently these faithful friends shall love thee Keep thou thy watch o’er others and endure.

Love thyself last, and oh! such joy shall thrill thee As never yet to selfish souls was given; Whate’er thy lot, a perfect peace will fill thee, And earth shall seem the ante-room of Heaven.

Love thyself last, and thou shalt grow in spirit To see, to hear, to know, and understand. The message of the stars, lo, thou shalt hear it, And all God’s joys shall be at thy command.

CHRISTMAS FANCIES

When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow, We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago, And etched on vacant places Are half-forgotten faces Of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know— When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow.

Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near, We see, with strange emotion, that is not free from fear, That continent Elysian Long vanished from our vision, Youth’s lovely lost Atlantis, so mourned for and so dear, Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near.

When gloomy, gray Decembers are roused to Christmas mirth, The dullest life remembers there once was joy on earth, And draws from youth’s recesses Some memory it possesses, And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates its worth, When gloomy, gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.

When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis Each heart recalls some folly that lit the world with bliss. Not all the seers and sages With wisdom of the ages Can give the mind such pleasure as memories of that kiss When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis.

For life was made for loving, and love alone repays, As passing years are proving, for all of Time’s sad ways. There lies a sting in pleasure, And fame gives shallow measure, And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days, For life was made for loving, and only loving pays.

When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes, And silences are melting to soft, melodious rhymes, Let Love, the world’s beginning, End fear and hate and sinning; Let Love, the God Eternal, be worshipped in all climes When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes.

THE RIVER

I am a river flowing from God’s sea Through devious ways. He mapped my course for me; I cannot change it; mine alone the toil To keep the waters free from grime and soil. The winding river ends where it began; And when my life has compassed its brief span I must return to that mysterious source. So let me gather daily on my course The perfume from the blossoms as I pass, Balm from the pines, and healing from the grass, And carry down my current as I go Not common stones but precious gems to show; And tears (the holy water from sad eyes) Back to God’s sea, from which all rivers rise, Let me convey, not blood from wounded hearts, Nor poison which the upas tree imparts. When over flowery vales I leap with joy, Let me not devastate them, nor destroy, But rather leave them fairer to the sight; Mine be the lot to comfort and delight. And if down awful chasms I needs must leap, Let me not murmur at my lot, but sweep On bravely to the end without one fear, Knowing that He who planned my ways stands near. Love sent me forth, to Love I go again, For Love is all, and over all. Amen.

SORRY

There is much that makes me sorry as I journey down life’s way, And I seem to see more pathos in poor human lives each day. I’m sorry for the strong, brave men who shield the weak from harm, But who, in their own troubled hours, find no protecting arm.

I’m sorry for the victors who have reached success, to stand As targets for the arrows shot by envious failure’s hand. I’m sorry for the generous hearts who freely shared their wine, But drink alone the gall of tears in fortune’s drear decline.

I’m sorry for the souls who build their own fame’s funeral pyre, Derided by the scornful throng like ice deriding fire. I’m sorry for the conquering ones who know not sin’s defeat, But daily tread down fierce desire ’neath scorched and bleeding feet.

I’m sorry for the anguished hearts that break with passion’s strain, But I’m sorrier for the poor starved souls that never knew love’s pain, Who hunger on through barren years not tasting joys they crave, For sadder far is such a lot than weeping o’er a grave.

I’m sorry for the souls that come unwelcomed into birth, I’m sorry for the unloved old who cumber up the earth, I’m sorry for the suffering poor in life’s great maelstrom hurled— In truth, I’m sorry for them all who make this aching world.

But underneath whate’er seems sad and is not understood, I know there lies hid from our sight a mighty germ of good. And this belief stands firm by me, my sermon, motto, text— The sorriest things in this life will seem grandest in the next.

AMBITION’S TRAIL

If all the end of this continuous striving Were simply _to attain_, How poor would seem the planning and contriving, The endless urging and the hurried driving, Of body, heart, and brain!

But ever in the wake of true achieving There shines this glowing trail— Some other soul will be spurred on, conceiving New strength and hope, in its own power believing, Because _thou_ didst not fail.

Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow, If thou dost miss the goal; Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrow From thee their weakness or their force shall borrow— On, on, ambitious soul.

UNCONTROLLED

The mighty forces of mysterious space Are one by one subdued by lordly man. The awful lightning that for eons ran Their devastating and untrammelled race, Now bear his messages from place to place Like carrier doves. The winds lead on his van; The lawless elements no longer can Resist his strength, but yield with sullen grace.

His bold feet scaling heights before untrod, Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold, He bids go forth and bring him power and pelf. And yet, though ruler, king and demi-god, He walks with his fierce passions uncontrolled, The conqueror of all things—save himself.

WILL

You will be what you will to be; Let failure find its false content In that poor word “environment,” But spirit scorns it, and is free.

It masters time, it conquers space, It cowes that boastful trickster Chance, And bids the tyrant Circumstance Uncrown and fill a servant’s place.

The human Will, that force unseen, The offspring of a deathless Soul, Can hew the way to any goal, Though walls of granite intervene.

Be not impatient in delay, But wait as one who understands; When spirit rises and commands, The gods are ready to obey.

The river seeking for the sea Confronts the dam and precipice, Yet knows it cannot fail or miss; _You will be what you will to be_!

TO AN ASTROLOGER

Nay, seer, I do not doubt thy mystic lore, Nor question that the tenor of my life, Past, present, and the future, is revealed There in my horoscope. I do believe That yon dead moon compels the haughty seas To ebb and flow, and that my natal star Stands like a stern-browed sentinel in space And challenges events; nor lets one grief, Or joy, or failure, or success, pass on To mar or bless my earthly lot, until It proves its Karmic right to come to me.

All this I grant, but more than this I _know_! Before the solar systems were conceived, When nothing was but the unnamable, My spirit lived, an atom of the Cause. Through countless ages and in many forms It has existed, ere it entered in This human frame to serve its little day Upon the earth. The deathless Me of me. The spark from that great all-creative fire, Is part of that eternal source called God, And mightier than the universe.

Why, he Who knows, and knowing, never once forgets The pedigree divine of his own soul, Can conquer, shape, and govern destiny, And use vast space as ’twere a board for chess With stars for pawns; can change his horoscope To suit his will; turn failure to success, And from preordained sorrows, harvest joy.

There is no puny planet, sun, or moon, Or zodiacal sign which can control The God in us! If we bring _that_ to bear Upon events, we mould them to our wish; ’Tis when the infinite ’neath the finite gropes That men are governed by their horoscopes.

THE TENDRIL’S FATE

Under the snow, in the dark and the cold, A pale little sprout was humming; Sweetly it sang, ’neath the frozen mould, Of the beautiful days that were coming.

“How foolish your songs!” said a lump of clay; “What is there, I ask, to prove them? Just look at the walls between you and the day, Now, have you the strength to move them?”

But under the ice and under the snow The pale little sprout kept singing, “I cannot tell how, but I know, I know, I know what the days are bringing.

“Birds, and blossoms, and buzzing bees, Blue, blue skies above me, Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees And the great glad sun to love me.”

A pebble spoke next: “You are quite absurd,” It said, “with your song’s insistence; For _I_ never saw a tree or a bird, So of course there are none in existence.”

“But I know, I know,” the tendril cried, In beautiful sweet unreason; Till lo! from its prison, glorified, It burst in the glad spring season.

THE TIMES

The times are not degenerate. Man’s faith Mounts higher than of old. No crumbling creed Can take from the immortal soul the need Of that supreme Creator, God. The wraith Of dead beliefs we cherished in our youth Fades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.

Man may not worship at the ancient shrine Prone on his face, in self-accusing scorn. That night is past. He hails a fairer morn, And knows himself a something all divine; Not humble worm whose heritage is sin, But, born of God, he feels the Christ withal.

Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time, But deep his reverence for that mighty force, That occult working of the great All-Source, Which makes the present era so sublime. Religion now means something high and broad. And man stood never half so near to God.

THE QUESTION

Beside us in our seeking after pleasures, Through all our restless striving after fame, Through all our search for worldly gains and treasures, There walketh one whom no man likes to name. Silent he follows, veiled of form and feature, Indifferent if we sorrow or rejoice, Yet that day comes when every living creature Must look upon his face and hear his voice.

When that day comes to you, and Death, unmasking, Shall bar your path, and say, “Behold the end,” What are the questions that he will be asking About your past? Have you considered, friend? I think he will not chide you for your sinning, Nor for your creeds or dogmas will he care; He will but ask, “From your life’s first beginning How many burdens have you helped to bear?”

SORROW’S USES

The uses of sorrow I comprehend Better and better at each year’s end.

Deeper and deeper I seem to see Why and wherefore it has to be.

Only after the dark, wet days Do we fully rejoice in the sun’s bright rays.

Sweeter the crust tastes after the fast Than the sated gourmand’s finest repast.

The faintest cheer sounds never amiss To the actor who once has heard a hiss.

To one who the sadness of freedom knows, Light seem the fetters love may impose.

And he who has dwelt with his heart alone, Hears all the music in friendship’s tone.

So better and better I comprehend How sorrow ever would be our friend.

IF

’Twixt what thou art, and what thou wouldst be, let No “If” arise on which to lay the blame. Man makes a mountain of that puny word, But, like a blade of grass before the scythe, It falls and withers when a human will, Stirred by creative force, sweeps toward its aim.

Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. Circumstance Is but the toy of genius. When a soul Burns with a god-like purpose to achieve, All obstacles between it and its goal Must vanish as the dew before the sun.

“If” is the motto of the dilettante And idle dreamer; ’tis the poor excuse Of mediocrity. The truly great Know not the word, or know it but to scorn, Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died, Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.

WHICH ARE YOU?

There are two kinds of people on earth to-day; Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and saint, for it’s well understood The good are half bad, and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man’s wealth You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for, in life’s little span, Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years Bring each man his laughter, and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean Are the people who lift, and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth’s masses Are always divided in just these two classes.

And, oddly enough, you will find too, I ween, There’s only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you? Are you easing the load Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner, who lets others share Your portion of labour and worry and care?

THE CREED TO BE

Our thoughts are moulding unmade spheres, And, like a blessing or a curse, They thunder down the formless years, And ring throughout the universe.

We build our futures by the shape Of our desires, and not by acts. There is no pathway of escape; No priest-made creeds can alter facts.

Salvation is not begged or bought; Too long this selfish hope sufficed; Too long man reeked with lawless thought, And leaned upon a tortured Christ.

Like shrivelled leaves, these worn-out creeds Are dropping from Religion’s tree; The world begins to know its needs, And souls are crying to be free.

Free from the load of fear and grief, Man fashioned in an ignorant age; Free from the ache of unbelief He fled to in rebellious rage.

No church can bind him to the things That fed the first crude souls, evolved; For, mounting up on daring wings, He questions mysteries all unsolved.

Above the chant of priests, above The blatant voice of braying doubt, He hears the still, small voice of Love, Which sends its simple message out.

And clearer, sweeter, day by day, Its mandate echoes from the skies, “Go roll the stone of self away, And let the Christ within thee rise.”

INSPIRATION

Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy, Is inspiration, eager to pursue, But rather like a maiden, fond, yet coy, Who gives herself to him who best doth woo.

Once she may smile, or thrice, thy soul to fire, In passing by, but when she turns her face, Thou must persist and seek her with desire, If thou wouldst win the favour of her grace.

And if, like some winged bird, she cleaves the air, And leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth, Still must thou strive to follow even there, That she may know thy valour and thy worth.

Then shall she come unveiling all her charms, Giving thee joy for pain, and smiles for tears; Then shalt thou clasp her with possessing arms, The while she murmurs music in thine ears.

But ere her kiss has faded from thy cheek, She shall flee from thee over hill and glade, So must thou seek and ever seek and seek For each new conquest of this phantom maid

THE WISH

Should some great angel say to me to-morrow, “Thou must re-tread thy pathway from the start, But God will grant, in pity, for thy sorrow, Some one dear wish, the nearest to thy heart.”

This were my wish!—from my life’s dim beginning _Let be what has been_! wisdom planned the whole My want, my woe, my errors, and my sinning, All, all were needed lessons for my soul.

THREE FRIENDS

Of all the blessings which my life has known, I value most, and most praise God for three: Want, Loneliness, and Pain, those comrades true,

Who masqueraded in the garb of foes For many a year, and filled my heart with dread. Yet fickle joys, like false, pretentious friends, Have proved less worthy than this trio. First,

Want taught me labour, led me up the steep And toilsome paths to hills of pure delight, Trod only by the feet that know fatigue, And yet press on until the heights appear.

Then loneliness and hunger of the heart Sent me upreaching to the realms of space, Till all the silences grew eloquent, And all their loving forces hailed me friend.

Last, pain taught prayer! placed in my hand the staff Of close communion with the over-soul, That I might lean upon it to the end, And find myself made strong for any strife.

And then these three who had pursued my steps Like stern, relentless foes, year after year, Unmasked, and turned their faces full on me, And lo! they were divinely beautiful, For through them shone the lustrous eyes of Love.

YOU NEVER CAN TELL

You never can tell when you send a word, Like an arrow shot from a bow By an archer blind, be it cruel or kind, Just where it may chance to go! It may pierce the breast of your dearest friend, Tipped with its poison or balm; To a stranger’s heart in life’s great mart, It may carry its pain or its calm.

You never can tell when you do an act Just what the result will be; But with every deed you are sowing a seed, Though the harvest you may not see. Each kindly act is an acorn dropped In God’s productive soil. You may not know, but the tree shall grow, With shelter for those who toil.

You never can tell what your thoughts will do, In bringing you hate or love; For thoughts are things, and their airy wings Are swifter than carrier doves. They follow the law of the universe— Each thing must create its kind; And they speed o’er the track to bring you back _Whatever went out from your mind_.

HERE AND NOW

Here, in the heart of the world, Here, in the noise and the din, Here, where our spirits were hurled To battle with sorrow and sin, This is the place and the spot For knowledge of infinite things This is the kingdom where Thought Can conquer the prowess of kings

Wait for no heavenly life, Seek for no temple alone; Here, in the midst of the strife, Know what the sages have known. See what the Perfect Ones saw— God in the depth of each soul, God as the light and the law, God as beginning and goal.

Earth is one chamber of Heaven, Death is no grander than birth. Joy in the life that was given, Strive for perfection on earth; Here, in the turmoil and roar, Show what it is to be calm; Show how the spirit can soar And bring back its healing and balm.