Chapter 7

I have missed what I sought; yet I missed not the whole. The best part of love is in loving. My soul Is enriched by its prodigal gifts. Still, to give And to ask no return, is my lot while I live.

Such love may be blindness, but where are love's eyes? Such love may be folly, love seldom is wise. Such love may be madness, was love ever sane? Such love must be sorrow, for all love is pain.

Love goes where it must go, and in its own season. Love cannot be banished by will or by reason. Love gave back your freedom, it keeps me its slave. I shall walk in its fetters, unloved, to my grave.

So be it. What right has the ant, in the dust, To cry that the world is all wrong, and unjust, Because the swift foot of a messenger trod Down the home, and the hopes, that were built in the sod?

What is man but an ant, in this universe scheme? Though dear his ambition, and precious his dream, God's messengers speed all unseen on their way, And the plans of a lifetime go down in a day.

No matter. The aim of the Infinite mind, Which lies back of it all, must be great, must be kind. Can the ant or the man, though ingenious and wise, Swing the tides of the sea--set a star in the skies?

Can man fling a million of worlds into space, To whirl on their orbits with system and grace? Can he color a sunset, or create a seed, Or fashion one leaf of the commonest weed?

Can man summon daylight, or bid the night fall? Then how dare he question the Force which does all? Where so much is flawless, where so much is grand, All, all must be right, could our souls understand.

Ah, man, the poor egotist! Think with what pride He boasts his small knowledge of star and of tide. But when fortune fails him, or when a hope dies, The Maker of stars and of seas he denies!

I questioned, I doubted. But that is all past; I have learned the true secret of living at last. It is, to accept what Fate sends, and to know That the one thing God wishes of man--is to grow.

Growth, growth out of self, back to him--the First Cause: Therein lies the purpose, the law of all laws. Tears, grief, disappointment, well, what are all these To the Builder of stars and the Maker of seas?

Does the star long to shine, when He tells it to set, As the heart would remember when told to forget? Does the sea moan for flood tide, when bid to be low, As a soul cries for pleasure when given life's woe?

In the Antarctic regions a volcano glows, While low at its base lie the up-reaching snows. With patient persistence they steadily climb, And the flame will be quenched in the passage of time.

My heart is the crater, my will is the snow, Which yet may extinguish its volcanic glow. When self is once conquered, the end comes to pain, And that is the goal which I seek to attain.

I seek it in work, heaven planned, heaven sent; In the kingdom of toil waits the crown of content. Work, work! ah, how high and divine was its birth, When God, the first laborer, fashioned the earth.

The world cries for workers; not toilers for pelf, But souls who have sought to eliminate self. Can the lame lead the race? Can the blind guide the blind? We must better ourselves ere we better our kind.

There are wrongs to be righted; and first of them all, Is to lift up the leaners from Charity's thrall. Sweet, wisdomless Charity, sowing the seed Which it seeks to uproot, of dependence and need.

For vain is the effort to give man content By clothing his body, by paying his rent. The garment re-tatters, the rent day recurs; Who seeks to serve God by such charity errs.

Give light to the spirit, give strength to the mind, And the body soon cares for itself, you will find. First, faith in God's wisdom, then purpose and will, And, like mist before sunlight, shall vanish each ill.

To the far realm of Wisdom there lies a short way. To find it we need but the password--Obey. Obey like the acorn that falls to the sod, To rise, through the heart of the oak tree, to God.

Though slow be the rising, and distant the goal, Serenity waits at the end for each soul. I seek it. Not backward, but onward I go, And since sorrow means growth, I will welcome my woe.

In the ladder of lives we are given to climb, Each life counts for only a second of time. The one thing to do in the brief little space, Is to make the world glad that we ran in the race.

No soul should be sad whom the Maker deemed worth The great gift of song as its dower at birth. While I pass on my way, an invisible throng Breathes low in my ear the new note of a song.

So I am not alone; for by night and by day These mystical messengers people my way. They bid me to hearken, they bid me be dumb And to wait for the true inspiration to come.

THE END.

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

Poems of Passion.

Maurine and Other Poems.

Poems of Pleasure.

How Salvator Won and Other Poems.

Custer and Other Poems.

Men, Women and Emotions. (Prose.)

The Beautiful Land of Nod. (Poems, songs and stories.)

W. B. CONKEY COMPANY, CHICAGO.