The future and its viewless things— That undiscovered mystery Which one who feels death's winnowing wings Bring none of these; but let me be, While all around in silence lies, The wide aërial landscape spread- Nor promised love it could not give, And lived itself, and made us live. There let me gaze, till I become In soul, with what I gaze on, wed! To have before my mind-instead Not human combatings with death! Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear; Then willing let my spirit go To work or wait elsewhere or here! Matthew Arnold [1822-1888] NEXT OF KIN THE shadows gather round me, while you are in the sun: And they fill your heart with music, but mine they cannot fill. tter Resurrection 3247 sunlight, mine in another day: hand, sweet friend, but mine is far ven where you fain would be: > the deep, across the unknown sea. lily or spirit of the light: d glad to hide in the cold dark night: ving heart and light to many eyes: edge earth is full of vanities. over, as mine is nearly done, finished, as mine is almost run, ɔss your hands and bow your graceful eep together in an equal bed. Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894] TER RESURRECTION wit, no words, no tears; rt within me like a stone too much for hopes or fears; ght, look left, I dwell alone; - eyes, but dimmed with grief -lasting hills I see; in the falling leaf: u, quicken me! like a faded leaf, vest dwindled to a husk; ious in the barren dusk; like a broken bowl, en bowl that cannot hold of water for my soul Cast in the fire the perished thing, Melt and remold it, till it be A royal cup for Him my King: O Jesu, drink of me! Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894] THE SUMMER IS ENDED WREATHE no more lilies in my hair, Pluck no more roses for my breast, Weep not for me when I am gone, Only a little while. Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894] A LITTLE PARABLE I MADE the cross myself whose weight Was later laid on me. This thought is torture as I toil Up life's steep Calvary. To think mine own hands drove the nails! I sang a merry song, And chose the heaviest wood I had To build it firm and strong. A bowing, burdened head, My good right hand forgets To march the weary march I know not how. I am not eager, bold, Nor strong-all that is past; I am ready not to do At last, at last. My half day's work is done, I give a patient God My patient heart, And grasp His banner still, Though all the blue be dim; These stripes as well as stars Lead after Him. Mary Woolsey Howland [1832–1864) WHEN If I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks would bear me past all fear and sorrow For any one, All the fight fought, all the short journey through, What should I do? I do not think that I should shrink or falter, Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter But rise and move and love and smile and pray |