Read Ebook: Last Verses by Coolidge Susan

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 507 lines and 30302 words, and 11 pages

'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.

"I AM THE WAY"

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?

Art Thou the way, Lord? Then the way is sweet, No matter if it puzzle or distress, Though winds may scourge, or blinding suns may beat, The perfect rest shall round our weariness, Cool dews shall heal the fevered pulse of day; We shall find home at last through thee, the way.

HER HEART WAS LIKE A GENEROUS FIRE

HER heart was like a generous fire, Round which a hundred souls could sit And warm them in the unstinted blaze. Those who held nearest place to it Had cheer and comfort all their days; Those who, perforce, were further still Yet felt her radiance melt their chill, Their darkness lightened by her rays.

Her heart was like a generous fire! The trivial dross of thought and mind Shrivelled when brought too near its heat, The hidden gold was caught, refined; A subtle effluence keen and sweet From every creature drew its best; Gave inspiration, strength, and rest, Quickened the moral pulse's beat.

Her heart was like a generous fire! Circled by smaller fires in ring, Each lit by her infectious spark To send forth warmth and comforting Into hard paths and by-ways dark. The little fires, they still burn on; But the great kindling flame is gone, Caught up past our imagining.

Her heart was like a generous fire! How changed the summer scenes, how chill, How coldly do the mornings break, Since that great heart is quenched and still, Which kept so many hearts awake! O Lord the Light! shine Thou instead, Quicken and trim the fires she fed, And make them burn for her dear sake.

THE LEGEND OF THE ALMOST SAVED

FROM THE RUSSIAN

ONCE a poor soul, reft from a dull, hard lot , Found herself bodiless in that dread spot Which mortals know as "Hell" and fearfully Name in a whisper, while the Saints name not.

"I was not wicked; they have told God lies To make him send me here," she moaned in pain, Then suddenly her wan, reproachful eyes, Raised to the Pity never sought in vain, Beheld a hovering shape in aureoled guise.

It was Saint Peter, guardian of the gate, The shining gate where blessed ones go in. "Why thus," demanded he, "bewail your fate? What good deed did you in your life to win The right to Heaven? Speak ere it be too late!"

Then the poor soul,--all downcast and dismayed, Scanning the saint's face and his austere air, In vain reviewed her life, in vain essayed To think of aught accomplished which might bear Heaven's scrutiny. At length she answer made.

"Poor was I," faltered she, "so very poor! Little I had to spare, yet once I gave A carrot from my scanty garden store To one more poor than I was." Sad and grave Saint Peter questioned, "Didst thou do no more?"

"No," said the trembling soul. He bent his head. "Wait thou until I bear thy plea on high; The angel there who judges quick and dead Shall weigh thee in his scales, and rightfully Decide thy final place and doom," he said.

So the soul waited till Hell's doors should ope. It opened never, but adown the sky There swung a carrot from a slender rope, And a voice reached her, sounding from on high, Saying, "If the carrot bear thee, there is hope."

She clutched the rescue by the Heavens sent. The carrot held--small good has mighty strength; But one, and then another, as she went Caught at her flying garments, till at length Four of the lost rose with her, well content.

The smoke of Hell curled darkly far beneath, The blue of Heaven gleamed fair and bright in view, Life quivered in the balance over Death. Almost had life prevailed when, "Who are you," The soul cried out with startled, jealous breath,

The pitiful, grieved angels overhead Watched the poor souls shoot wailing through the air Toward the lurid shadows darkly red, And sadly sighed. "Heaven was so near, so fair, Almost we had them safely here," they said.

TWO ANGELS

BESIDE a grave two Angels sit, Set there to guard and hallow it; With grave sweet eyes and folded wings They watch it all the day and night, And dress the place and keep it bright, And drive away all hurtful things.

And one is called in heavenly speech, Used by the Blessed each to each, "The Angel of the Steadfast Heart": Those hearts which still through storm and stress, Strong in a perfect faithfulness, Keep the firm way and better part.

Unto the other has been given The loveliest name is known in Heaven, "The Guardian of the Selfless Soul,"-- Those dear souls who through joy and pain Lose their own lives to find again, Bearing the weight of other's dole.

A crown of roses snowy white Surrounds one Angel's brow of light,-- Sweet, sweet the odor that it breathes; A starry band of asphodels, Which shake out dim, mysterious smells, The other's statelier forehead wreathes.

And then the voices blend and vie In clear, celestial harmony: "Both in the task may rightly share, For she whose gentle rest we tend Was brave and constant to the end, With never a selfish thought or care.

"The quiet earth wherein she lies Is holy-ground in heavenly eyes; It well befits for such as she That we should quit all other task; Nor better could an angel ask Than be the guard of such as she."

Beside a grave two Angels sit, Set there to tend and hallow it; Unseen by men they sit alway; With folded wings and eyes of light They make it dewy-sweet all day, And balm it subtly every night.

LIMITATION

"Let us accept from God even our own nature, and treat it charitably."--HENRI AMIEL.

GREATER than Fate ordains we fain would be; Wiser and purer, strung with life and power And insight and compelling energy; But with the first breath of our first faint hour The limit line is set, vain our endeavor, Our longing and our hope; we pass it never.

For the least spark which fires the mortal clod, And wakes the hunger and the thirst divine In the least soul, as truly is of God As the great flame which burns a beaconing sign To light the nations when their hope is dim, Set in the darkness as a type of Him.

Take courage then, poor soul, so little worth In thine own eyes, so puny and afraid, And all unfit to combat the fierce earth; Forgive thyself because the Master made And meant thee meeker than thy wish and will, And knows, and understands, and loves thee still.

THE MIRACLE OF FRIENDSHIP

OUT of the width of the world, out of the womb of Fate, The souls that are meant for each other shall meet, and shall know and embrace. Age or youth are nothing, are nothing or soon or late, When the heart to heart makes answer and joyful face to face.

Where hast thou tarried, my Love, while I waited and missed thee long, One of the two shall question, and the other shall make reply, In a voice of gladness and triumph, less like unto speech than song, "I knew not that I was a hungered till God sent thee as supply."

The world may crowd and question, but friends are always alone, Set in bright atmosphere, like a planet in far-off skies; A touch, a glance, a sigh, love comprehends its own, And words are feeble and poor compared with the spark of the eyes.

The undug gold in the mine, the pearl in the deep, deep seas, The gem which lies undiscovered, are the daydreams of the earth; But the love unreckoned, unhoped for, which is mightier far than these, Is the miracle of Heaven for the souls which it counts as worth.

ROSE TERRY COOKE

OUT of the life that was so hard to bear, Clouded by sorrow and perplexed by care, Out of the long watch and the heavy night, She has gone forth into the light of light.

A tropic-blossom, warm with sun and scent, Set in New England's chill environment; Through beat of storm and stress of winter's cold, She kept the summer in her heart of gold.

Love was the life which pulsed her being through; No task too hard if set by Love to do, No pain too sharp if Love called to endure, No weariness she knew if Love was sure.

Her rose of Love was set with many a thorn, Clouds veiled and hid the promise of her morn; Thirsting and spent, she journeyed on unfed, While Love, too often, gave her stones for bread.

But still 'mid waning hopes and deepening fears And brave, hard strivings through the ebbing years, Lifting her up when she was like to fall, Love led her to the land where Love is all.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet