Part 41 (1/2)

What shall we be like when We cast this earthly body and attain To immortality?

What shall we be like then?

Ah, who shall say What vast expansions shall be ours that day?

What transformations of this house of clay, To fit the heavenly mansions and the light of day?

Ah, who shall say?

But this we know,-- We drop a seed into the ground, A tiny, shapeless thing, shrivelled and dry, And, in the fulness of its time, is seen A form of peerless beauty, robed and crowned Beyond the pride of any earthly queen, Instinct with loveliness, and sweet and rare, The perfect emblem of its Maker's care.

This from a shrivelled seed?-- --Then may man hope indeed!

For man is but the seed of what he shall be, When, in the fulness of his perfecting, He drops the husk and cleaves his upward way, Through earth's r.e.t.a.r.dings and the clinging clay, Into the suns.h.i.+ne of G.o.d's perfect day.

No fetters then! No bonds of time or s.p.a.ce!

But powers as ample as the boundless grace That suffered man, and death, and yet, in tenderness, Set wide the door, and pa.s.sed Himself before-- As He had promised--to prepare a place.

Yea, we may hope!

For we are seeds, Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming.

Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting, His loving care May find some use for even a humble tare.

We know not what we shall be--only this-- That we shall be made like Him--as He is.

JOHN OXENHAM

”LORD, I ASK A GARDEN”

Lord, I ask a garden in a quiet spot where there may be a brook with a good flow, an humble little house covered with bell-flowers and a wife and a son who shall resemble Thee.

I should wish to live many years, free from hates, and make my verses, as the rivers that moisten the earth, fresh and pure.

Lord, give me a path with trees and birds.

I wish that you would never take my mother, for I should wish to tend her as a child and put her to sleep with kisses, when somewhat old she may need the sun.

R. AREVALO MARTINEZ

MY FLOWER-ROOM

My flower-room is such a little place, Scarce twenty feet by nine, yet in that s.p.a.ce I have met G.o.d; yea, many a radiant hour Have talked with Him, the All-Embracing Cause, About His laws.

And he has shown me, in each vine and flower, Such miracles of power That day by day this flower-room of mine Has come to be a shrine.

Fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere, Pale, tender shoots appear, Rising to greet the light in that sweet room.

One speeds to crimson bloom, One slowly creeps to una.s.suming grace, One climbs, one trails, One drinks the light and moisture, One exhales.

Up through the earth together, stem by stem, Two plants push swiftly in a floral race, Till one sends forth a blossom like a gem, And one gives only fragrance.

In a seed, So small it scarce is felt within the hand, Lie hidden such delights Of scents and sights, When by the elements of Nature freed, As paradise must have at its command.

From shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things, What gorgeous beauty springs!

Such infinite variety appears, A hundred artists in a hundred years Could never copy from a floral world The marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled.