THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT.
A tender child of summers three,
Seeking her little bed at night,
Paused on the dark stair timidly.
"Oh, mother! Take my hand," said she,
"And then the dark will all be light."
We older children grope our way
From dark behind to dark before;
And only when our hands we lay,
Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day,
And there is darkness nevermore.
Reach downward to the sunless days
Wherein our guides are blind as we,
And faith is small and hope delays;
Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise,
And let us feel the light of Thee!
1884.
THE TWO LOVES
Smoothing soft the nestling head
Of a maiden fancy-led,
Thus a grave-eyed woman said:
"Richest gifts are those we make,
Dearer than the love we take
That we give for love's own sake.
"Well I know the heart's unrest;
Mine has been the common quest,
To be loved and therefore blest.
"Favors undeserved were mine;
At my feet as on a shrine
Love has laid its gifts divine.
"Sweet the offerings seemed, and yet
With their sweetness came regret,
And a sense of unpaid debt.
"Heart of mine unsatisfied,
Was it vanity or pride
That a deeper joy denied?
"Hands that ope but to receive
Empty close; they only live
Richly who can richly give.
"Still," she sighed, with moistening eyes,
"Love is sweet in any guise;
But its best is sacrifice!
"He who, giving, does not crave
Likest is to Him who gave
Life itself the loved to save.
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