THE SOUL SEEKING FOR PERFECTION.
One day my soul a journey went;
It traveled East, it traveled West,
It searched in vain one soul to find
That able was to bear the test
Of perfect living, perfect love;
E’en in the best it found some flaw;
Some lack of truth, some selfishness;
Not one had kept the “Perfect Law”.
Discouraged, weary, sore distressed;
It gladly turned again to home.
It thought perfection there to find,—
No farther it would have to roam.
Alas! Though once more snugly housed,
Perfection was not found therein.
Contented it could never be;
For e’en at home it found much sin,
O Soul! Though you have found much sin;
You’ve also found much that was good.
Temptations overcome by man,—
Known many ills he has withstood.
Perfection is not found on earth—
If it were so, no one would know
The joy of helping man to bear
Up under all the grief and woe
That is the heritage of life;
Bequeathed to man before his birth.
Be not discouraged then, O Soul,
Expect to find much sin on earth.
LIFE’S THOUGHTLESSNESS.
With careless feet we trample down
Love’s sweetest flowers oftimes.
Life’s music has so many sharps,
Discordant are Love’s rhymes.
With selfish hands we ever grasp
At what we think is best.
Unmindful we of others’ needs
Or what is their behest.
The thoughtless words we oftimes speak
Recalled can never be.
The heedless censure of a friend
Can ne’er forgotten be.
The unjust judgment which we give
May wean from us a friend.
Impatient words are daggers sharp
That will Love’s heart aye rend.
With selfish greed we grasp life’s joys;
No care for others’ woes.
The world is welcome to the thorns,
If we can keep the rose.
If our own ship outrides the gale,
Life’s bar we’ve safely crossed—
All other ships may be engulfed;
Or on rough waves be tossed.
Our careless words may pierce some heart,
And cause it deepest pain—
Awakening memories of the past
Which long in grave have lain.
’Tis ever so in life I fear.
Love’s flowers neglected are.
The weeds will thrive where flowers die,
And thus Love’s garden mar.
THE FLOWER’S PRAYER FOR IMMORTALITY.
The fragrance of th’ dying flower
Ascends ’e’en unto God;
Returning to its Maker
From birthplace ’neath the sod.
Its soul goes forth in anthems;
In songs of praise to Him
Who gave to it existence,—
And, dying, sings a hymn
Of thanks, and of rejoicing
To God for its short life,
Which e’er hath been a symphony,
With naught of care, nor strife.
Its God hath given it sunshine,
Its God hath given it food.
Bequeathed to it the dewdrops,
He hath pronounced it good.
It longs to soar to heaven,
So breathes its fragrance rare
To God, as invocation.
To Him sends forth this prayer:
O God accept my perfume,
’Tis all I have to give.—
O I would be immortal:
I would forever live,
The flower Thou hast created,
Wouldst live forever, aye.—
What use would be its fragrance?
If lost ’mid shadows gray.—
I claim of Thee my birthright,
My fragrance is my soul.
Though earth hath been my birthplace,
High heaven is my goal.
Take back what Thou hast given,
’Tis fit for heavenly bower;
Accept it O my Maker,
This incense of a flower.
E’en in my earthly prison,
When I was but a seed,
Thou spakest words so loving.
That upward they didst lead
My soul from out its darkness
Into thy glorious light.
It burst the bars of prison,
Became a flower bright.
To Thee I gave my fragrance—
I breathed to Thee a prayer,
A prayer of adoration
That sensed is everywhere.
All life, however lowly,
Is one, and part with Thee—
By Thee it was created,
And claims eternity.
LOVE’S OFFERING.
I have no rare jewels to give thee,
No diamonds, no pearls; and of gold
But one little circlet, as emblem
That love will thee ever enfold.
Thy home will be only a cottage,
And even the floors may be bare.
The furnishings be the most simple,
And frugal be also the fare.
The cottage will be by the brookside,
By willows so shady and cool.
Thy beauty will be e’er reflected
In mirror that is but a pool.
Thou wilt not be decked in fine linen;
E’en cotton may be all thy gowns.
But, love-words will e’er be my greeting,
And kisses take place of dark frowns.
My love is the most I can offer—
Will love cover up a bare floor?
Or will it fly out of the window,
If poverty enters at door?
I know that thy beauty would honor
A palace, instead of a cot.
That silks should be e’er thy adorning,
But happiness ne’er can be bought.
In palace there can be much sorrow,
’Neath jewels may be broken heart.—
Though clothed in the finest apparel,
All naked the wound, and the smart
That comes from a troth that is broken;
That comes from a love that is cold.
’Thout love, e’en a palace is dreary,
Though furnished with jewels, and gold.
Then, darling, take what I can offer—
My heart filled with love, and my home
A nest for my birdling, my sweetheart,
And never from thee will I roam.