My life is full of sad mistakes,--
Today I was thinking about them,
And thinking of all that I might have been
If I had but lived without them.
So many times have I laid my plan,
Only to spoil it in doing;
And much of the work that the world calls good
Has left me cause for rueing.
Each thing that I do is like the page
Of a hurriedly written letter;--
Full of good thoughts perhaps, but the blots
Prove that it might be better.
I have wished for the world's applause, and thought
To make it praise and wonder,
But my noblest aim and best laid plan
Was sure to be spoiled by a blunder.
I think I have lived too far from God,--
Not that I ever doubt Him,
But feeling too sure of my strength, I've tried
To do some things without Him.
And so we shall always make mistakes,
And always our errors be rueing,
Until we reach up for the Guiding Hand,
Whatever we may be doing.
[PRESUMPTION.]
Whenever I am prone to doubt or wonder--
I check myself, and say, "That mighty One
Who made the solar system cannot blunder--
And for the best all things are being done."
Who set the stars on their eternal courses
Has fashioned this strange earth by some sure plan.
Bow low, bow low to those majestic forces
Nor dare to doubt their wisdom--puny man.
You cannot put one little star in motion,
You cannot shape one single forest leaf,
Nor fling a mountain up, nor sink an ocean,
Presumptuous pigmy, large with unbelief.
You cannot bring one dawn of regal splendor
Nor bid the day to shadowy twilight fall,
Nor send the pale moon forth with radiance tender,
And dare you doubt the One who has done all?
"So much is wrong, there is such pain--such sinning."
Yet look again--behold how much is right!
And He who formed the world from its beginning
Knows how to guide it upward to the light.
Your task, O man, is not to carp and cavil
At God's achievements, but with purpose strong
To cling to good, and turn away from evil--
That is the way to help the world along.
[TWILIGHT THOUGHTS.]
The God of the day has vanished,
The light from the hills has fled,
And the hand of an unseen artist,
Is painting the West all red.
All threaded with gold and crimson,
And burnished with amber dye,
And tipped with purple shadows,
The glory flameth high.
Fair, beautiful world of ours!
Fair, beautiful world, but oh,
How darkened by pain and sorrow,
How blackened by sin and woe.
The splendor pales in the heavens
And dies in a golden gleam,
And alone in the hush of twilight,
I sit, in a checkered dream.