The foul-weather lights are few and far—
Nor flash nor leap nor fail—
But slowly burn where the billows churn
In the teeth of the driving gale.
Oh the fair-weather lights o’er the sheltered bights
Are welcome sights to see—
But the foul-weather lights o’ the stormy nights,
Are the Lamps of the Years to be.
THE CHOSEN
And the Guiding One he pointed me
To each and each the deed,
And never a word was ever heard
Of Prophet or Saint or Creed.
And never a word was ever heard
But the path that each had run,
Till the purple mist stooped down and kissed
And said that the work was done.
And there stood he of the iron will
Nor gold could bend or buy:
And there stood she of the Mother Love
That never asketh why.
And there stood he who striving lost,
But striving, gained the Crest:
And there stood she who nursed them back
With bullet-ridden breast.
And there stood he whose right hand gave,
But the left—it never knew:
And there stood she who held him fast
When the Beckoning Whispers blew.
And there stood he who saved a life
By fire, sea or sword:
And these were Chiefs of the Upper Hosts
And first before the Lord.