They who have drunk of the River of Knowledge
Only a quaff,
Pity them, Father that know not Thy meaning,
Children who laugh.
Atoms that reck not the wherefore of atoms—
Dust of the dust:
Groping in darkness, recusant and doubting—
And bearing no trust.
They would make mock of Thee, saying the life-spark,
Came not of Thee:
Function by function in wonderful unison—
Each mystery.
Sunshine and rain-fall and food to their needing,
Air, sea and land:
Seed-time and fruit-time and harvest and gleaning—
Made to their hand.
They would gainsay Thee by calling it Nature,
Calling it Chance:
And by their impotent wonder, Thy glory,
Only enhance.
But when in mercy the last word is spoken—
When the gates yawn;
Father of Nations—take Thou Thy children
Into the dawn.
Crowning Thy marvelous works with a crowning—
Ultimate—vast—
Showing compassion and loving they knew not,
E’en to the last.
THE GOLDEN DAY.
Have ye a day that bears the glare
Of the flaming morning sun?
Have ye a day the mind may search,
Weighing what ye have done?
Have ye a day ye are satisfied
Will stand the acid test—
From the first gray strand of the eastern skies
To the last red glow in the west?