THE POTTER
A Potter, playing with his lump of clay,
Fashioned an image of supremest worth.
"Never was nobler image made on earth,
Than this that I have fashioned of my clay.
And I, of mine own skill, did fashion it,—
I—from this lump of clay."
The Master, looking out on Pots and Men,
Heard his vain boasting, smiled at that he said.
"The clay is Mine, and I the Potter made,
As I made all things,—stars, and clay, and men.
In what doth this man overpass the rest?
—Be thou as other men!"
He touched the Image,—and it fell to dust,
He touched the Potter,—he to dust did fall.
Gently the Master,—"I did make them all,—
All things and men, heaven's glories, and the dust.
Who with Me works shall quicken death itself,
Without Me—dust is dust."
NIGHTFALL
Fold up the tent!
The sun is in the West.
To-morrow my untented soul will range
Among the blest.
And I am well content,
For what is sent, is sent,
And God knows best.
Fold up the tent,
And speed the parting guest!
The night draws on, though night and day are one
On this long quest.
This house was only lent
For my apprenticement—
What is, is best.
Fold up the tent!
Its slack ropes all undone,
Its pole all broken, and its cover rent,—
Its work is done.
But mine—tho' spoiled and spent
Mine earthly tenement—
Is but begun.
Fold up the tent!
Its tenant would be gone,
To fairer skies than mortal eyes
May look upon.
All that I loved has passed,
And left me at the last
Alone!—alone!
Fold up the tent!
Above the mountain's crest,
I hear a clear voice calling, calling clear,—
"To rest! To rest!"
And I am glad to go,
For the sweet oil is low,
And rest is best!