FINIS
S.C.K.S.
A book's end is the end of many hopes;
Much good endeavour; certain hours of stress
When brain and spirit fail, and laziness
Thralls the poor body—yet the purpose gropes
Athwart it all, and as the horseman cheers
His tired beast with chirrup, spur, and goad
Towards his home along the heavy road,
So drives us purpose till the end appears.
Read it who may! Find more or less of good
Within its covers, but at least find this:
Glad service to a great and noble aim
That may be striven for, and understood,
And fallen short of—so not quite we miss
In our small lamp of clay Truth's very flame.
OTHER VERSES
IN EARLY SPRING
There's a secret, have you guessed it, you with human eyes and hearing—
Which the birds know, which the trees know, and by which the earth is stirred,
Stirred through all her deep foundations, where the water-springs are fastened,
Where the seed is, and the growth is, and the still blind life is heard?
There's a miracle, a miracle—oh mortal, have you seen it?
When the springs rise, and the saps rise, and the gallant cut-and-thrust
Of the spear-head bright battalions of the little green things growing
(Crocus-blade or grass-blade) pierce the brown earth's sullen crust?
Oh, wonder beyond speaking in the daily common happening;
But the little birds have known it, and the evening-singing thrush,
In the cold and pearly twilights that are February's token
Speaks of revelation through the falling day-time's hush.