THANKSGIVING
Supremest Life and Lord of All,
I bring my thanks to thee;
Not for the health that does not fail,
And wings me over land and sea;
Not for this body's pearl and rose,
And radiance made sure
By thine enduring life that flows
In sky-print swift and pure;
Not for the thought whose glowing power
Glides far, eternal, free,
And surging back in thy full hour
Bears the wide world to me;
Not for the friends whose presence is
The warm, sweet heart of things
Where leans the body for the kiss
That gives the soul its wings;
Not for the little hands that cling,
The little feet that run,
And make the earth a fitter thing
For thee to look upon;
Not for mine ease within my door,
My roof when rains beat strong,
My bed, my fire, my food in store,
My book when nights are long;
But, Lord, I know where on lone sands
A leper rots and cries;
Find thou my offering in his hands,
My worship in his eyes.
As thou dost give to him, thy least,
Thou givest unto me;
As he is fed I make my feast,
And lift my thanks to thee.
THE ROAD
On Gilead road the shadows creep;
('Tis noon, and I forget;)
By Gilead road the ferns are deep,
And waves run emerald, wind-beset,
To some unsanded shore
Of doe and dove and fay;
And I for love of that before,
Forget the hindward way.
By Gilead road a river runs,
(To what unshadowed sea?)
Bough-hidden here,—there by the sun's
Gold treachery unbared to me.
O Beauty in retreat,
From beckoned eyes you steal,
But the pursuing heart, more fleet,
Lifts your secretest veil.