A God concern’d (veil’d in pure light) to bless,
  With sweet revealing of His love, the soul;
Toward things piteous, full of piteousness;
  The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole.

He is more present to all things He made
  Than anything unto itself can be;
Full-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shade
  Afford, since God was also ’neath the tree.

Thou knowest me altogether; I knew not
  Thy likeness till Thou mad’st it manifest. 
There is no world but is Thy heaven; no spot
  Remote; Creation leans upon Thy breast.

Thou art beyond all stars, yet in my heart
  Wonderful whisperings hold Thy creature dumb;
I need no search afar; to me Thou art
  Father, Redeemer, and Renewer—­come.

THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN.

“And fell on his neck, and kissed him.”

Thou wert far off, and in the sight of heaven
  Dead.  And thy Father would not this should be;
And now thou livest, it is all forgiven;
  Think on it, O my soul, He kissed thee!

What now are gold and gear? thou canst afford
  To cast them from thee at His sacred call,
As Mary, when she met her living Lord,
The burial spice she had prepared let fall.

O! what is death to life?  One dead could well
  Afford to waste his shroud, if he might wake;
Thou canst afford to waste the world, and sell
  Thy footing in it, for the new world’s sake.

What is the world? it is a waiting place,
  Where men put on their robes for that above. 
What is the new world? ’tis a Father’s face
  Beholden of His sons—­the face of love.

THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE.

“The time of the singing of birds is come.”

  Thick orchards, all in white,
  Stand ’neath blue voids of light,
And birds among the branches blithely sing,
  For they have all they know;
  There is no more, but so,
All perfectness of living, fair delight of spring.

  Only the cushat dove
  Makes answer as for love
To the deep yearning of man’s yearning breast;
  And mourneth, to his thought,
  As in her notes were wrought
Fulfill’d in her sweet having, sense of his unrest.

  Not with possession, not
  With fairest earthly lot,
Cometh the peace assured, his spirit’s quest;
  With much it looks before,
  With most it yearns for more;
And ‘this is not our rest,’ and ‘this is not our rest.’

  Give Thou us more.  We look
  For more.  The heart that took
All spring-time for itself were empty still;
  Its yearning is not spent
  Nor silenced in content,
Till He that all things filleth doth it sweetly fill.

  Give us Thyself.  The May
  Dureth so short a day;
Youth and the spring are over all too soon;
  Content us while they last,
  Console us for them past,
Thou with whom bides for ever life, and love, and noon.