Unto woman, God the Maker
Gave the secret of His plan;
It is written out in cipher, on her soul;
From the darkness, you must take her,
To the light of day, O man!
Would you know the mighty meaning of the scroll.
I am thinking of the Springtime
On the farm out in the West,
When my world held nothing for me that I wanted,
(Save a courage all undaunted),
And my foolish little rhymes,
Were but heart beats, rung in chimes,
That I sounded, just to ease my life’s unrest.
Yes, I sang them, and I rang them,
Just to ease my youth’s unrest.
When I heard the name of London,
In that early day, afar,
In that Springtime of my Country over yonder,
Then I used to sit and wonder
If the day would come to me,
When my ship should cross the sea,
To the land that seemed as distant as a star.
In my dreaming, ever gleaming
Like a distant unknown star.
Now in London in the Springtime,
I am sitting here, your guest.
Nay—I think it is a vision, or a fancy —
Part of dreamland Necromancy;
And I question: is it true
That the great warm hearts of you,
Heard the winging of that singing in the West,
Heard the chiming of my rhyming
From the farmhouse in the West?
Let me linger in the fancy,
For the soul of me is stirred
As I dream that I am sitting here among you;
And the songs that I have sung you
Shall grow stronger through the art
Of heart speaking unto heart,
Through the gladness of the singer who is heard
Lo! my songs have crossed the ocean
But the voice of my emotion finds no word.
If one proves weak who you fancied strong,
Or false who you fancied true,
Just ease the smart of your wounded heart
By the thought that it is not you!
If many forget a promise made,
And your faith falls into the dust,
Then look meanwhile in your mirror and smile,
And say, ‘I am one to trust!’
If you search in vain for an ageing face
Unharrowed by fretful fears,
Then make right now (and keep) a vow
To grow in grace with the years.
If you lose your faith in the word of man
As you go from the port of youth,
Just say as you sail, ’I will not fail
To keep to the course of truth!’
For this is the way, and the only way —
At least so it seems to me.
It is up to you, to be, and do,
what you look for in others. See?
Over and over the task was set,
Over and over I slighted the work,
But ever and alway I knew that yet
I must face and finish the toil I shirk.