Poetry Archives

The Sun has come again and fed
 The lily’s lamp with light,
And raised from dust a rose, rich red,
 And a little star-flower, white;
He also guards the Pleiades
 And holds his planets true:
But we—we know not which of these
 The easier task to do.

But, since from heaven he stoops to breathe
 A flower to balmy air,
Surely our lives are not beneath
 The kindness of his care;
And, as he guides the blade that gropes
 Up from the barren sod,
So, from the ashes of our hopes,
 Will beauty grow toward God.

Whate’er thy name, O Soul of Life,—
 We know but that thou art,—
Thou seest, through all our waste of strife,
 One groping human heart,
Weary of words and broken sight,
 But moved with deep accord
To worship where thy lilies light
 The altar of its Lord.