A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul - LightNovelsOnl.com
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No man presumes in that to which he was born; Less than the gift to claim, would be the giver to scorn.
11.
Henceforth all things thy dealings are with me For out of thee is nothing, or can be, And all things are to draw us home to thee.
What matter that the knowers scoffing say, "This is old folly, plain to the new day"?-- If thou be such as thou, and they as they, Unto thy Let there be, they still must answer Nay.
12.
They will not, therefore cannot, do not know him.
Nothing they could know, could be G.o.d. In sooth, Unto the true alone exists the truth.
They say well, saying Nature doth not show him: Truly she shows not what she cannot show; And they deny the thing they cannot know.
Who sees a glory, towards it will go.
13.
Faster no step moves G.o.d because the fool Shouts to the universe G.o.d there is none; The blindest man will not preach out the sun, Though on his darkness he should found a school.
It may be, when he finds he is not dead, Though world and body, sight and sound are fled, Some eyes may open in his foolish head.
14.
When I am very weary with hard thought, And yet the question burns and is not quenched, My heart grows cool when to remembrance wrought That thou who know'st the light-born answer sought Know'st too the dark where the doubt lies entrenched-- Know'st with what seemings I am sore perplexed, And that with thee I wait, nor needs my soul be vexed.
15.
Who sets himself not sternly to be good, Is but a fool, who judgment of true things Has none, however oft the claim renewed.
And he who thinks, in his great plenitude, To right himself, and set his spirit free, Without the might of higher communings, Is foolish also--save he willed himself to be.
16.
How many helps thou giv'st to those would learn!
To some sore pain, to others a sinking heart; To some a weariness worse than any smart; To some a haunting, fearing, blind concern; Madness to some; to some the shaking dart Of hideous death still following as they turn; To some a hunger that will not depart.
17.
To some thou giv'st a deep unrest--a scorn Of all they are or see upon the earth; A gaze, at dusky night and clearing morn, As on a land of emptiness and dearth; To some a bitter sorrow; to some the sting Of love misprized--of sick abandoning; To some a frozen heart, oh, worse than anything!
18.
To some a mocking demon, that doth set The poor foiled will to scoff at the ideal, But loathsome makes to them their life of jar.
The messengers of Satan think to mar, But make--driving the soul from false to feal-- To thee, the reconciler, the one real, In whom alone the would be and the is are met.
19.
Me thou hast given an infinite unrest, A hunger--not at first after known good, But something vague I knew not, and yet would-- The veiled Isis, thy will not understood; A conscience tossing ever in my breast; And something deeper, that will not be expressed, Save as the Spirit thinking in the Spirit's brood.
20.
But now the Spirit and I are one in this-- My hunger now is after righteousness; My spirit hopes in G.o.d to set me free From the low self loathed of the higher me.
Great elder brother of my second birth, Dear o'er all names but one, in heaven or earth, Teach me all day to love eternally.
21.
Lo, Lord, thou know'st, I would not anything That in the heart of G.o.d holds not its root; Nor falsely deem there is any life at all That doth in him nor sleep nor s.h.i.+ne nor sing; I know the plants that bear the noisome fruit Of burning and of ashes and of gall-- From G.o.d's heart torn, rootless to man's they cling.
22.
Life-giving love rots to devouring fire; Justice corrupts to despicable revenge; Motherhood chokes in the dam's jealous mire; Hunger for growth turns fluctuating change; Love's anger grand grows spiteful human wrath, Hunting men out of conscience' holy path; And human kindness takes the tattler's range.
23.
Nothing can draw the heart of man but good; Low good it is that draws him from the higher-- So evil--poison uncreate from food.
Never a foul thing, with temptation dire, Tempts h.e.l.lward force created to aspire, But walks in wronged strength of imprisoned Truth, Whose mantle also oft the Shame indu'th.
24.
Love in the prime not yet I understand-- Scarce know the love that loveth at first hand: Help me my selfishness to scatter and scout; Blow on me till my love loves burningly; Then the great love will burn the mean self out, And I, in glorious simplicity, Living by love, shall love unspeakably.
25.
Oh, make my anger pure--let no worst wrong Rouse in me the old n.i.g.g.ard selfishness.
Give me thine indignation--which is love Turned on the evil that would part love's throng; Thy anger scathes because it needs must bless, Gathering into union calm and strong All things on earth, and under, and above.
26.
Make my forgiveness downright--such as I Should perish if I did not have from thee; I let the wrong go, withered up and dry, Cursed with divine forgetfulness in me.
'Tis but self-pity, pleasant, mean, and sly, Low whispering bids the paltry memory live:-- What am I brother for, but to forgive!
27.
"Thou art my father's child--come to my heart:"
Thus must I say, or Thou must say, "Depart;"
Thus I would say--I would be as thou art; Thus I must say, or still I work athwart The absolute necessity and law That dwells in me, and will me asunder draw, If in obedience I leave any flaw.
28.
Lord, I forgive--and step in unto thee.
If I have enemies, Christ deal with them: He hath forgiven me and Jerusalem.
Lord, set me from self-inspiration free, And let me live and think from thee, not me-- Rather, from deepest me then think and feel, At centre of thought's swift-revolving wheel.
29.
I sit o'ercanopied with Beauty's tent, Through which flies many a golden-winged dove, Well watched of Fancy's tender eyes up bent; A hundred Powers wait on me, ministering; A thousand treasures Art and Knowledge bring; Will, Conscience, Reason tower the rest above; But in the midst, alone, I gladness am and love.
30.
'Tis but a vision, Lord; I do not mean That thus I am, or have one moment been-- 'Tis but a picture hung upon my wall, To measure dull contentment therewithal, And know behind the human how I fall;-- A vision true, of what one day shall be, When thou hast had thy very will with me.
