POEMS
389
To form the bud for bursting bloom, |
The hoary head with joy to crown; |
In short, the right to work and pray, |
“To point to heaven and lead the way.” |
The Mother's Evening Prayer
O gentle presence, peace and joy and power; |
O Life divine, that owns each waiting hour, |
Thou Love that guards the nestling's faltering flight! |
Keep Thou my child on upward wing to-night. |
Love is our refuge; only with mine eye |
Can I behold the snare, the pit, the fall: |
His habitation high is here, and nigh, |
His arm encircles me, and mine, and all. |
O make me glad for every scalding tear, |
For hope deferred, ingratitude, disdain! |
Wait, and love more for every hate, and fear |
No ill, — since God is good, and loss is gain. |
Beneath the shadow of His mighty wing; |
In that sweet secret of the narrow way, |
Seeking and finding, with the angels sing: |
“Lo, I am with you alway,” — watch and pray. |
No snare, no fowler, pestilence or pain; |
No night drops down upon the troubled breast, |
When heaven's aftersmile earth's tear-drops gain, |
And mother finds her home and heavenly rest. |