God draws the clear-cut trails,
And then
Throws us the chart, nor makes a sign,
Nor lifts a warning hand
To bind our judgment either way—
We follow as we may incline—
The masters of our fate.
And then
Throws us the chart, nor makes a sign,
Nor lifts a warning hand
To bind our judgment either way—
We follow as we may incline—
The masters of our fate.
And in Forbidden Lands
We quaff
The purple wine of mad desire
And go unsatisfied;
And in the twilight come, athirst and sad,
To dreary wastes scorched as with fire,
And find but Pain at last.
We quaff
The purple wine of mad desire
And go unsatisfied;
And in the twilight come, athirst and sad,
To dreary wastes scorched as with fire,
And find but Pain at last.
But if the arid path
We choose,
The stones shall blossom where we tread
And leave a trail of Love;
And even-song shall find us where
Cool lilies lean, and roses blossom red,
And star-eyed Peace abides.
We choose,
The stones shall blossom where we tread
And leave a trail of Love;
And even-song shall find us where
Cool lilies lean, and roses blossom red,
And star-eyed Peace abides.
THE OLD CALENDAR
A SHEAF of days this ribbon held,
A whole long year
Of shade and shine and snow and bloom
Was gathered here
On this old calendar.
A whole long year
Of shade and shine and snow and bloom
Was gathered here
On this old calendar.
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