IN PALESTINE
AND OTHER POEMS
PART I
IN PALESTINE
Ah, no! that sacred land
Where fell the wearied feet of the lone Christ
Robs not the soul of faith. I shall set down
The thought was in my heart. If that hath lost
Aught of its child-belief, 't was long ago,
Not there in Palestine; and if 't were lost,
He were a coward who should fear to lose
A blind, hereditary, thoughtless faith—
Comfort of fearful minds, a straw to catch at
On the deep-gulfed and tempest-driven sea.
Full well I know how shallow spirits lack
The essence, flinging from them but the form.
I have seen souls lead barren lives and curst,—
Bereft of light, and all the grace of life,—
Because for them the inner truth was lost
In the frail symbol—hated, shattered, spurned.
But faith that lives forever is not bound
To any outward semblance, any scheme
Fine-wrought of human wonder, or self-love,
Or the base fear of never-ending pain.
True faith doth face the blackness of despair,
