WHOM HE LOVETH HE CHASTENETH
Let it not irk thee, that so sore beset
Is that brave soul, thou knowest true, and good;
These trials do but prove his hardihood;
Staunch as he is, they make him stauncher yet.
Nor stain thy love for him with vain regret
That lonely is the path he treads, and bleak;
Such strenuous climbing is not for the weak
Who stumble on amid earth's daily fret.
'Tis the apt scholar that the Master proves,
After each conquest, with a harder task,
Smiling in joy, to see the ardent life
Develop to the perfect thing he loves.
The bramble in the sun may idly bask,
But the rare vine must feel the pruning knife.
Is that brave soul, thou knowest true, and good;
These trials do but prove his hardihood;
Staunch as he is, they make him stauncher yet.
Nor stain thy love for him with vain regret
That lonely is the path he treads, and bleak;
Such strenuous climbing is not for the weak
Who stumble on amid earth's daily fret.
'Tis the apt scholar that the Master proves,
After each conquest, with a harder task,
Smiling in joy, to see the ardent life
Develop to the perfect thing he loves.
The bramble in the sun may idly bask,
But the rare vine must feel the pruning knife.