McClure's Magazine/Volume 20/Number 6/The Mystery


 * is your cup—the cup assigned to you
 * From the beginning. Nay, my child, I know
 * How much of that dark drink is your own brew
 * Of fault and passion. Ages long ago—
 * In the deep years of yesterday,—I knew.


 * This is your road—a painful road and drear.
 * I made the stones—that never give you rest;
 * I set your friend in pleasant ways and clear,
 * And he shall come, like you, unto my breast;
 * But you—my weary child!—must travel here.


 * This is your task. It has no joy nor grace.
 * But is not meant for any other hand,
 * And in my universe hath measured place.
 * Take it; I do not bid you understand;
 * I bid you close your eyes—to see my face.

Contributor notes:
 * 1. "Yea" in the collected version.
 * 2. "work" in the collected version.
 * 3. "fame, no grace" in the collected version.