Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/484

452   The same old difficult lulls and cloud-cold skies, We said: “This outward search availeth not To find Him. He is farther than we thought, Or, haply, nearer. To this very spot Whereon we wait, this commonplace of home, As to the well of Jacob, He may come And tell us all things.” As I listened there, Through the expectant silences of prayer, Somewhat I seemed to hear, which hath to me Been hope, strength, comfort, and I give it thee.

“The riddle of the world is understood Only by him who feels that God is good, As only he can feel who makes his love The ladder of his faith, and climbs above On th’ rounds of his best instincts; draws no line Between mere human goodness and divine, But, judging God by what in him is best, With a child’s trust leans on a Father’s breast, And hears unmoved the old creeds babble still Of kingly power and dread caprice of will, Chary of blessing, prodigal of curse, The pitiless doomsman of the universe. Can Hatred ask for love? Can Selfishness Invite to self-denial? Is He less Than man in kindly dealing? Can He break His own great law of fatherhood, forsake And curse His children? Not for earth and heaven Can separate tables of the law be given. No ride can bind which He himself denies; The truths of time are not eternal lies.”

So heard I; and the chaos round me spread To light and order grew; and, “Lord,” I said, “Our sins are our tormentors, worst of all Felt in distrustful shame that dares not call Upon Thee as our Father. We have set A strange god up, but Thou remainest yet. All that I feel of pity Thou hast known Before I was; my best is all Thy own. From Thy great heart of goodness mine but drew Wishes and prayers; but Thou, O Lord, wilt do, In Thy own time, by ways I cannot see, All that I feel when I am nearest Thee!”

thoughts are all in yonder town,
 * Where, wept by many tears,

To-day my mother’s friend lays down
 * The burden of her years.

True as in life, no poor disguise
 * Of death with her is seen,

And on her simple casket lies
 * No wreath of bloom and green.

Oh, not for her the florist’s art,
 * The mocking weeds of woe;

Dear memories in each mourner’s heart
 * Like heaven’s white lilies blow.

And all about the softening air
 * Of new-born sweetness tells,

And the ungathered May-flowers wear
 * The tints of ocean shells.

The old, assuring miracle
 * Is fresh as heretofore;

And earth takes up its parable
 * Of life from death once more.

Here organ-swell and church-bell toll
 * Methinks but discord were;

The prayerful silence of the soul
 * Is best befitting her.

No sound should break the quietude
 * Alike of earth and sky;

O wandering wind in Seabrook wood,
 * Breathe but a half-heard sigh!

Sing softly, spring-bird, for her sake;
 * And thou not distant sea,

Lapse lightly as if Jesus spake,
 * And thou wert Galilee!

For all her quiet life flowed on
 * As meadow streamlets flow,

Where fresher green reveals alone
 * The noiseless ways they go.

From her loved place of prayer I see
 * The plain-robed mourners pass,