Page:Negro poets and their poems (IA negropoetstheirp00kerl).pdf/50

28 My hands were weak, but I reached them out To feebler ones than mine, And over the shadows of my life Stole the light of a peace divine. Oh, then my task was a sacred thing, How precious it grew in my eyes! ’Twas mine to gather the bruised grain For the Lord of Paradise. And when the reapers shall lay their grain On the floors of golden light, I feel that mine with its broken sheaves Shall be precious in His sight. Though thorns may often pierce my feet, And the shadows still abide, The mists will vanish before His smile, There will be light at eventide.

How successfully Mrs. Harper could draw a lesson from the common objects or occurrences of the world about us may be illustrated by the following poem:

A rock, for ages, stern and high, Stood frowning ’gainst the earth and sky, And never bowed his haughty crest When angry storms around him prest. Morn, springing from the arms of night, Had often bathed his brow with light, And kissed the shadows from his face With tender love and gentle grace.