Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/338

POEMS OF NATURE There is the mighty Mother, ever young

And garlanded, and welcoming her sons.

There are her thousand charms to soothe thy pain,

And merge thy little, individual woe

In the broad health and happy fruitfulness

Of all that smiles around thee. For thy sake

The woven arches of her forests breathe

Perpetual anthems, and the blue skies smile

Between, to heal thee with their infinite hope.

There are her crystal waters: lave thy brows,

Hot with long turmoil, in their purity;

Wash off the battle-dust from those poor limbs

Blood-stained and weary. Holy sleep shall come

Upon thee; waking, thou shalt find in bloom

The lilies, fresh as in the olden days;

And once again, when Night unveils her stars,

Thou shalt have sight of their high radiance,

And feel the old, mysterious awe subdue

The phantoms of thy pain.

And from that height

A voice shall whisper of the faith, through which

A man may act his part until the end.

Anon thy ancient yearning for the fight

May come once more, tempered by poise of chance,

And guided well with all experience.

Invisible hands may gird thy armor on,

And Nature put new weapons in thy hands,

Sending thee out to try the world again,—

Perchance to conquer, being cased in mail

Of double memories; knowing smaller griefs

Can add no sorrow to the woeful past;

And that, howbeit thou mayest stand or fall,

Earth proffers men her refuge everywhere,

And Heaven's promise is for aye the same.

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