Shapeless and grim, A Shadow dim O'erhung the ways, And darkened all my days. And all who saw, With bated breath, Said, "It is Death!" And I, in weakness Slipping towards the Night, In sore affright Looked up. And lo!-- No Spectre grim, But just a dim Sweet face, A sweet high mother-face, A face like Christ's Own Mother's face, Alight with tenderness And grace. "Thou art not Death!" I cried;-- For Life's supremest fantasy Had never thus envisaged Death to me;-- "Thou art not Death, the End!" In accents winning, Came the answer,--"_Friend, There is no Death! I am the Beginning, --Not the End_!" THE POTTER A Potter, playing with his lump of clay, Fashioned an image of supremest worth. "_Never was nobler image made on earth, Than this that I have fashioned of my clay. And I, of mine own skill, did fashion it,-- I--from this lump of clay_." The Master, looking out on Pots and Men, Heard his vain boasting, smiled at that he said. "_The clay is Mine, and I the Potter made, As I made all things,--stars, and clay, and men. In what doth this man overpass the rest? --Be thou as other men_!" He touched the Image,--and it fell to dust, He touched the Potter,--he to dust did fall. Gently the Master,--"_I did make them all,-- All things and men, heaven's glories, and the dust. Who with Me works shall quicken death itself, Without Me--dust is dust_." NIGHTFALL Fold up the tent! The sun is in the West. To-morrow my untented soul will range Among the blest. And I am well content, For what is sent, is sent, And God knows best. Fold up the tent, And speed the parting guest! The night draws on, though night and day are one On this long quest. This house was only lent For my apprenticement-- What is, is best. Fold up the tent! Its slack ropes all undone, Its pole all broken, and its cover rent,-- Its work is done. But mine--tho' spoiled and spent Mine earthly tenement-- Is but begun. Fold up the tent! Its tenant would be gone, To fairer skies than mortal eyes May look upon. All that I loved has passed, And left me at the last Alone!--alone! Fold up the tent! Above the mountain's crest, I hear a clear voice calling, calling clear,-- "To rest! To rest!" And I am glad to go, For the sweet oil is low, And rest is best! THE PRUNER God is a zealous pruner, For He knows-- Who, falsely tender, spares the knife But spoils the rose. THE WAYS To every man there openeth A Way, and Ways, and a Way. And the High Soul climbs the High way, And the Low Soul gropes the Low, And in between, on the misty flats, The rest drift to and fro. But to every man there openeth A High Way, and a Low. And every man decideth The Way his soul shall go. SEEDS What shall we be like when We cast this earthly body and attain To immortality? What shall we be like then?