You ask _a_ faith,--they are content with faith; You ask to have,--but they reply, "IT hath." There is no end, and there need be no path. The day wears heavily,--why, then, ignore it; Peace is the soul's desire,--such thoughts restore it; The truth thou art,--it needs not to implore it. _The Presence_ all thy fancies supersedes, All that is done which thou wouldst seek in deeds, _The_ wealth obliterates all seeming needs. Both these are true, and if they are at strife, The mystery bears the one name of _Life_, That, slowly spelled, will yet compose the strife. The men of old say, "Live twelve thousand years, And see the end of all that here appears, And Moxen[45] shall absorb thy smiles and tears." These later men say, "Live this little day. Believe that human nature is the way, And know both Son and Father while you pray; And one in two, in three, and none alone, Letting you know even as you are known, Shall make the you and me eternal parts of one." To me, our destinies seem flower and fruit Born of an ever-generating root; The other statement I cannot dispute. But say that Love and Life eternal seem, And if eternal ties be but a dream, What is the meaning of that self-same _seem_? Your nature craves Eternity for Truth; Eternity of Love is prayer of youth; How, without love, would have gone forth your truth? I do not think we are deceived to grow, But that the crudest fancy, slightest show, Covers some separate truth that we may know. In the one Truth, each separate fact is true; Eternally in one I many view, And destinies through destiny pursue. This is _my_ tendency; but can I say That this my thought leads the true, only way? I only know it constant leads, and I obey. I only know one prayer--"Give me the truth, Give me that colored whiteness, ancient youth, Complex and simple, seen in joy and ruth. Let me not by vain wishes bar my claim, Nor soothe my hunger by an empty name, Nor crucify the Son of man by hasty blame. But in the earth and fire, water and air, Live earnestly by turns without despair, Nor seek a home till home be every where!" A GREETING. Thoughts which come at a call Are no better than if they came not at all; Neither flower nor fruit, Yielding no root For plant, shrub, or tree. Thus I have not for thee One good word to say, To-day, Except that I prize thy gentle heart, Free from ambition, falsehood, or art, And thy good mind, Daily refined, By pure desire To fan the heaven-seeking fire: May it rise higher and higher; Till in thee Gentleness finds its dignity, Life flowing tranquil, pure and free, A mild, unbroken harmony. LINES TO EDITH, ON HER BIRTHDAY.