No, rather dare think thus: "Ere chaos first had being, earth, or time, My Likeness was apparent in high heaven, Divine and manlike, and his dwelling place Was the bosom of the Father. By His hands Were the worlds made and filled with diverse growths And ordered lives. Then afterward they said, Taking strange counsel, as if he who worked Hitherto should not henceforth work alone, 'Let us make man;' and God did look upon That Divine Word which was the form of God, And it became a thought before the event. There they foresaw my face, foreheard my speech, God-like, God-loved, God-loving, God-derived. "And I was in a garden, and I fell Through envy of God's evil son, but Love Would not be robbed of me for ever--Love For my sake passed into humanity, And there for my first Father won me home. How should I rest then? I have NOT gone home; I feed on husks, and they given grudgingly, While my great Father--Father--O my God, What shall I do?" Ay, I will dare think thus: "I cannot rest because He doth not rest In whom I have my being. THIS is GOD-- My soul is conscious of His wondrous wish, And my heart's hunger doth but answer His Whose thought has met with mine. "I have not all; He moves me thus to take of Him what lacks. My want is God's desire to give,--He yearns To add Himself to life and so for aye Make it enough." A thought by night, a wish After the morning, and behold it dawns Pathetic in a still solemnity, And mighty words are said for him once more, "Let there be light." Great heaven and earth have heard, And God comes down to him, and Christ doth rise. THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. There are who give themselves to work for men,-- To raise the lost, to gather orphaned babes And teach them, pitying of their mean estate, To feel for misery, and to look on crime With ruth, till they forget that they themselves Are of the race, themselves among the crowd Under the sentence and outside the gate, And of the family and in the doom. Cold is the world; they feel how cold it is, And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life For some. They would that they could soften it; And, in the doing of their work, they sigh As if it was their choice and not their lot; And, in the raising of their prayer to God, They crave his kindness for the world he made, Till they, at last, forget that he, not they, Is the true lover of man. * * * * * Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low,-- Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed Too many, that it erst had fed, behind,-- There walked a curate once, at early day. It was the summer-time; but summer air Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark And crowded alley,--never reached the door Whereat he stopped,--the sordid, shattered door.