Each morn unfolds some fresh surprise, I feast at life's full board; And rising in my inner skies, Shines forth the thought of God. At night my gladness is my prayer; I drop my daily load, And every care is pillowed there Upon the thought of God. I ask not far before to see, But take in trust my road; Life, death, and immortality, Are in my thought of God. To this their secret strength they owed The martyr's path who trod; The fountains of their patience flowed From out their thought of God. Be still the light upon my way, My pilgrim staff and rod, My rest by night, my strength by day, O blessed thought of God. --Frederick Lucian Hosmer. EVENTIDE At cool of day with God I walk My garden's grateful shade; I hear his voice among the trees, And I am not afraid. I see his presence in the night-- And though my heart is awed I do not quail before the sight Or nearness of my God. He speaks to me in every wind, He smiles from every star; He is not deaf to me, nor blind, Nor absent, nor afar. His hand, that shuts the flowers to sleep, Each in its dewy fold, Is strong my feeble life to keep, And competent to hold. I cannot walk in darkness long, My light is by my side; I cannot stumble or go wrong While following such a guide. He is my stay and my defense; How shall I fail or fall? My helper is Omnipotence! My ruler ruleth all! The powers below and powers above Are subject to his care; I cannot wander from his love Who loves me everywhere. Thus dowered, and guarded thus, with him I walk this peaceful shade, I hear his voice among the trees, And I am not afraid. --Caroline Atherton Mason. From cellar unto attic all is clean: Nothing there is that need evade the eye; All the dark places, by the world unseen, Are as well ordered as what open lie. Ah! souls are houses; and to keep them well, Nor, spring and autumn, mourn their wretched plight, To daily toil must vigilance compel, Right underneath God's scrutinizing light. SAINTSHIP To heaven approached a Sufi saint, From groping in the darkness late, And, tapping timidly and faint, Besought admission at God's gate. Said God, "Who seeks to enter here?" "'Tis I, dear Friend," the saint replied, And trembling much with hope and fear. "If it be _thou_, without abide." Sadly to earth the poor saint turned, To bear the scourging of life's rods; But aye his heart within him yearned To mix and lose its love in God's. He roamed alone through weary years, By cruel men still scorned and mocked, Until from faith's pure fires and tears Again he rose, and modest knocked.