Mother, I feel the terror and the loveliness of life. Tell me of the children, son, and tell me of the wife. Mother, your face is but a face among a million more. You're standing on the deck, my son, and looking at the shore. I lean against the wall, mother, and struggle hard for breath. You must have heard the step, my son, of the patrolman Death. Mother, my soul is weary, where is the way to God? Well, kiss the crucifix, my son, and pass beneath the rod. THE DOOR This is the room that thou wast ushered in. Wouldst thou, perchance, a larger freedom win? Wouldst thou escape for deeper or no breath? There is no door but death. Do shadows crouch within the mocking light? Stand thou! but if thy terrored heart takes flight Facing maimed Hope and wide-eyed Nevermore, There is no less one door. Dost thou bewail love's end and friendship's doom, The dying fire, drained cup, and gathering gloom? Explore the walls, if thy soul ventureth-- There is no door but death. There is no window. Heaven hangs aloof Above the rents within the stairless roof. Hence, soul, be brave across the ruined floor-- Who knocks? Unbolt the door! SUPPLICATION _For He knoweth our frame, He remembereth that we are dust._--PSALM CIII. 14. Oh Lord, when all our bones are thrust Beyond the gaze of all but Thine; And these blaspheming tongues are dust Which babbled of Thy name divine, How helpless then to carp or rail Against the canons of Thy word; Wilt Thou, when thus our spirits fail, Have mercy, Lord? Here from this ebon speck that floats As but a mote within Thine eye, Vain sneers and curses from our throats Rise to the vault of Thy fair sky: Yet when this world of ours is still Of this all-wondering, tortured horde, And none is left for Thee to kill-- Have mercy, Lord! Thou knowest that our flesh is grass; Ah! let our withered souls remain Like stricken reeds of some morass, Bleached, in Thy will, by ceaseless rain. Have we not had enough of fire, Enough of torment and the sword?-- If these accrue from Thy desire-- Have mercy, Lord! Dost Thou not see about our feet The tangles of our erring thought? Thou knowest that we run to greet High hopes that vanish into naught. We bleed, we fall, we rise again; How can we be of Thee abhorred? We are Thy breed, we little men-- Have mercy, Lord! Wilt Thou then slay for that we slay, Wilt Thou deny when we deny? A thousand years are but a day, A little day within Thine eye: We thirst for love, we yearn for life; We lust, wilt Thou the lust record? We, beaten, fall upon the knife-- Have mercy, Lord!