Teach me, Father, how to be Kind and patient as a tree. Joyfully the crickets croon Under shady oak at noon; Beetle, on his mission bent, Tarries in that cooling tent. Let me, also, cheer a spot, Hidden field or garden grot-- Place where passing souls can rest On the way and be their best. The Poet His home is in the heights: to him Men wage a battle weird and dim, Life is a mission stern as fate, And Song a dread apostolate. The toils of prophecy are his, To hail the coming centuries-- To ease the steps and lift the load Of souls that falter on the road. The perilous music that he hears Falls from the vortice of the spheres. He presses on before the race, And sings out of a silent place. Like faint notes of a forest bird On heights afar that voice is heard; And the dim path he breaks to-day Will some time be a trodden way. But when the race comes toiling on That voice of wonder will be gone-- Be heard on higher peaks afar, Moved upward with the morning star. O men of earth, that wandering voice Still goes the upward way: rejoice! The Whirlwind Road The Muses wrapped in mysteries of light Came in a rush of music on the night; And I was lifted wildly on quick wings, And borne away into the deep of things. The dead doors of my being broke apart; A wind of rapture blew across the heart; The inward song of worlds rang still and clear; I felt the Mystery the Muses fear; Yet they went swiftening on the ways untrod, And hurled me breathless at the feet of God. I felt faint touches of the Final Truth-- Moments of trembling love, moments of youth. A vision swept away the human wall; Slowly I saw the meaning of it all-- Meaning of life and time and death and birth, But can not tell it to the men of Earth. I only point the way, and they must go The whirlwind road of song if they would know. The Desire of Nations And the government shall be upon His shoulder: and His name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The ever-lasting Father, The Prince of Peace.--_Isaiah._ Earth will go back to her lost youth, And life grow deep and wonderful as truth, When the wise King out of the nearing heaven comes To break the spell of long millenniums-- To build with song again The broken hope of men-- To hush and heroize the world, Beneath the flag of Brotherhood unfurled. And He will come some day: Already is His star upon the way! He comes, O world, He comes! But not with bugle-cry nor roll of doubling drums.