BEES IN
IN AMBER

NEW YEAR'S DAY-AND EVERY DAY

Each man is Captain of his Soul,
And each man his own Crew,

But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas,
And He will bring us through.

We break new seas to-day,

Our eager keels quest unaccustomed waters, And, from the vast uncharted waste in front, The mystic circles leap

To greet our prows with mightiest possibilities;

Bringing us-what?

-Dread shoals and shifting banks?

- And calms and storms?

-And clouds and biting gales?

- And wreck and loss?

-And valiant fighting-times?

And, maybe, Death!-and so, the Larger

Life!

For should the Pilot deem it best
To cut the voyage short,

He sees beyond the sky-line, and
He'll bring us into Port.

And, maybe, Life, -Life on a bounding tide,
And chance of glorious deeds;-

Of help swift-born to drowning mariners;
Of cheer to ships dismasted in the gale;
Of succours given unasked and joyfully;
Of mighty service to all needy souls.

So-Ho for the Pilot's orders,
Whatever course He makes!

For He sees beyond the sky-line,
And He never makes mistakes.

And, maybe, Golden Days,

Full freighted with delight!

-And wide free seas of unimagined bliss,
-And Treasure Isles, and Kingdoms to

be won,

-And Undiscovered Countries, and New
Kin.

For each man captains his own Soul,
And chooses his own Crew,

But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas,

And He will bring us through.

PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN

"See this my garden,

Large and fair!"

-Thus, to his friend,

The Philosopher.

""Tis not too long,'

His friend replied,
With truth exact,-

"Nor yet too wide.
But well compact,
If somewhat cramped
On every side.”

Quick the reply

"But see how high!

It reaches up

To God's blue sky!”

Not by their size

Measure we men

Or things.

Wisdom, with eyes

Washed in the fire,

Seeketh the things
That are higher-
Things that have wings,
Thoughts that aspire.

FLOWERS OF THE DUST

The Mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small

So soft and slow the great wheels go they

scarcely move at all;

But the souls of men fall into them and are powdered into dust,

And in that dust grow the Passion-Flowers -Love, Hope, Trust.

Most wondrous their upspringing, in the dust of the Grinding-Mills,

And rare beyond the telling the fragrance each distils.

Some grow up tall and stately, and some grow sweet and small,

But Life out of Death is in each one-with purpose grow they all.

For that dust is God's own garden, and the Lord Christ tends it fair,

With oh, such loving tenderness! and oh, such patient care!

In sorrow the seeds are planted, they are watered with bitter tears,

But their roots strike down to the Water

Springs and the Sources of the Years.

These flowers of Christ's own providence, they wither not nor die,

But flourish fair, and fairer still, through all eternity.

In the Dust of the Mills and in travail the

amaranth seeds are sown,

But the Flowers in their full beauty climb the Pillars of the Throne.

NOTE.--The first line only is adapted from the Sinngedichte of Friedrich von Logau.

THE PILGRIM WAY

But once I pass this way,

And then-no more.

But once-and then, the Silent Door

Swings on its hinges,

Opens . . . closes,

And no more

I

pass this way.

So while I may,

With all my might,

I will essay

Sweet comfort and delight,

To all I meet upon the Pilgrim Way.

For no man travels twice

The Great Highway,

That climbs through Darkness up to Light,Through Night

To Day.