Alone we stand to solve the doubt,
Alone to work salvation out,
Casting our helpless hands about
For human help, for human cheer,
Or only for a human tear,
Forgetting God is always near.
The poet in his highest flight
Sees ranged beyond him, height o'er height,
Visions that mock his utmost might.
And music borne by echo back
Pines on a solitary track,
Till faint hearts sigh, alas! alack!
And beauty borne of finest art
Slips from the limner's hand apart
And leaves him aching at the heart.
The fairest face has never brought
Its fairest look; the deepest thought
Is never into language wrought;
The quaint old litanies that fell
From ancient seers great hearts impel
To nobler deeds than poets tell.
We live, we breathe half unexpressed,
Our highest, noblest in the breast
Lie struggling in a wild unrest,
Awaiting fibres that shall leap,
And an exulting harvest reap
At death's emancipating sleep.
Our onward lights eternal shine:
Unconquered by unmanly pine,
We royal amaranths may twine.
The great God knocks upon the door,
Ready to run our chalice o'er
If but the heart will ask for more;
If, hungering with a latent sense,
We know not, ask not, how or whence,
But take our consecration thence.
The wine-press must alone be trod-
The burning plowshare pressed ubshod-
There is no rock help but God.
