  Y YOU tell me, with a little scorn, A pitying blame in look and touch, Of conscious worldly-wisdom born, That I am hopeful over much; That all my swans are veriest geese, My cheerfulness an easy vent For animal spirits, and my peace A cheap, contemptible content; That it is shallow to be glad, Idle to hope and vain to trust, Because all good is mixed with bad, And men are liars, and flesh is dust; That wisdom grimly prophesies, And sits distrustful and alert, Peering with far, experienced eyes For what may cheat and what may hurt. I do not know if you are right; But these I hold as certainties: That God made day as well as night, And joy as well as pain is his; That if philosophy means doubt, And wisdom boding discontents, Men may do better far without These all-divine accomplishments! That souls are stronger to endure The heavy woes which all may taste, If, holding to God’s promise sure, They wait his time, not making haste To grieve, anticipating ill; How shall they know what sweet, hid thing He keeps in store for souls who still Follow his beck unquestioning? Joy is the lesson set for some, For others pain best teacher is; We know not which for us shall come, But both are Heaven’s high ministries. The swollen torrent rages high; The path ahead is steep and wet. What then? We still are safe and dry; We need not cross that torrent yet! Perhaps the waters may subside; There may be paths which skirt the flood. God holds our hand. With him for guide We need not fear; for he is good. Meanwhile there is the sun, the sky, And life the joy, and love the zest; And, spite of scorn and pity, I Will taste to-day, and trust the rest. |
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