Faith heaves the world round to the heavenly dawn, In whose great light the soul doth spell and read Itself high-born, its being derived and drawn From the eternal self-existent fire; Then, mazed with joy of its own heavenly breed, Exultant-humble falls before its awful sire. GM
It makes the bastard self seem in the right, Self, self the end, the goal of human bliss. But if the Christ-self in us be the might Of saving God, why should I spend my force With a dark thing to reason of the light– Not push it rough aside, and hold obedient course? GM
Must clasp the life that willed, and be at peace; Or, like a leaf wind-blown, through chaos flee; A life-husk into which the demons go, And work their will, and drive it to and fro; A thing that neither is, nor yet can cease, Which uncreation can alone release. GM
(this is an excerpt from GMs work of fiction; The Seaboard Parish, regarding a recent drowning in the town) “You had a sad business here the last week, sir,” he said, after we had done talking about the repairs. “A very sad business indeed,” I answered. “It was a warning to us all,” he said.
…in thy world immense No look of sky or earth or man or beast; ” In the great hand of God I stand and thence” Look out on life, his endless, holy feast. To try to feel is but to court despair, To dig for a sun within a garden fence; Who does thy will,