LIGHT of God filtering through this religious warring.
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
A nameless sadness over me roll,
As steps further that Indonesian land.
But there's a something in this breast,
To which words bring no rest.
Give me hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there! thy inmost soul.
Is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
The same heart beats in every human breast!
But we my love!
Our hearts, our voices? -- must we too be dumb?
He, who foresaw
How resistant a burnt man would be --
By what distractions he would be possessed,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And prayers He owned change his own identity --
That it might keep him from his capricious play
He, who knew from afar
How in blind uncertainty a deaf-mute would be—
By what measures He would for her,
How she would claim ‘Amen’ in truth,
And healing He bestowed change her own identity—
All boding through deep recesses of our breasts eternally.
LIGHT of God filtering through this religious warring.
To the clustered houses,
Older than many a generation of men.
Made of only a few, crumbled
Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock.
How courageous they are
Of the sun scorches
Of the wind invasions
Simply secured in His undying faith.
Rain ended, and light
Lifting the leaden skies.
Shone upon ceiling and floor
And dazzled a child's eyes.
A captive nonetheless,
Apart from his schoolfellows.
Whence it brews a wish without reason,
His light shone through my heart,
I choose this moment and keep it,
I said for a vow,
To remember for ever and ever
As if it were always now.
LIGHT of God filtering through this religious warring.
Often,
There boils an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our ended life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of His heart which beats.
And many a man in his own breast then delves.
His little child I am,
When childhood a state of danger is,
challenged to grow into a compassionate being,
rules to be learnt from every new encounter,
develop eventually a sense of herself.
Honor to Carroll’s Alice I had been.
LIGHT of God filtering through this religious warring.
Our fondness for
His course of depth and sophistication,
May never be expressed.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self.
Of the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Oh they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, occasionally, vague and forlorn,
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come air floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
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