Classic Poem

Come, lean an ear, an earnest ear,
To Nature's breast, some stilly eve,
And you shall hear, shall surely hear
The Carpenter, and shall believe;
Shall surely hear, shall hear for aye, who will,
The patient strokes of Christ resounding still.

The thud of loom, the hum of wheel,
That steady stroke of Carpenter!
And was this all? Did God reveal
No gleam of light to Him, to her?
No gleam of hopeful light, sweet toiling friend,
Save that which burneth dimly at the end.

That beggar at the rich man's gate!
That rich man moaning down in hell!
And all life's pity, all life's hate!
Yea, toil lay on Him like a spell.
Stop still and think of Christ, of Mary there,
Her lifted face but one perpetual prayer.

I can but hope at such sore time,
When all her soul went out so fond,
She touched the very stars sublime
And took some sense of worlds beyond;
And took some strength to ever toil and wait
The glories bursting through God's star-built gate.
And He so silent, patient, sad,
As seeing all man's sorrows through!

How could the Christ be wholly glad
To know life's pathos as He knew, —
To know, and know that all the beauteous years
Man still will waste in battle, blood and tears?