Classic Poem

Where Jessie wrought her mission out—
A shortened chain of April days—
And stirred my faith and slew my doubt,
And woke the nursling Hope to praise.
There lingers yet some subtle trace
Through all the woodland solitude,
Some wistful beauty from her face,
Some touch of her dead maidenhood.

Her home was near, and in this glade
She told me of the Golden Gate,
With sweet-souled counsel wisely weighed
And faith that had not long to wait.
So have I made my journey here
Where first I found the Golden Way,
And learned how life has less of fear
For those who work than those who pray.

But twenty years are sown and reaped
Since last I looked in Jessie's eyes;
The suns and rains have scorched and steeped
The lowly bed where Jessie lies.
And from that blue between the boughs,
And these green vistas reaching far,
Her witness, come to prove my vows,
Arraigns me at a solemn bar,

What shall I plead? My years of toil,
My charity that sought no wage,
Or that pure love that knew no soil,
And set me this late pilgrimage?
My God, I have not any plea.
My secret sins profane Thy sight;
Thou art the Saviour, save Thou me,
And lift my darkness into light.