Awaiting The Captain's Call

God of heights! Behold me from Thy pinnacle,
Thy son, unafraid! Oh, let the lightning
Of Thy wrath play its havoc!
I shall exult in its work.
Oh, let the sun of Thy smile descend
As healing fluid through the rain;
I shall exult in its work.
Oh, God of heights! Let my voice arise
Like the murmur of the earths and suns,
As they strum the universe!
I would make Thee no word; I would labor
With sure hands, laying upon Thy blade
The keen edge of justice.
Let man be upon his puny praying.
I would step from sea to sea, lifting my head
Up past the North Star.
I would drink from out the pool of Eternity
The abyss of space! I would know Thee as limitless.
I would know Thee by Thy might,
And by Thy tenderness.
Behold me, Thy son-unafraid. Command!

by Patience Worth

A Message

Be there aught sae wondrous
As a cup of communion? as a cup of fellowship?
Be there aught sae wondrous to a wench
As a right to wield her tongue, and good listeners?
Be there aught sae wondrous as the fact
That we may never, never, in the days to come, be separate?
For I have become a part of thee, and thou hast become a part of me!
This is an holy sacrament!

by Patience Worth

A Sigh, Or A Smile?

If I should sigh, and the day before me hear it,
What magic would descend upon it?
No light, no blithesome gayety, merely
The sodden declaration of my soul,
Complaining in its mute appeal.
But should I laugh, lo! ’tis as though
My soul flung its arms-free!
And dashed upon the heated brow of day
A spray of cooling drops.
Then let me laugh!
Why should Law and Reason say:
“Weep at Sorrow.”-I say laugh!

by Patience Worth

Ah, God, I Have Drunk Unto The Dregs

Ah, God, I have drunk unto the dregs,
And flung the cup at Thee!
The dust of crumbled righteousness
Hath dried and soaked unto itself
E’en the drop I spilled to Bacchus-
Whilst Thou, all-patient, sendest
Purple vintage for a later harvest.

by Patience Worth

Ah, Emptied Heart!

Ah, emptied heart! The weary o’ the path!
How would I to fill ye up o’ love!
I’d tear this lute, that it might whir
A song that soothed thy lone, awearied path.
I’d steal the sun’s pale gold,
And e’en the silvered even’s ray,
To treasure them within this song
That it be rich for thee.
From out the wastes o’ earth I’d seek
And catch the woe-tears shed,
That I might drink them from the cup
And fill it up with loving.
From out the hearts afulled o’ love
Would I to steal the o’er-drip
And pack the emptied hearts of earth.
The bread o’ love would I to cast
Unto thy bywayed path, and pluck me from
The thorned bush that traileth o’er
The stepping-place, the thorn, that brothers
O’ the flesh o’ me might step ‘pon path acleared.
Yea, I’d coax the songsters o’ the earth
To carol thee upon thy ways,
And fill ye up o’ love, and love, and love.

by Patience Worth

Ah, Could I Love Thee

Ah, could I love thee, thou,
The loveless o’ the earth!
And pry aneath the crannies
Yet untouched by mortal hand,
To send therein this love o’ mine-
Thou creeping mite, and winged speck,
And whirled waters o’ the mid o’ sea,
Where no man seeth thee!
And could I love thee, the days unsunned,
And laden with hate o’ sorrying!
Ah, could I love thee thou who beareth blight;
And thou, the fruit bescorched and shrivelling,
To fall unheeded ‘neath thy mother-stalk!
Ah, could I love thee, love thee!
Aye, for Him who loveth thee,
And blighteth but through loving-
Like to him who bendeth low
The forest’s king to fashion out a mast.

by Patience Worth

Ah, What A Day He Hath Made

Ah, what a day He hath made, He hath made!
It flasheth abright and asweet, and asweet.
It showeth His love and His smile, yea, His smile.
The hills stand abrown, aye astand brown,
And peaked as a monk in his cowl, aye, his cowl!
The grass it hath seared, aye, hath seared,
And scenteth asweet, yea, asweet.
Ayonder a swallow doth whirl, aye, doth whirl,
And skim ‘mid the grey o’ the blue,
Aye, the grey ‘o the blue.
The young wave doth lap ‘pon the sands
Yea, lap soft and soft ‘pon the sands.
The field’s maid doth seek, yea, doth seek,
And sends out her song to the day,
Yea, and sends out her song to the day.
My heart it is full, yea, ’tis full,
For the love of Him batheth the day,
Yea, the love of Him batheth the day.
Ah what a day He hath made,
Yea, He hath made it for me!

by Patience Worth

Ah, Wake Me Not

Ah, wake me not!
For should my dreaming work a spell to soothe
My troubled soul, wouldst thou deny me dreams?
Ah, wake me not!
If ‘mong the leaves wherein the shadows lurk
I fancy conjured faces of my loved, long lost;
And if the clouds to me are sorrow’s shroud;
And if I trick my sorrow, then, to hide
Beneath a smile; or build of wasted words
A key to wisdom’s door—wouldst thou deny me?
Ah, let me dream!
The day may bring fresh sorrows,
But the night will bring new dreams.

by Patience Worth

Ah, Make Me Less That I Become More Thee

Ah, make me less that I become more Thee.
Make me not humble, but meek.
Make my meekness nay an weakness
But an armor.
Cloak my frailness o’ Thy love.
Thereby shall all that I do lack me
Be made whole and full filled.

by Patience Worth

Ah, Greet The Day

Ah, greet the day, which, like a golden butterfly,
Hovereth ‘twixt the night and morn;
And welcome her fullness-the hours ‘mid shadow
And those the rose shall grace.
Hast thou among her hours
Thy heart’s desire and dearest? Name thou then
Of all His beauteous gifts thy greatest treasure.
The morning, cool and damp, dark-shadowed
By the frowning sun-is this thy chosen?
The midday, flaming as a sword,
Deep-stained by noon’s becrimsoned light-
Is this thy chosen? Or misty startide,
Woven like a spinner’s web and jeweled
By the climbing moon-is this thy chosen?
Doth forest shade, or shimmering stream,
Or wild bird song, or cooing of the nesting dove,
Bespeak thy chosen? He who sendeth light
Sendeth all to thee, pledges of a bonded love.
And ye who know Him not, look ye! From all
His gifts He pilfered that which made it His
To add His fullest offering of love.
From out the morning, at the earliest tide,
He plucked two lingering stars, who tarried lest
The dark should sorrow. And when the day was born,
The glow of sun-flush, veiled by gossamer cloud
And tinted soft by lingering night;
And rose petals, scattered by a loving breeze;
The lily’s satin cheek, and dove cooes,
And wild bird song, and Death himself
Is called to offer of himself;
And soft as willow buds may be,
He claimeth but the down to fashion this-
Thy gift, the essence of His love-
Thine own first-born.

by Patience Worth

All Silver-Laced With Web

All silver-laced with web and crystal-studded,
Hangs a golden lily cup,
As airy as a dancing sprite.
The moon hath caught a fleeting cloud
And rests in her embrace. The bumblefly
Still hovers o’er the clover flower,
And mimics all the zephyr’s song.
White butterflies, whose wings bespeak
Late wooing of the buttercup,
Wend home their way, the gold still clinging
To their snowy gossamer.
E’en the toad, who old and moss-grown seems,
Is wabbled on a lilypad, and watches for
The moon to bid the cloud adieu
And light him to his hunt for fickle marshflies
Who tease him through the day.
Why, every rose has loosed her petals,
And sends a pleading perfume to the moss
That creeps upon the maple’s stalk,
To tempt it hence to bear a cooling draught.
Round yonder trunk the ivy clings
And loves it into green. The pansy dreams
Of coaxing goldenrod to change her station,
Lest her modest flower be ever doomed
To blossom neath the shadow of the wall.
And was not He who touched the pansy with
His regal robes and left their color there,
All-wise to leave her-modesty as
Her greatest charm? Here snowdrops blossom
‘Neath a fringe of tuft, and fatty grubs
Find rest amid the mold.
All love, and Love himself, is here-
For every garden is fashioned by his hand.
Are then the garden’s treasures more of worth
Than ugly toad or mold? Not so, for Love
May tint the zincy blue-grey murk of
Curdling fall to crimson light-flashed summertide.
Ah, why then question Love, I prithee, friend?

by Patience Worth

An Eve Of Yore

I remember, sae surely, sae surely,
A certain eve in the greying season,
When the hawthorns stood bare, their branches
Shaking in their agony of barrenness.
I remember that the little path which wound
About the neck of the hill had gone ashen,
And the dust of the primroses was black,
And the leaves bled one upon the other-
Scarlet in the grey.
Ah, I remember this certain eve,
And the paleness of the evening star
Against the silvering sky, and the glow
Of the lips of the West, and the shadows
That clung at the East. I remember all of this.
It seems that I cannot remember the sun.
Strange! I know I have seen it.
Within me, shut away in a midnight,
There is a sun, a great, golden glory
Which warms my soul.
Yet strange, strange, how strange! Even when
I walk amid the turmoil of the day,
And know the brightness about me,
Still I recall a certain grey eve,
And the dust of the dead primroses,
And the lips of the West glowing,
And the shadows in the East.

by Patience Worth

And Earth Stirred

And Earth stirred.
Upon the face of heaven
Streamed a star, in sign.
And the wise arose and sought the spot.
Night, slow, made her paces
Across the desert sands,
And the holy mantle
Of glistening stars fell o’er
Her shoulders as she came.
The camel’s pad pressed the sands
As through ages they had pressed.
Men slept, and Earth had not waked,
Though heaven had set the sign on high,
And clarions had sounded the coming
Upon the portals of the new day.
While angelic host proclaimed
The Nativity, Earth slept-
And Bethlehem shut her doors.

by Patience Worth

Ashes Of Hate

Swing, ye ages! Swing, ye tides!
Like webs upon eternities.
Turn, oh Earth,
Turn upon thy changeful path!
Leave Sorrow wet thy sides of tears.
Leave her dimmed eyes
To bury them upon thy breast,
And cause the seas to sob!
Make new the hates of earth!
Cast wide the portals of Hate’s hell!
Leave her consuming flames
To lick the valley’s hollow,
And mount the mountain’s curve!
Leave the Earth to sweep her path
Like to a crimson torch ablaze,
Searing the heaven’s blue,
Setting the vaporous clouds to naught,
Till out the flame shall a sacrifice
Be born, and the ash of love be cast,
Upon the altar of Eternity!
For Hate may but consume Hate,
And the ash of Love remain.

by Patience Worth