Poems (Linn)/Hidden Purposes
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HIDDEN PURPOSES.
ALL man may think, may suffer, may endure,
Is part of a great work he cannot see:
Not wholly mine nor useless any pain;
The joy I feel is not alone for me.
The constant washing of the fretful sea
Wears to round pebbles, smooth as maiden's hands,
The rough, sharp-cornered stones; in answer they
Give to the ocean, shining, yellow sands
That children play in, all the summer day.
Is part of a great work he cannot see:
Not wholly mine nor useless any pain;
The joy I feel is not alone for me.
The constant washing of the fretful sea
Wears to round pebbles, smooth as maiden's hands,
The rough, sharp-cornered stones; in answer they
Give to the ocean, shining, yellow sands
That children play in, all the summer day.
The speck washed in between the oyster's shell,
In hidden torment, grew to be the pearl
That decked a princess on her wedding-day.
The birds sing for themselves, their wings unfurl;
They fly away, in summer airs to whirl,
Under warm skies to nest; my joyous heart
Answers their song, and sorrows when they go.
How I have watched as southward they depart,
How wait their coming, they can never know.
In hidden torment, grew to be the pearl
That decked a princess on her wedding-day.
The birds sing for themselves, their wings unfurl;
They fly away, in summer airs to whirl,
Under warm skies to nest; my joyous heart
Answers their song, and sorrows when they go.
How I have watched as southward they depart,
How wait their coming, they can never know.
The flower that springs above the darksome soil
And fills with perfume sweet the summer day,
Grows for its own delight; it cannot dream
How it can teach my doubting heart to pray;
How thrill into my soul, and lift away
The gloom that all too often finds a rest.
Yon little child that sings for very glee,
Knows not her song has found within my breast
An answer that shall never silenced be.
And fills with perfume sweet the summer day,
Grows for its own delight; it cannot dream
How it can teach my doubting heart to pray;
How thrill into my soul, and lift away
The gloom that all too often finds a rest.
Yon little child that sings for very glee,
Knows not her song has found within my breast
An answer that shall never silenced be.
The silk-worm blindly weaves about his life
A golden thread, and dies to give us gain:
His end accomplished, and a larger good,
Arising from his labor and his pain.
We never question if they toil in vain
Who dig and delve that we may reap some power.
What knows the miner in his living tomb
Of us for whom he labors hour by hour?
Just his own good he seeks amid the gloom.
A golden thread, and dies to give us gain:
His end accomplished, and a larger good,
Arising from his labor and his pain.
We never question if they toil in vain
Who dig and delve that we may reap some power.
What knows the miner in his living tomb
Of us for whom he labors hour by hour?
Just his own good he seeks amid the gloom.
And yet these lives are linked so close to ours!
We cannot shed a tear or breathe a prayer,
Or sing a song, but earth is somehow changed;
Hearts with joy lightened, or oppressed with care.
As westward on life's journey we repair
It is enough to know that not in vain
Our life is lived; we do not need to feel
What is the glory, how the use, the gain:
God may to other lives all this reveal.
We cannot shed a tear or breathe a prayer,
Or sing a song, but earth is somehow changed;
Hearts with joy lightened, or oppressed with care.
As westward on life's journey we repair
It is enough to know that not in vain
Our life is lived; we do not need to feel
What is the glory, how the use, the gain:
God may to other lives all this reveal.