Poems (Proctor)/How Little of our Life
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HOW LITTLE OF OUR LIFE.(After Reading of the Earthquakes in Spain, Dec., 1887.)
How little of our life this earth must hold,
How slight, at most, in the great thought of God,
When He can see such awful ruin rolled
From out its depths, and yawning gulfs enfold
His helpless creatures, till the very sod
Implores his mercy, though his love be cold!
And while the shores yet reel where terror trod,
Across them sweep the ruthless hurricane
With thunder's roar and lightning's fiery sword,
Till shrine and home lie prone upon the plain!—
Earthquake and stormy wind fulfil his word.
How slight, at most, in the great thought of God,
When He can see such awful ruin rolled
From out its depths, and yawning gulfs enfold
His helpless creatures, till the very sod
Implores his mercy, though his love be cold!
And while the shores yet reel where terror trod,
Across them sweep the ruthless hurricane
With thunder's roar and lightning's fiery sword,
Till shrine and home lie prone upon the plain!—
Earthquake and stormy wind fulfil his word.
How little of our life this earth must keep,
How swift that life must fly to fairer spheres
When He can rend it thus, though we may weep
To sink so soon in death's relentless sleep,
And pray to pass in peace our human years—
To greet the sun, and love, and build, and reap
The harvests we have sown in toil and tears!
For, like the leaves that drop in storm or calm,
Some to the mould, some whirled in wreck abroad,
Helpless and crushed we fall, while nature's psalm
Rises, unsaddened, to the ear of God.
How swift that life must fly to fairer spheres
When He can rend it thus, though we may weep
To sink so soon in death's relentless sleep,
And pray to pass in peace our human years—
To greet the sun, and love, and build, and reap
The harvests we have sown in toil and tears!
For, like the leaves that drop in storm or calm,
Some to the mould, some whirled in wreck abroad,
Helpless and crushed we fall, while nature's psalm
Rises, unsaddened, to the ear of God.
This life! what is it but a single bloom
In the wide summer's wilderness of flowers?
The faintest star of all that light the gloom—
One shuttle-cast of God's untiring loom—
One flying moment in immortal hours?
And death, that we bewail as bitter doom,
What but the gift of unimagined dowers?
God were not God else! . . . Let us welcome, then,
The smiting angel, and our fears assuage!—
How sharp soe'er his summons, cry "Amen!"
And go to gain the nobler heritage.
In the wide summer's wilderness of flowers?
The faintest star of all that light the gloom—
One shuttle-cast of God's untiring loom—
One flying moment in immortal hours?
And death, that we bewail as bitter doom,
What but the gift of unimagined dowers?
God were not God else! . . . Let us welcome, then,
The smiting angel, and our fears assuage!—
How sharp soe'er his summons, cry "Amen!"
And go to gain the nobler heritage.