Poems (Sharpless)/Whom He Loveth He Chasteneth
WHOM HE LOVETH HE CHASTENETH
Let it not irk thee, that so sore besetIs that brave soul, thou knowest true, and good;These trials do but prove his hardihood;Staunch as he is, they make him stauncher yet.Nor stain thy love for him with vain regretThat lonely is the path he treads, and bleak;Such strenuous climbing is not for the weakWho stumble on amid earth's daily fret. 'Tis the apt scholar that the Master proves,After each conquest, with a harder task,Smiling in joy, to see the ardent lifeDevelop to the perfect thing he loves.The bramble in the sun may idly bask,But the rare vine must feel the pruning knife.