EASTER
EVE
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IF
I should tell you I saw Pan lately down by the shallows
of
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Silvermine, |
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an air on his pipe of willow, just as the moon began
to |
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shine; |
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| Or
say that, coming from town on Wednesday, I met Christ
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walking
in Ponus Street; |
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| You
might remark, "Our friend is flighty! Visions,
for want of |
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enough
red meat!" |
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Then let me ask you. Last December, when there was
skating |
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on Wampanaw, |
5 |
| Among
the weeds and sticks and grasses under the hard
black |
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ice
I saw |
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| An
old mud-turtle poking about, as if he were putting
his house |
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to rights, |
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| Stiff
with the cold perhaps, yet knowing enough to prepare
for |
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the
winter nights. |
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And
here he is on a log this morning, sunning himself
as calm as |
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you
please. |
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| But
I want to know, when the lock of winter was sprung
of a |
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sudden,
who kept the keys? |
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| Who
told old nibbler to go to sleep safe and sound with
the lily |
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roots, |
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| And
then in the first warm days of April—out to
the sun with the |
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greening
shoots? |
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By night a flock of geese went over, honking north
on the trails of |
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air, |
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| The
spring express—but who despatched it, equipped
with |
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speed
and cunning care? |
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| Hark
to our bluebird down in the orchard trolling his
chant of the |
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happy
heart, |
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| As
full of light as a theme of Mozart’s—but
where did he learn |
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that
more than art? |
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Where
the river winds through grassy meadows, as sure
as the |
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south
wind brings the rain, |
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| Sounding
his reedy note in the alders, the starling comes
back |
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to his
nest again. |
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| Are
these not miracles? Prompt you answer: "Merely
the prose |
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of natural
fact; |
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Nothing but instinct plain and patent, born in the
creatures, that |
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bids them act." |
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Well,
I have an instinct as fine and valid, surely, as
that of the |
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beasts
and birds, |
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| Concerning
death and the life immortal, too deep for logic,
too |
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vague
for words. |
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| No
trace of beauty can pass or perish, but other beauty
is |
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somewhere
born; |
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| No
seed of truth or good be planted, but the yield
must grow as |
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the
growing corn. |
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Therefore
this ardent mind and spirit I give to the glowing
days |
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of earth, |
25 |
| To
be wrought by the Lord of life to something of lasting
import |
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and
lovely worth. |
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| If
the toil I give be without self-seeking, bestowed
to the limit of |
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will
and power, |
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| To
fashion after some form ideal the instant task and
the waiting |
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hour,
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It
matters not though defeat undo me, though faults
betray me |
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and
sorrows scar, |
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I share the life eternal with the April buds and
the |
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evening
star. |
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| Our
minister here, entrenched in doctrine, may know
no doubt |
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upon
Easter Eve. |
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And when it comes to the crucial question, Doctor,
you skeptic,
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you
too believe! |
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