August 22

Hearken unto the voice of my cry, my King and my God.

THE face which duly as the sun Rose up for me with life begun, To mark all bright hours of the day With hourly love, is dimmed away— And yet my days go on, go on.

The tongue which, like a stream, could run Smooth music from the roughest stone, And every morning with “Good-day” Make each day good, is hushed away— And yet my days go on, go on.

The heart which, like a staff, was one For mine to lean and rest upon, The strongest on the longest day, With steadfast love, is caught away— And yet my days go on, go on.

Breath freezes on my lips to moan: As one alone, once not alone, I sit and knock at Nature’s door, Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, Whose desolated days go on.

I knock and cry—undone, undone! Is there no help, no comfort—none? No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains Where others drive their loaded wains? My vacant days go on, go on.

E. B. BROWNING

SORROW

Aug.

They looked towards the wilderness, and behold Evening the glory of God appeared in the cloud.

A VOICE reproves me thereupon More sweet than Nature's, when the drone Of bees is sweetest, and more deep Than when the rivers overleap The shuddering pines, and thunder on.

God's voice, not Nature's! Night and noon He sits upon the Great White Throne, And listens for the creature's praise. What babble we of days and days? The Day-spring He, whose days go on.

By anguish which made pale the sun, I hear Him charge His saints that none Among His creatures anywhere Blaspheme against Him with despair, However darkly days go on.

For us,—whatever's undergone, Thou knowest, willest what is done. Grief may be joy misunderstood; Only the good discerns the good; I trust Thee while my days go on.

I praise Thee while my days go on; I love Thee while my days go on; Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, With emptied arms and treasure lost, I thank Thee, while my days go on.

E. B. BROWNING

SECRET COMFORT