A vineyard grew above its head; The grapes they knew, and whisperèd Each unto each, as evening fell: “Brothers, keep counsel, nothing tell!”
There was no record left, or trace Of sculptor or of hiding-place; The hand that shaped it lay in dust, His cunning chisel turned to rust.
The hands that dug the grave so deep, And laid the statue to its sleep, While hearts beat quick with haste and fear, And ears were strained a step to hear;
The foe who threatened them that day— All, all were dead and passed away. The world had turned and turned it o’er; Nothing was as it was before.
Still through all change of war or peace, New men, new laws, new dynasties, The buried statue kept its place, With the same smile upon its face.
The years to centuries gave birth; Heavier and heavier pressed the earth; Autumn and spring enriched the vine Whose purple grapes were crushed for wine;
And then, in search of gain or spoil, Men came to dig the aged soil; And after half a thousand years In silence spent, the statue hears!
How did it feel when, fine and thin, The first long ray of light broke in, And gilt the gloom with glory new, And let the imprisoned beauty through?
Say, did it tremble, as a heart Long pent in darkness and apart Trembles, with fear and rapture stirred At love’s low signal long unheard?
Or did it blench as, sharp and clear, The urgent spade-strokes drew more near, Blindly directed, fraught with harm To marble breast and marble arm?
No answer, save the subtle smile, Baffling and tempting in its guile, Which seems all wordlessly to say: “Darkness was safe, but fairer, day.”
“From every point on earth we are equally near to heaven and the infinite.”—HENRI AMIEL.
OUT of the depths that are to us so deep, Up to the heights so hopelessly above, Past storms that intervene and winds that sweep, Unto thine ear, O pitying Lord of love, We send our cry for aid, doubtful and half afraid If thou, so very far, canst hear us or canst aid.
Out of the dull plane of our common life, Beset with sordid, interrupting cares, And petty motives and ignoble strife, We dimly raise our hesitating prayers, And question fearfully if such a thing can be That the great Lord can care for creatures such as we.
Up from the radiant heights of just-won bliss, Achieved through pain and toil and struggle long, We raise our thanks, nor fear that God will miss One least inflection of the happy song. Heaven seems so very near, the earth so bright and dear, The Lord so close at hand, that surely he must hear!