A drop of water risen from the ocean Forgot its cause, and spake with deep emotion Unto a passing breeze. ‘How desolate And all forlorn is my unhappy fate. I know not whence I came, or where I go. Scorched by the sun, or chilled by winds that blow, I dwell in space a little time, then pass Out into the night and nothingness—alas!’
‘Nay,’ quoth the breeze, ‘my friend, that cannot be. Thou dost reflect the Universe to me. Look at thine own true self, and there behold A world of light, all scintillant with gold.’ Just there the drop sank back into the wave From whence it came. Nay, that was not its _grave_!
It lived, it moved, it was a joyous part Of that strong palpitating ocean heart; Its little dream of loneliness was done; It woke to find, Self, and Cause, were one. So shalt thou wake, sad mortal, when thy course Has run its karmic round, and reached the Source, And even now thou dost reflect the whole Of God’s great glory in thy shining soul.
Oh! I feel the growing glory Of our life upon this sphere, Of the life that like a river Runs forever and forever, From the somewhere to the here, And still on and onward flowing, Leads us out to larger knowing, Through the hidden, to the clear.
And I feel a deep thanksgiving For the sorrows I have known; For the worries and the crosses, And the grieving and the losses, That along my path were sown. Now the great eternal meaning Of each trouble I am gleaning, And the harvest is my own.
I am opulent with knowledge Of the Purpose and the Cause. And I go my way rejoicing, And in singing seek the voicing Of love’s never-failing laws. From the now, unto the Yonder, Full of beauty and of wonder, Life flows ever without pause.
And I feel the exaltation Of a child that loves its play, Though the ranks of friends are thinning, Still the end is but beginning Of a larger, fuller day, And the joy of life is spilling From my spirit, as all willing I go speeding on my way.
So much one thought about the life beyond He did not drain the waters of his pond; And when death laid his children ’neath the sod He called it—‘the mysterious will of God.’ He would not strive for worldly gain, not he. His wealth, he said, was stored in God’s To Be. He kept his mortal body poorly drest, And talked about the garments of the blest. And when to his last sleep he laid him down, His only mourner begged her widow’s gown.