I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead. He is just away. With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, He has wandered into an unknown land. And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be since he lingers there. And you- you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return- Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of there as the love of here; Think of him still as the same, I say; He is not dead-he is just away.
Out of the hitherwhere into the yon- The land that the Lord's love rests upon, Where one may rely on the friends he meets, And the smiles that greet him along the streets, Where the mother that left you years ago Will lift the hands that were folded so, And put them about you, with all the love And tenderness you are dreaming of. Out of the hitherwhere into the yon- Where all the friends of your youth have gone- Where the old schoolmate who laughed with you Will laugh again as he used to do, Running to meet you, with such a face As lights like a moon the wondrous place Where God is living, and glad to live Since He is the Master and may forgive. Out of the hitherwhere into the yon- Stay the hopes we are leaning on- You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes Looking down from far-away skies, Smile upon us and reach and take Our worn souls Home for the old home's sake- Out of the hitherwhere into the yon.
"Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief." We must believe- Being from birth endowed with love and trust- Born unto loving;-and how simply just That love-that faith!-even in the blossom-face The babe drops dreamward in its resting place, Intuitively conscious of the sure Awakening to rapture over pure And sweet and saintly as the mother's own, Or the awed father's, as his arms are thrown O'er wife and child, to round about them, weave And wind and bind them as one harvest-sheaf Of love-to cleave to, and forever cleave. . . . Lord, I believe; Help Thou mine unbelief. . . . We must believe: For still all unappeased our hunger goes, From life's first waking, to its last repose; The briefest life of any babe, or man Outwearing even the allotted span, Is each a life unfinished-incomplete: For these, then, of th' outworn, or unworn feet Denies one toddling step- O there must be Some fair, green, flowery pathway endlessly Winding through lands Elysian! Lord, receive And lead each as Thine Own Child-even the Chief Of us who didst Immortal life achieve. . . . Lord, I believe; Help Thou mine unbelief. . . .
Oh, the world's a curious compound, with its honey and its gall, With its cares and bitter crosses, but a good world after all. An' a good God must have made it-leastways, that is what I say, When a hand is on my shoulder in a friendly sort o'way.
When you awaken some morning and hear that somebody or other has been discovered, you can put it down as a fact that he discovered himself years ago-since which time he has been working, toiling and striving to make himself worthy of general discovery.