January

Alice Cary [1820 - 1871]

THE year has lost its leaves again, 
The world looks old and grim; 
God folds His robe of glory thus, 
That we may see but Him.

And all His stormy messengers,

That come with whirlwind breath,

Beat out our chaff of vanity,

And leave the grains of faith.

 

We will not feel, while summer waits

Her rich delights to share,

What sinners, miserably bad,--

How weak and poor we are.

 

We read through fields of speckled flowers

As if we did not know

Our Father made them beautiful,

Because He loves us so.

 

We hold His splendors in our hands

As if we held the dust,

And deal His judgment, as if man

Than God could be more just.

 

We seek, in prayers and penances,

To do the martyr's part,

Remembering not, the promises

Are to the pure in heart.

 

From evil and forbidden things,

Some good we think to win,

And to the last analysis

Experiment with sin.

 

We seek no oil in summer time

Our winter lamp to trim,

But strive to bring God down to us,

More than to rise to Him.

 

And when that He is nearest, most

Our weak complaints we raise,

Lacking the wisdom to perceive

The mystery of His ways.

 

For, when drawn closest to Himself,

Then least His love we mark;

The very wings that shelter us

From peril, make it dark.

 

Sometimes He takes His hands from us,

When storms the loudest blow,

That we may learn how weak, alone,--

How strong in Him, we grow.

 

Through the cross iron of our free will

And fate, we plead for light,

As if God gave us not enough

To do our work aright.

 

We will not see, but madly take

The wrong and crooked path,

And in our own hearts light the fires

Of a consuming wrath.

 

The fashion of His Providence

Our way is so above,

We serve Him most who take the most

Of His exhaustless love.

 

We serve Him in the good we do,

The blessings we embrace,

Not lighting farthing candles for

The palace of His grace.

 

He has no need of our poor aid

His purpose to pursue;

'Tis for our pleasure, not for His,

That we His work must do.

 

Then blow, O wild winds, as ye list,

And let the world look grim,--

God folds His robe of glory thus

That we may see but Him.

From The Poetical Works of Alice and Phoebe Cary [1882].

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This collection assembled by Jone Johnson Lewis.
Collection © 1999-2002 Jone Johnson Lewis.

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