I must take my turn at the mill; I must grind out the golden grain ; I must work at my task with a resolute will, Over and over again. We cannot measure the need Of even the tiniest flower, Over and over again The brook through the meadow flows; And over and over again The ponderous mill-wheel goes: Once doing will not suffice, Though doing be not in vain ; The path that has once been trod Is never so rough to the feet; And the heart to its depth be driven With storm and tempest, we need them all To render us meet for heaven. M XXXIX. THE LITTLE BELL IN THE HEART. Y heart keeps knocking all the day! My heart keeps knocking all the night! My child, 'tis a lively little bell, The dear God's gift who loves thee well: So knocks thy heart now day by day; Come into the joys of eternity!" Translated from the German. 66 XL. THE CHILD'S WAY TO HEAVEN. H! I am weary of earth," said the child, As he looked with a tearful eye On the snow-white dove that he held in his hand; "For whatever I love will die." Then the child came out of his little bower; And he said, "I am going, this very hour, — There was shining light where the sun had set, All round in the distant blue, As the child looked out on the far, far west, Where the burning sun had gone to his rest There was one bright spot on the cloud's dark face, As if it had been riven. Said the child, "I will go to that very place; For it must be the gate of heaven!" Then the child set out to follow the sun: But the heavens would not stay; They seemed to go farther away. And the evening shades fell heavily, A light wind wafted the fleecy clouds; So the child called out, as he saw them stray, "Little stars, you are wandering out of the way: That is not the way to heaven." Then he wandered on through the rough, waste lands Where the tangled briers meet, He could not see before him well, Then the child knelt down on the damp, green sod, And he said his evening prayer; Who was listening to him there. A long, long sleep; for they found him there The sunbeams glanced on the drops of dew That lay on his ringlets bright, Like a coronet of light. From the German. XLI. A MOTHER'S LOVE. HAST thou sounded the depths of yonder sea? Hast thou counted the sands that under it be? Hast thou measured the height of heaven above? Then mayest thou speak of a mother's love. Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading on To the throne of God some wandering son? Hast thou witnessed the angels' bright employ? Then mayest thou speak of a mother's joy. |