Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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RIPENING. |
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
RIPENING.
My soul is ripening in the shell
Wherein it must a season dwell,
Ere it can voyage free;
When shall it break this narrow husk,
And fly from discords and the dusk
On happy wings to Thee?
Wherein it must a season dwell,
Ere it can voyage free;
When shall it break this narrow husk,
And fly from discords and the dusk
On happy wings to Thee?
It frets a little but in love,
For visions drawing me above
The mire where pilgrims plod;
And thrills with the inflowing sap
To drop when mellow in Thy lap,
O beautiful sweet God.
For visions drawing me above
The mire where pilgrims plod;
And thrills with the inflowing sap
To drop when mellow in Thy lap,
O beautiful sweet God.
Outside the petty stir and strife
It feels the pulse of larger life,
And the great grinding wheels,
That measure throughout Time and Space
For every creature its one place—
And quickens as it feels.
It feels the pulse of larger life,
And the great grinding wheels,
That measure throughout Time and Space
For every creature its one place—
And quickens as it feels.
It gathers to its kernel all
The graces of each blessèd fall
By which we upward rise,
And through the thwarting bolt and bar
It smells in fragrance from afar
The flowers of Paradise.
The graces of each blessèd fall
By which we upward rise,
And through the thwarting bolt and bar
It smells in fragrance from afar
The flowers of Paradise.
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It daily grows more fat and fair,
And hungers for its native air
Above this little bound;
While awful powers with range profuse
Within it form, and were abuse
But for the holy ground.
And hungers for its native air
Above this little bound;
While awful powers with range profuse
Within it form, and were abuse
But for the holy ground.
For here a tiny bud is seen
And there a shoot of living green
That trembles into fire,
And from the very sin and soil
Of conflict and the endless toil
It fashions its desire.
And there a shoot of living green
That trembles into fire,
And from the very sin and soil
Of conflict and the endless toil
It fashions its desire.
No heavy cross, no thorns in bliss
That change to blossom come amiss,
Or stay its soaring trust;
It finds in each affliction sent
Some glad and gracious nutriment,
And turns to jewels dust.
That change to blossom come amiss,
Or stay its soaring trust;
It finds in each affliction sent
Some glad and gracious nutriment,
And turns to jewels dust.
My soul grows riper every hour
Alike in desert dearth and shower,
From rapture and the rod;
It stretches always through the night
Away from earthly lures, to light
And to its kindred God.
Alike in desert dearth and shower,
From rapture and the rod;
It stretches always through the night
Away from earthly lures, to light
And to its kindred God.
When shall it burst from grave-like gloom
Into its young rejoicing bloom,
A golden butterfly;
Whose bread is not the pavement stone,
But the pure love of God alone—
Whose home Eternity?
Into its young rejoicing bloom,
A golden butterfly;
Whose bread is not the pavement stone,
But the pure love of God alone—
Whose home Eternity?
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