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Unto the longed-for play-ground of the strand,

Until, thrown back, it sees through tears of spray.

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IT is not much that I can do.

My hands are weak.

The lines they draw seem never true;

The works I speak

Are not the ones I long to say,—

I speak not prayers I long to pray.

It is no coward spirit, no—

I try to learn

How others bravely strive and go

Rewards to earn,

And yet success is never mine—

I labor on a false design.

They are not much, these little things

That form my task,

Yet constant seeking never brings

What I would ask,

And of what use is life to one

Who never knew a victory won?

But this one thing I know, that He

Who guides the stars

Will look in charity on me

And see the scars

Which show that I have tried to trace

A path that weeds could not efface.

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I READ of pagan priests in idols hiding,

That with their own lips they might make reply

To prayers of worshippers in them confiding—

To vouchsafe or deny.

And all idolatry has not departed;

For yet I faith in one fair idol hold.