Let Not Thy Divining Heart

Friends Are Ourselves.

Commemoration Of Pandita Mary Ramabai, Translator Of The Scriptures, 1922 A Memory Of Yesterday's Pleasures, A Fear Of Tomorrow's Dangers, A Straw Under My Knees, A Noise In My Ear, A Light In My Eye, An Anything, A Nothing, A Fancy, A Chimera In My Brain, Troubles Me In My Prayers.

I Would Not That Death Should Take Me Asleep. I Would Not Have Him Merely Seize Me, And Only Declare Me To Be Dead, But Win Me, And Overcome Me. When I Must Shipwreck, I Would Do It In A Sea, Where Mine Impotency Might Have Some Excuse; Not In A Sullen Weedy Lake, Where I Could Not Have So Much As Exercise For My Swimming.

There Is In Every Miracle A Silent Chiding Of The World, And A Tacit Reprehension Of Them Who Require, Or Who Need Miracles.

Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost Thou Thus, Through Windows, And Through Curtains, Call On Us? Must To Thy Motions Lovers'seasons Run? Saucy Pedantic Wretch, Go Chide Late Schoolboys, And Sour Prentices, Go Tell Court-huntsmen That The King Will Ride, Call Countryants To Harvest Offices; Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.