A REPLY by EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

TO the mother of the world,
Not for help or light or grace,
Basely I for comfort came:
And I brought my craven fears,
Late amends of useless tears,
Brought my stumbling feet so lame,
Hopes with weary pinions furled,
Every longing unattained,
All my love with self-love stained, --
Told them to her grave, mild face.

And the mother of the world
Spake, and answered unto me,
In the brook that past me purled;
In the bluebird's heavenly hue,
When beyond his downward swerve
Up he glanced, a sweep of blue;
In the sunshine's shifting spray,
Drifted in beneath the tree
Where I sheltered, lest its flood
There outside should drown my blood;
In the cloud-pearl's melting curve;
In the little odorous thrill
Trembling from each blossom-bell;
In the silence of the sky,
And the thoughts that from it fell,
Floating as a snowflake will, --
So the mother answered me:

"Child! it is not thine to see
Why at all thy life should be,
Wherefore thou must thus abide,
Foiled, repulsed, unsatisfied.
Thou hast not to prove thy right
To the earth-room and the light.
Thou hast not to justify
Thought of mine to human eye.
I have borne thee! Trust to me!
Strength and help are in thy deed;
Comfort thou shalt scorn to need.
Careless what shall come to thee,
Look but what thy work shall be."

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