Classic Poem

Lily fair and pure and cool,
Floating on yon miry pool,
Is the sweetness all of you?
Has the mire from whence you grew

Naught of virtue, — building up,
Leaf by leaf, your perfect cup, —
By some strange, transmuting skill
Moulding, shaping you at will?

Certes, many a flowering shoot,
With the wholesome earth at root,
Well may envy you, my queen,
Blooming from such depths unclean.

Yet is wrought no occult spell:
Nature but disposes well
All her forces; then, she grows
Here a lily, there a rose.

One she tends with dew and sun,
Cribs in finest mould, and one
Buries 'neath the dark and slime,
Bidding each to bide its time.

Till, arrived at blossoming growth,
She is justified of both;
Since, which sweetest is, who knows, —
Or the lily or the rose?

Therefore, O ye darkened souls,
Struggling upward unto goals
Ye must reach 'gainst bitter odds,
Courage! Nature's ways are God's.

What though He withhold from you,
For a season, sun and dew?
Where you cannot understand,
Trust to his transmuting hand.

He who made the water wine
Knew this alchemy divine:
Through the paths of pain He trod,
Perfect grew the Son of God.

He is risen, laying down
Toil for triumph, cross for crown;
He is risen: soul of mine,
Courage! conquer by this sign!