He writes in characters too grand
For our short sight to understand;
We catch but broken strokes, and try
To fathom all the mystery
Of withered hopes, of death, of life,
The endless war, the useless strife,–
But there, with larger, clearer sight,
We shall see this–His way was right.
THE DAY–THE WAY
Not for one single day
Can I discern my way,
But this I surely know,–
Who gives the day,
Will show the way,
So I securely go.