Friday, June 20, 2014

Each in his own Tongue

by William Herbert Carruth (1859-1924)
 Each in his own Tongue A fire-mist and a planet, 
 A crystal and a cell, 
 A jelly-fish and a saurian, 
 And caves where the cave-men dwell; 
 Then a sense of law and beauty 
 And a face turned from the clod, -- Some call it Evolution, 
 And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon, 
The infinite, tender sky, 
The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields, 
And the wild geese sailing high; 
And all over upland and lowland 
The charm of the golden-rod, -- Some of us call it Autumn, 
And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, 
When the moon is new and thin, 
Into our hearts high yearnings 
Come welling and surging in: 
Come from the mystic ocean, 
Whose rim no foot has trod, -- Some of us call it Longing, 
And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty, 
A mother starved for her brood, 
Socrates drinking the hemlock, 
And Jesus on the rood; 
And millions who, humble and nameless, 
The straight, hard pathway plod, -- Some call it Consecration, 
And others call it God.

From The Little Book of American Poets. Ed. Jessie B. Rittenhouse. Cambridge: The Riverside Press, 1915.

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