The Making of Man

AS the insect from the rock

  Takes the color of its wing;

As the boulder from the shock

  Of the ocean's rhythmic swing

Makes itself a perfect form,

  Learns a calmer front to raise;

As the shell, enamelled warm

  With the prism's mystic rays,

Praises wind and wave that make

  All its chambers fair and strong;

As the mighty poets take

  Grief and pain to build their song:

Even so for every soul,

  Whatsoe'er its lot may be,--

Building, as the heavens roll,

  Something large and strong and free,--

Things that hurt and things that mar

  Shape the man for perfect praise;

Shock and strain and ruin are

  Friendlier than the smiling days.

John White Chadwick

Recognition

WHEN souls that have put off their mortal gear

Stand in the pure, sweet light of heaven's day,

And wondering deeply what to do or say,

And trembling more with rapture than with fear,

Desire some token of their friends most dear,

Who there some time have made their happy stay,

And much have longed for them to come that way,

What shall it be, this sign of hope and cheer?

Shall it be tone of voice or glance of eye?

Shall it be touch of hand or gleam of hair

Blown back from spirit-brows by heaven's air,--

Things which of old we knew our dearest by?

Oh, naught of this; but, if our love is true,

Some secret sense shall cry, 'Tis you and--you!

John White Chadwick

Starlight

"LOOK up," she said; and all the heavens blazed

With countless myriads of quiet stars,

Whereon a moment silently he gazed,

And drank that peace no trouble ever mars.

Then looking down into her face upturned,

Two other stars that did outshine the rest

Upward to him with such soft splendor yearned

That all her secret was at once confessed.

Then he with kisses did put out their light

And said, "O strange, but more, dear love, to me

Are thy pure eyes than all the stars of night

That shine in heaven everlastingly!

Night still is night, with every star aglow;

But light were night didst thou not love me so."

John White Chadwick

The Rise of Man

THOU for whose birth the whole creation yearned

Through countless ages of the morning world,

Who, first in fiery vapors dimly hurled,

Next to the senseless crystal slowly turned,

Then to the plant which grew to something more,--

Humblest of creatures that draw breath of life,--

Wherefrom through infinites of patient pain

Came conscious man to reason and adore:

Shall we be shamed because such things have been,

Or bate one jot of our ancestral pride?

Nay, in thyself art thou not deified

That from such depths thou couldst such summits win?

While the long way behind is prophecy

Of those perfections which are yet to be.

John White Chadwick

A Wedding-Song

I SAID: "My heart, now let us sing a song

  For a fair lady on her wedding-day;

  Some solemn hymn or pretty roundelay,

That shall be with her as she goes along

  To meet her joy, and for her happy feet

  Shall make a pleasant music, low and sweet."

Then said my heart: "It is right bold of thee

  To think that any song that we could sing

  Would for this lady be an offering

Meet for such gladness as hers needs must be,

  What time she goes to don her bridal ring,

  And her own heart makes sweetest caroling."

And so it is that with my lute unstrung,

  Lady, I come to greet thy wedding-day;

  But once, methinks, I heard a poet say,

The sweetest songs remain for aye unsung.

  So mine, unsung, at thy dear feet I lay,

  And with a "Peace be with you!" go my way.

John White Chadwick