The Old Song

The day seemed overheavy,
And the eve hastened, bringing night.
I saw not the open script of the hours.
I knew not His hands that fondled o'er His creation
I had not seen His shadow beside me,
Nor His smiling lips at my groping.
I knew not the path inviting, on which
He would lead me enwrapped within His shadow,
Knowing His fellowship, His comrade clasp,-
And the hours were slow.
But a song, strangely like one I had forgot,
Soft, like one I had heard when my head
Had rested upon a pulsing bosom,
Long, long ago, telling me not of wonders,
But of little things upon which I might
Lay my hands and feel the pleasure of knowing.
And I knew it was Him, whispering,
As he whispers to the night through the rushes,
And to the morning with morn's first sigh.
Then I ceased to strive to know new things,
But listened to the old, old song-Content!