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Be it our custom to retire inside
The framework of our being, and isolate,
Within ourselves, a higher self, to mark
The working of the soul's machinery:
Thereby the erring wheels touch and adjust,
And make our minds in truthful action work.

 

We are as watches, and do ever tend
To waver into misbelief and error;
From seconds, brief, unnoticed, on to minutes,
And, if not touch'd in time, to hours; and then
We have to stop and scour away the rust
That, unperceived, corrodes our delicate springs,
Wastes our fine work away, unfitting us
For thoughts or deeds of any worth or beauty.

 

I am so sceptical, so given to forget,
Or unbelieve, things that I once believed;
So prone to err and break good resolutions,
That I ever need a summoning of myself.
And in these silent summonings I've found
There is no safety for our erring souls
But a constant living with the Invisible--
A feeling of God in all we see or hear--
A heart so full of God that all other light
Is shorn, as stars are by the god-like sun--
And all the little idols that we worship,
Are lost, all lost, in this love of the One--
A knowing that, wherever we may go,
Whatever may befall us, still is God
There with us, and within us, and about us--
A Deep Serenity, into whose bosom,
In our affliction, we, at any time,
May fall and be at peace. O could we keep
Such truth before us ever, such close living
With our dear God, 'twere as impossible
For us to err as for the constant dial,
Whereon the sun--time's god--notes truthful warning.