That before living he'd learn how to live

No end to learning:

Earn the means first-God surely will contrive
Use for our earning.

Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes!
Live now or never!"

He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!
Man has Forever."

Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head:
Calculus racked him:

Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:
Tussis attacked him.

"Now, master, take a little rest!"-not he!
(Caution redoubled!

Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)
Not a whit troubled,

Back to his studies, fresher than at first,
Fierce as a dragon

He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst)
Sucked at the flagon.

Oh, if we draw a circle premature,
Heedless of far gain,

Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure
Bad is our bargain!

Was it not great? did not he throw on God
(He loves the burthen)—

God's task to make the heavenly period
Perfect the earthen?

Did not he magnify the mind, show clear
Just what it all meant?

He would not discount life, as fools do here,

Paid by instalment.

He ventured neck or nothing-heaven's success
Found, or earth's failure:

"Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes! Hence with life's pale lure!"

That low man seeks a little thing to do,

Sees it and does it:

This high man, with a great thing to pursue,
Dies ere he knows it.

That low man goes on adding one to one,
His hundred's soon hit:

This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit.

That, has the world here-should he need the next,
Let the world mind him!

This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed
Seeking shall find Him.

So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,
Ground he at grammar;

Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife:
While he could stammer

He settled Hoti's business-let it be!-
Properly based Oun-

Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De,
Dead from the waist down.

Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place:
Hail to your purlieus,

All ye highfliers of the feathered race,
Swallows and curlews:

Here's the top-peak; the multitude below
Live, for they can, there:

This man decided not to Live, but Know—
Bury this man there?

Here-here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,
Lightnings are loosened,

Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,

Peace let the dew send!

Lofty designs must close in like effects:

Loftily lying,

Leave him-still loftier than the world suspects,

Living and dying.

THE HIGHER CATECHISM

SAM WALTER FOSS

Let us ask ourselves some questions; for that man is truly wise Who can make a catechism that will truly catechise.

All can make a catechism,-none can keep it in repair.

Where's the workman can construct one that he'll guarantee will wear?

We are confronted from our birthday onward to the day we die
With a maximum of questions and a minimum reply.

So we make our catechism; but our work is never done-
For a father's catechism never fits a father's son.

What are we here for? That's the first one; that's the first we want to know.

We are here and all born little, just because we're here to

grow.

What is sin? Why sin's not growing; all that stops the growth within,

Plagues the eternal upward impulse, stunts the spirit-that is sin.

Who are sinners? All are sinners; but this is no hopeless

plaint,

For there never was a sinner who was not likewise a saint.
What's the devil? A convenient but imagined elf

Each man builds to throw his sins on when he won't "own up” himself.

And where is hell? And where is heaven? In some vague

distance dim?

No, they are here and now in you-in me, in her, in him. When is the Judgment Day to dawn? Its true date who can say?

Look in your calendar and see what day it is today!

Today is always Judgment Day; and Conscience throned within Brings up before its judgment seat each soul to face his sin. We march to judgment, each along an uncompanioned way— Stand up, man, and accuse yourself and meet your Judgment Day.

Where shall we get religion? Beneath the open sky,
The sphere of crystal silence surcharged with deity.

The winds blow from a thousand ways and waft their balms ...abroad,

The winds blow toward a million goals-but all winds blow from God.

The stars the old Chaldeans saw still weave their maze.on high

And write a thousand thousand years their bible in the sky. The midnight earth sends incense up sweet with the breath of prayer

Go out beneath the naked night and get religion there.

Where shall we get religion? Beneath the blooming tree,
Beside the hill-encircling brooks that loiter to the sea,
Beside all twilight waters, beneath the noonday shades,
Beneath the dark cathedral pines and through the tangled.
glades;

Wherever the old urge of life provokes the dumb dead sod
To tell its thought in violets, the soul takes hold on God.
Go smell the growing clover, and scent the blooming pear,
Go forth to seek religion-and find it anywhere.

What is the church? The church is man when his awed soul goes out,

In reverence to a mystery that swathes him all about.
When any living man in awe gropes godward in his search;
Then in that hour, that living man becomes the living church,
Then, though in wilderness or in waste, his soul is swept along
Down naves of prayer, through aisles of praise, up altar-stairs
of song.

And where man fronts the Mystery with spirit bowed in prayer,
There is the universal church-the church of God is there.

Where are the prophets of the soul? Where dwells the sacred clan?

Ah, they live in fields and cities, yea, wherever dwells a man, Whether he prays in cloistered cell or delves the hillside clod,

Wherever beats the heart of man, there dwells a priest of God.

Who are the apostolic line? The men who hear a voice

Well from the soul within the soul that cries aloud, "Rejoice!" Who listen to themselves and hear this world-old voice divine— These are the lineage of seers, the apostolic line.

And what is faith? The anchored trust that at the core of things

Health, goodness, animating strength flow from exhaustless springs;

That no star rolls unguided down the rings of endless maze, That no feet tread an aimless path through wastes of empty days;

That trusts the everlasting voice, the glad, calm voice that saith

That Order grows from Chaos, and that life is born from

death;

That from the wreck of rendering stars behind the storm and scathe,

There dwells a heart of central calm;-and this, and this is faith.

What is the world's true Bible-'tis the highest thought of man, The thought distilled through ages since the dawn of thought began.

And each age adds a word thereto, some psalm or promise

sweet

And the canon is unfinished and forever incomplete.

O'er the chapters that are written long and lovingly we poreBut the best is yet unwritten, for we grow from more to more.

Let us heed the voice within us and its messages rehearse; Let us build the growing Bible-for we too must write verse. What is the purport of the scheme toward which all time is gone?

What is the great æonian goal? The joy of going on.

And are there any souls so strong, such feet with swiftness shod,

That they shall reach it, reach some bourne, the ultimate of
God?

There is no bourne, no ultimate. The very farthest star
But rime a sea of other stars that stretches just as far.
There's no beginning and no end. As in the ages gone,
The greatest joy of joys shall be the joy of going on.