The Bright Day

It is vain for you to rise up early,
To sit up late,
To eat the bread of sorrows:
For so he giveth his beloved sleep. — PSALM cxxvii.

AFTER a little space,
Mary, his dearest daughter, covered up his face
And stayed her tears.
For her own task it was, she knew, to face the years,
And live life through as he had always led —
The life whose every thread
Made part of the plain cloak called Sacrifice;
A coat without device,
But one which many, many hearts have blessed
For its warm love, and pressed
Its rough folds to their lips and wept.
For she remembered how her hand he kept
Within his own, and with her walked afield
And watched the sunset its last glory yield.
All this came back to her.
All little things that were,
And every dear remembrance on her heart
Laid its rich sorrow and its mortal smart,
Too exquisite bereavement to be borne.

Yet, after the long night the austere morn,
Smiling upon her, said with gentleness: —

I am the living, and I am no less
The dead. For they have entered into me:
To-day, not yesterday, is their eternity.
Your past must die with him you loved so much.
He is a part of me, and you must touch
My hand with the warm love of a young child.
For I, the living world, am reconciled

To God’s unpitying plan; and all my hours,
My tasks, my needs imperative, and my bright flowers,
Are fashioned from the souls of those who worship God.
Nothing God made is underneath the sod!
I am To-day, my daughter, and I need your love!
Look up above —
The sky is leaden, and the cheerless rain
Makes its own misery and pain.
But you and I can only bear to hear,
Deep in our hearts, the joyous, clear,
Brave music of the soul that sings
Of coming day and living things!