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BEES IN AMBER

A LITTLE BOOK OF THOUGHTFUL VERSE

BY JOHN OXENHAM

1913




TO THOSE I HOLD DEAREST

THIS OF MY BEST.




CONTENTS


CREDO

NEW YEAR'S DAY AND EVERYDAY

PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN

FLOWERS OF THE DUST

THE PILGRIM WAY

EVERYMAID

BETTER AND BEST

THE SHADOW

THE POTTER

NIGHTFALL

THE PRUNER

THE WAYS

SEEDS

WHIRRING WHEELS

THE BELLS OF YS

THE LITTLE POEM OF LIFE

CUP OF MIXTURE

WEAVERS ALL

THE CLEARER VISION

SHADOWS

THE INN OF LIFE

LIFE'S CHEQUER-BOARD

CROSS-ROADS

QUO VADIS?

TAMATE

BURDEN-BEARERS

THE IRON FLAIL

SARK

E.A.

THE PASSING OF THE QUEEN

THE GOLDEN CORD

THANK GOD FOR PEACE!

GOD'S HANDWRITING

STEPHEN--SAUL

PAUL

WAKENING

MACEDONIA, 1903

HEARTS IN EXILE

WANDERED

BIDE A WEE!

THE WORD THAT WAS LEFT UNSAID

DON'T WORRY!

THE GOLDEN ROSE

GADARA, A.D. 31

THE BELLS OF STEPAN ILINE

BOLT THAT DOOR!

GIANT CIRCUMSTANCE

THE HUNGRY SEA

WE THANK THEE, LORD

THE VAIL

NO EAST OR WEST

THE DAY--THE WAY

LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY

FREEMEN

THE LONG ROAD

THE CHRIST

THE BALLAD OF LOST SOULS

PROFIT AND LOSS

FREE MEN OF GOD

TREASURE-TROVE

THE GATE

BRING US THE LIGHT

ALL'S WELL!

HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOR EVER

GOD IS GOOD

SOME--AND SOME

THE PRINCE OF LIFE

JUDGMENT DAY

DARKNESS AND LIGHT

INDIA

LIVINGSTONE

LIVINGSTONE THE BUILDER

LIVINGSTONE'S SOLILOQUY

KAPIOLANI

THEY COME!

PROCESSIONALS

FAITH

"I WILL!"

A LITTLE TE DEUM OF THE COMMONPLACE

POLICEMAN X

YOUR PLACE

IN NARROW WAYS

SHUT WINDOWS

PROPS

BED-ROCK

AFTER WORK

KAPIOLANI IN RAROTONGAN




AUTHOR'S APOLOGY


In these rushful days an apology is advisable, if not absolutely
essential, from any man, save the one or two elect, who has the temerity
to publish a volume of verse.

These stray lines, such as they are, have come to me from time to time,
I hardly know how or whence; certainly not of deliberate intention or of
malice aforethought. More often than not they have come to the
interruption of other, as it seemed to me, more important--and
undoubtedly more profitable--work.

They are for the most part, simply attempts at concrete and
rememberable expression of ideas--ages old most of them--which "asked
for more."

Most writers, I imagine, find themselves at times in that same
predicament--worried by some thought which dances within them and
stubbornly refuses to be satisfied with the sober dress of prose. For
their own satisfaction and relief, in such a case, if they be not fools
they endeavour to garb it more to its liking, and so find peace. Or, to
vary the metaphor, they pluck the Bee out of their Bonnet and pop it
into such amber as they happen to have about them or are able to
evolve, and so put an end to its buzzing.

In their previous states these little Bonnet-Bees of mine have
apparently given pleasure to quite a number of intelligent and
thoughtful folk; and now--chiefly, I am bound to say, for my own
satisfaction in seeing them all together--I have gathered
them into one bunch.

If they please you--good! If not, there is no harm done, and one man is
content.

JOHN OXENHAM




CREDO


Not what, but WHOM, I do believe,
    That, in my darkest hour of need,
    Hath comfort that no mortal creed
    To mortal man may give;--
Not what, but WHOM!
    For Christ is more than all the creeds,
    And His full life of gentle deeds
    Shall all the creeds outlive.
Not what I do believe, but WHOM!
    WHO walks beside me in the gloom?
    WHO shares the burden wearisome?
    WHO all the dim way doth illume,
    And bids me look beyond the tomb
    The larger life to live?--
Not what I do believe,
BUT WHOM!
Not what,
But WHOM!




NEW YEAR'S DAY--AND EVERY DAY

  _Each man is Captain of his Soul,
  And each man his own Crew,
  But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas,
  And He will bring us through_.


We break new seas to-day,--
Our eager keels quest unaccustomed waters,
And, from the vast uncharted waste in front,
The mystic circles leap
To greet our prows with mightiest possibilities;
Bringing us--what?
  --Dread shoals and shifting banks?
  --And calms and storms?
  --And clouds and biting gales?
  --And wreck and loss?
  --And valiant fighting-times?
And, maybe, Death!--and so, the Larger Life!

    _For should the Pilot deem it best
    To cut the voyage short,
    He sees beyond the sky-line, and
    He'll bring us into Port_.

And, maybe, Life,--Life on a bounding tide,
    And chance of glorious deeds;--
    Of help swift-born to drowning mariners;
    Of cheer to ships dismasted in the gale;
    Of succours given unasked and joyfully;
    Of mighty service to all needy souls.

    _So--Ho for the Pilot's orders,
    Whatever course He makes!
    For He sees beyond the sky-line,
    And He never makes mistakes_.

And, maybe, Golden Days,
    Full freighted with delight!
    --And wide free seas of unimagined bliss,
    --And Treasure Isles, and Kingdoms to be won,
    --And Undiscovered Countries, and New Kin.

    _For each man captains his own Soul,
    And chooses his own Crew,
    But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas,
    And He will bring us through_.




PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN


    "_See this my garden,
      Large and fair_!"
--Thus, to his friend,
The Philosopher.

  "'_Tis not too long_,"
His friend replied,
With truth exact,--
  "_Nor yet too wide.
  But well compact,
   If somewhat cramped
    On every side_."

Quick the reply--
  "_But see how high!--
  It reaches up
  To God's blue sky_!"

Not by their size
Measure we men
Or things.
Wisdom, with eyes
Washed in the fire,
Seeketh the things
That are higher--
Things that have wings,
Thoughts that aspire.




FLOWERS OF THE DUST


The Mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small--
So soft and slow the great wheels go they scarcely move at all;
But the souls of men fall into them and are powdered into dust,
And in that dust grow the Passion-Flowers--Love, Hope, Trust.

Most wondrous their upspringing, in the dust of the Grinding-Mills,
And rare beyond the telling the fragrance each distils.
Some grow up tall and stately, and some grow sweet and small,
But Life out of Death is in each one--with purpose grow they all.

For that dust is God's own garden, and the Lord Christ tends it fair,
With oh, such loving tenderness! and oh, such patient care!
In sorrow the seeds are planted, they are watered with bitter tears,
But their roots strike down to the Water-Springs and the Sources of the
        Years.

These flowers of Christ's own providence, they wither not nor die,
But flourish fair, and fairer still, through all eternity.
In the Dust of the Mills and in travail the amaranth seeds are sown,
But the Flowers in their full beauty climb the Pillars of the Throne.

NOTE.--The first line only is adapted from the Sinngedichte of
Friedrich von Logau.




THE PILGRIM WAY


But once I pass this way,
And then--no more.
But once--and then, the Silent Door
Swings on its hinges,--
Opens... closes,--
And no more
I pass this way.
So while I may,
With all my might,
I will essay
Sweet comfort and delight,
To all I meet upon the Pilgrim Way.
For no man travels twice
The Great Highway,
That climbs through Darkness up to Light,--
Through Night
To Day.




EVERYMAID


King's Daughter!
Wouldst thou be all fair,
Without--within--
Peerless and beautiful,
A very Queen?

Know then:--
Not as men build unto the Silent One,--
With clang and clamour,
Traffic of rude voices,
Clink of steel on stone,
And din of hammer;--
Not so the temple of thy grace is reared.
But,--in the inmost shrine
Must thou begin,
And build with care
A Holy Place,
A place unseen,
Each stone a prayer.
Then, having built,
Thy shrine sweep bare
Of self and sin,
And all that might demean;
And, with endeavour,
Watching ever, praying ever,
Keep it fragrant-sweet, and clean:
So, by God's grace, it be fit place,--
His Christ shall enter and shall dwell therein.
Not as in earthly fane--where