Page 46 - 1920 February - To Dragma

TO DRAGMA OF ALPHA OMICRON PI 129

QUIET CORNER

THOUGHTS BESIDE A ROSE

B Y STELLA GEORGE STERN PERRY, Alpha, '98

Through the glass of my window I see a rose. I am shut off from its

perfume; but I believe in, expect—enjoy it. That is faith. I will open the

window.

"How can I hear the voice of God ?" I asked the rose. A bird gave answer.
"Sing!" he said. "How shall I know His face?" I asked. "Make beauty!"
said the rose.

Oh! Be quiet as a rose-tree. I t does not speak of its loveliness; but glad
eyes find it.

A child asked me to show God to him. I saw God in the eyea of the child.
Why could not the child see God in my eyes?

The child spoke to me. My heart rushed toward the voice of the child.
But my Spirit was kneeling. I t heard the voice of Faith.

A, dead bird lay in the path. The housewife brushed it aside. The poet
gazed sadly upon it. But the little child buried it under a rose-bush.

The wind seems cruel to the faded flower. But it plants the seeds for next
year's glory. The wrath of the unjust may blow my leaves to trembling; but
the roots of my being are firm.

I saw a wise man walking in the garden reading a book about Beauty. He
trod upon a flower. I myself read a book about Life; a butterfly flew across
the page.

A small blue butterfly made my heart glad. Vet the great sky was blue.
All service shines.

The silken strand of the spider holds to the firm branch of the rose-tree.
So prayers are answered.

I stood still and listened to the meadow. All the little voices of the field
united in music. So the many murmurs of human strivings are harmonized
in the ear of God.

The lizard, basking on the rock, ran from my shadow. Yet I would not
harm him. Cease from fears! The shadow is thrown by the light of the sun.

The poppy is in gorgeous bloom. All winter that tiniest seed lay quietly in
the ground. I , too. will be patient.

The pigeon is crooning to his mate. Little loves are also precious.

The spring flows from a mountainside where no man passes. " I f ever the
thirsty traveller come," says the spring, "he shall find me."

The lovely fountain stream is reflected in the pool from which it rises, as
a good deed leaves its image in the soul from which it springs.

As the wild birds are safe in our gardens, so may our hearts be sanctuary
for the high, free thoughts so often hunted down by the world!

"You do not love me!" cries the child, denied some pleasure. But it
climbs into its mother's lap even while reproaching her. God understands our
railings. Hush, child! He lifts us to His breast. •