Renewal. A Poem

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RENEWAL.

[For the Improvement Era.]

A tumult of doubt is the storm on the noon-day, A world of misgiving and error and scorn; Yet, out of eternity, daily absolving, Are hopes that are kindled and souls that are born.

And, shorn of the cloud, there is sunlight infinite; And earth in her doubt hath no alien power: Her fetters are peace, and her triumph obedience, And scornings of men are but boasts of an hour.

"I know not his mercy," the outcry discordant, Is struck like the wail from one rust-tainted string;

While life's swelling orison, potent with yearning, Is waiting the touch of resounding within.

There is no denial — a sear leaf dismembered Has ceased in its memory of bloom and the vine; While thrilling and glad with futurity's promise, The tendrils are trust-clinging fast to the pine.

A garden dishevelled, life's darkness its impress, But clothed in the darkness and under the stain, The seeds of renewal are holding the springtime, And Light is the harvest deep-furled in the rain. Bertha E. Anderson.