C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

John Lancaster Spalding (1840–1916)

WHAT can console for a dead world?

We tread on dust which once was life;

To nothingness all things are hurled:

What meaning in a hopeless strife?

Time’s awful storm

Breaks but the form.

The essential truth of life remains,

Its goodness and its beauty too,

Pure love’s unutterable gains,

And hope which thrills us through and through.

God has not fled,

Souls are not dead.

Not in most ancient Palestine

Nor in the lightsome air of Greece,

Were human struggles more divine,

More blessed with guerdon of increase.

Take thou thy stand

In the workers’ band.

Whatever comes, whatever goes,

Still throbs the heart whereby we live,

The primal joys still lighten woes,

And Time which steals doth also give.

Fear not, be brave:

God can thee save.

Hast thou no faith? Thine is the fault:

What prophets, heroes, sages, saints,

Have loved, on thee still makes assault,

Thee with immortal things acquaints.

On life then seize:

Doubt is disease.