Poem January 4, 1900 Issue

The Infinite

BY CLARENCE A. BUSKIRK.

Within the blossoms of the bower,
However lovely wrought,
The concept of some fairer flower
Is possible to thought.

The brightest planet in the dance
Of worlds that shine afar,
May be surpassed in radiance
By some remoter star.

But when we seek the Infinite,
Such perfectness prevails,
The uttermost of mortal wit
Before the threshold fails.

II.

The red throat of the robin quaffs
The sunshine for its song,
The bithesome brooklet leaps and laughs
Its sparkling way along;

But man, the blinded Titan, gropes
Around his rugged cave,
And searches with his fears and hopes—
Only to find a grave.

Is bird so blest and man so curst?
Nay, all is Perfect Good,
And God's own spiritual likeness first,
Could all be understood.

Enough of God illumes our eyes
To know His ways are Good;
Therefore, our trust in Him is wise,
Though dimly understood.

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