THE LESSON OF PATMOS

JOHN M. DEAN

No dwelling-place in palace walls,
No cant of creed, no vain display,
No cushioned couch nor gilded halls
Could mark the Revelator's way;
But on a rock all drear and bare,
A wave-washed, desolate abode,—
The lone apostle praying there
Drew nearer to his loving God,
On Patmos.

So we, midst life's tempestuous days,
May brave the wrathful storms of hate,
May turn our cries to hymns of praise,
And open wide the heavenly gate;
If we but put our trust in God,
And cleanse our hearts of all but love,
Forget the mists of earth's abode,
And lift our eyes to skies above,
From Patmos.

Then things that to our blinded sense
Oft seem afflictions dark and drear,
Will always have their recompense
And banish every doubt and fear.
Oh, may we learn to murmur not
When night shuts down and waves beat high;
Let earth's heart-anguish be forgot,
Through cloud-rifts beams the radiant sky,
On Patmos!

"What she could"—not what she could not do—not what she thought might be done—not what she would like to do—not what she would do if she had more time—not what somebody else thought she ought to do—but "what she could."—W. D. Shipman.

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