[Written for the Sentinel]


Behind a desert storm, the sea before,
A heat-dim beach and vibrant air between;
I glimpsed, then clear as thrown upon a screen
A city, as of smoke, masked yonder shore.
And drunken bold it seemed, illusory mirage;
Yet soon its seeming changed in picture there,
Till but distorted shapes and blurred were where
Had feigned majestic walls,—then scarce a lodge,—
Nor sign imposed upon the atmosphere.
Mirage, a falsity, finds no continuance here.

Oh, false the evidence of waking dreams
When pain's mirage would image forth its bond,
And doubt abandon sense to deep despond!
Illusion ne'er may prove that which it seems.
Our God, the Truth, e'er He our health renew,
Demands a cleansing; then His gift of peace
Is ours, and the suffering senses cease.
Dispel we must the false to claim the true.
Mirage-like sense, but argument, must fade
From out our ken when Truth is known, obeyed.

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December 26, 1914

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