Chapter XLIX

“You surely would not mean,” she ask’d and paused,
“That you could throw aside your hopes? your vows?
Your life-work?—seek enjoyment?”
“Ah,” said I,
“Enjoyment is the man’s most heartfelt praise
To Him that fram’d his being. What should I,
A child of God, do here but live God’s life?—
Which is not now, nor then, but evermore.
My soul must thrive the best, as best I make
My now, eternal; my eternal, now.
So when a storm comes, let me bar it out;
And, braced against the present ill, grow strong;
And when the sunshine, let me open wide
To that which makes all nature grow more sweet.
Thus, realizing in my earthly state
The aim of heaven, why do I praise Him less
Whose life is that of heaven, than those who wear
The guises of that slattern of the soul,
Asceticism, shuffling toward far good,
Slipshod and snivelling?”—
“Now, that goes too far!”
Cried Grace. “Do I do this?—Ah, but I know
A man so moody!—Own it. Were I you,
I just would set to work. To work off whims,
The best way, say they, is to work them out;
One hand at work is worth ten heads that shirk.”

“You find me moody!” sigh’d I; “and complain;
Deem moods not meet. Oh, no they prove we feel!—
Nor pious they: they prove we think!”