Chapter V: Part 5

“‘Lo, have ye but fed thy herb that it be full o’ bloom, that thou
shouldst glad thee o’er thy sister? And lo, the herb o’ her hath
drunked her tears shed o’ loving, and standeth sweet-bloomed from
out the tears o’ her.’

“And lo, the herb did flower aneath their very eyes. And lo, the
flowering wert fulled o’ dews-gleam, and ’twer the sweet o’ her
heart, yea, the dew o’ heaven.”

Following this pretty parable someone spoke of a newspaper article that had appeared that day, and Patience remarked:

“’Tis a gab o’ fool. Aye, and the gab o’ fool be like unto a spring that be o’erfull o’ drops, ’tis ne’er atelling when it breaketh out its bounds.”

With this sage observation she dismissed the “fool” as unworthy of further consideration, and gave this poem:

Do I to love the morn,
When Earth awakes, and streams
Aglint o’ sun’s first gold,
As siren’s tresses thred them through the fields;
When sky-cup gleameth as a pearl;
When sky-hosts wake, and leaf bowers
Wave aheavied with the dew?
Do I to love the eve,
When white the moon doth show,
And frost’s sweet sister, young night’s breath,
Doth stand aglistened ’pon the blades;
When dark the shadow deepeth,
Like to the days agone that stand
As wraiths adraped o’ black
Along the garden’s path;
When sweet the nestlings twitter
’Neath the wing of soft and down
That hovereth it there within
The shadows deep atop the tree?

Do I to love the mid-hours deep—
The royal color o’ the night?
For earth doth drape her purpled,
And jeweled o’er athin this hour.

Do I to love these hours, then,
As the loved o’ me?
Nay, for at the morn,
Lo, do I to love the eve!
And at the eve,
Lo, do I to love the morn!
And at the morn and eve,
’Tis night that claimeth me.

A little of the reasoning of Patience upon Earth questions may appropriately come in here. The Currans, with a single visitor, had talked at luncheon of various things, beginning with music and ending with capital punishment, the latter suggested by an execution which at the moment was attracting national attention. When they took the board, after luncheon, Patience said:

“List thee. Earth sendeth up much note. Yea, and some do sound them
at wry o’ melody, and others sing them true. And lo, they who sing
awry shall mingle much and drown in melody. And I tell thee, o’er
and above shall sound the note o’ me!”

And then she gave them to understand that she had listened to their discussion!

“Ye spake ye of eye for eye. Yea, and tooth for tooth. Yea, but be
thy brother’s eye not the ope o’ thine, then ’tis a measure less the
full thou hast at taking o’ the eye o’ him. Yea, and should the
tooth o’ him put crave for carrion, and thine for sweets, then how
doth the tooth o’ him serve thee?”

Here the sitters asked: “How about a life for a life, Patience?”

_Patience._—“Ye fill thy measure full o’ sands that trickle waste at
each and every putting. I tell thee thou hast claimed life; aye, and
life be not thine or yet thy brother’s for the taking or giving.
Yea, and such an soul hath purged at the taking or giving, and rises
to smile at thy folly.

“Aye, and more. List! The earth’s baggage, hate, and might, and
scorn, fall at earth’s leave, a dust o’ naught, like the dust o’ thy
body crumbleth.

“Thou canst strip the body, yea, but the soul defieth thee!”

* * * * *

The visitor referred to in the preceding talk is a frequent guest of the Currans, and is one of the loved ones of Patience. This visitor, who is a widow, remarked one evening that Patience was deep and lived in a deep place.

“Aye,” said Patience, “a deeper than word. There be ahere what thou
knowest abetter far than word o’ me might tell. (This seems to refer
to the visitor’s husband.) Ayea thou hungereth, and bread be thine,
for from off lips that spaked not o’ the land o’ here in word o’
little weight, thou hast supped of love, and know the path that be
atrod by him shall be atrod even so by thee, e’en tho’ thou shouldst
find the mountain’s height and pits o’ depth past Earth’s tung.

“Shouldst thou at come o’ here to hark unto the sound of this voice,
thinkest thou that heights, aye or depths, might keep thee from
there? And even so, doth not the one thou seeketh too, haste e’en
now to find the path and waiteth?

“Then thinkest thou this journey be lone? Nay, I tell thee, thou art
areach e’en past the ye o’ ye, and he areach ato. Then shall the
path’s ope be its end and beginning. In love is the end and
beginning of things.

“Yea, yea, yea, the earth suppeth o’ the word o’ me, and e’en at the
supping stoppeth and speaketh so. What that one not o’ me doth brew.
Thou knowest this, dame. Aye, but what then? And why doth not the
blood o’ me speak unto me?

“’Tis a merry I be. Lo, have I not fetched forth unto a day that
holdeth little o’ the blood o’ me, that I might deal alike unto my
brother and bring forth word that be ahungered for aye, and they
speak them o’ her ahere and wag and hark not? Yea, and did the blood
o’ them spake out unto their very ears I vow me ’twould set the
earth ariot o’ fearing. Yea, man loveth blood that hath not flowed,
but sicketh o’er spilled blood. Yea, then weave.”

There was some discussion following this, to the effect that whatever explanations might be given of this phenomenon, many would believe in Patience Worth as an independent personality, which brought from her the following discourse which may well conclude these conversations:

“Yea, the tooth o’ him who eateth up the flesh I did to cloak me
athin, shall rot and he shalt wither. Aye, and the word o’ me shalt
stand. Fires but bake awell.

“Sweet hath the sound of the word o’ Him asounded unto the ears o’
Earth that hark not.

“Yea, and He hath beat upon the busom of Earth and sounded out a
loud noise, and Earth harkened not.

“And He hath sung thro’ the mother’s songs o’ Earth, and Earth
harkened not.

“Yea, and He hath sent His own with word, and Earth harkened not.

“Then ’tis Earth’s own folly that batheth her.

“Yea, and Folly cometh astreaming ribbands, and showering color, and
grinning ’pon his way.

“Yea, but Folly masketh and leadeth Earth and man assuredly unto
Follies pit—self. And self is blind.

“Then whence doth Earth to turn for aid? For Folly followeth not the
blind, and the voice of him who falleth unto the pit of Folly
soundeth out a loud note. Yea, and it echoeth ’self.’

“And lo, the Earth filled up o’ self, hearketh not unto the words of
Him, the King of Wisdom.

“Yea, and I say unto thee, though them o’ Him fall pierced and rent
athin the flow o’ their own blood thro’ the self-song o’ his
brother, he doeth this for Him.

“And the measuring rod shall weight out for him who packeth the
least o’ self athin him, afull o’ measure, and light for him who
packeth heavy o’ self.

“Ayea, and more. I speak me o’ lands wherein the high estate be
self. Yea, yea, yea, o’ thy lands do I to speak. Woe unto him who
feareth that might shall slay! Self may wield a mighty blow, but it
slayeth never.

“’Tis as the dame who watcheth o’er her brood, and lo, this one hath
sorry, and that one hath sorry. And she flitteth here and yon, and
lo, afore she hath fetched out the herbs, they sleep them peaceful.
So shall it be at this time. The herbs shall be fetched forth but
lo, the lands shall sleep them peaceful.

“Yea, for Folly leadeth, and Wisdom warreth Folly.”

RELIGION

“Teach me that I be Ye.”

And now we well may ask: What is the purpose of all this? Here we appear to have an invisible intelligence, speaking an obsolete language, producing volumes of poetry containing many evidences of profound wisdom. So far as I have been able to find out, no such phenomenon has occurred before since the world began. Do not misunderstand that assertion. There is nothing extraordinary in the manner of its coming, as I have said before. The publications of the Society for Psychical Research are filled with examples of communications received in the same or a similar way. The fact that makes this phenomenon stand out, that altogether isolates it from everything else of an occult nature, is the character and quality of its literature. Literature is something tangible, something that one can lay hands on, so to speak. It is in a sense physical; it can be seen with the eyes. And this literature is the physical evidence which Patience Worth presents of herself as a separate and distinct personality.

But why is it contributed? Is there in it any intimation or assertion of a definite purpose?

If we may assume that Patience is what she seems to be—a voice from another world, then indeed we may discern a purpose. She has a message to deliver, and she gives the impression that she is a messenger.

“Do eat that which I offer thee,” she says. “’Tis o’ Him. I but bear the pack apacked for the carry o’ me by Him.”

Constantly she speaks of herself as bearing food or drink in her words. “I bid thee eat,” she said to one, “and rest ye, and eat amore, for ’tis the wish o’ me that ye be filled.” The seed, the loaf, the cup, are frequently used symbolically when referring to her communications.

“There be a man who buyeth grain and he telleth his neighbor and his neighbor’s neighbor, and lo, they come asacked and clamor for the grain. And what think ye? Some do make price, and yet others bring naught. But I be atelling ye, ’tis not a price I beg. Nay, ’tis that ye drink my cup.”

“’Tis truth o’ earth that ’tis the seed aplanted deep that doth cause the harvester for to watch. For lo, doth he to hold the seed athin (within) his hand, ’tis but a seed. And aplanted he doth watch him in wondering. Verily do I say, ’tis so with me. I be aplanted deep; do thee then to watch.”

And with greater significance she has exclaimed: “Morn hath broke, and ye be the first to see her light. Look ye wide-eyed at His workings. He hath offered ye a cup.”

It is thus she announces herself to be a herald of a new day, a bearer of tidings divinely commissioned.

What, then, is her message? For answer it may be said that it is at once a revelation, a religion and a promise. Whatever we may think of the nature of this phenomenon, Patience herself is a revelation, and there are many revelations in her words. The religion she presents is not a new one. It is as old as that given to the world nineteen centuries ago; for fundamentally it is the same. It is that religion, stripped of all the doctrines and creeds and ceremonials and observances that have grown up about it in all the ages since His coming, and paring it down to the point where it can be expressed by the one word—Love. Love, going out to fellow man, to all nature and overflowing toward God.

In the consideration of this religion let us begin at the beginning, at the ground, so to speak, with this expression of love for the loveless:

Ah, could I love thee,
Thou, the loveless o’ the earth,
And pry aneath the crannies
Yet untouched by mortal hand
To send therein this love o’ mine—
Thou creeping mite, and winged speck,
And whirled waters o’ the mid o’ sea
Where no man seeth thee?
And could I love thee, the days
Unsunned and laden with hate o’ sorrying?
Ah, could I love thee,
Thou who beareth blight;
And thou the fruit bescorched
And shrivelling, to fall unheeded
’Neath thy mother-stalk?

Ah, could I love thee, love thee?
Aye, for Him who loveth thee,
And blightest but through loving;
Like to him who bendeth low the forest’s king
To fashion out a mast.

Love for everything is the essence of her thought and of her song. And as she thus sings for the loveless, so she sings for the wearied ones and the failures of the earth:

I’d sing.
Wearied word adropped by weary ones,
And broked mold afashioned out by wearied hands;
A falter-song sung through tears o’ wearied one;
A fancied put o’ earth’s fair scene
Afallen at awry o’ weariness. Love’s task
Unfinished, aye, o’ertaken by sore weariness—
O’ thee I’d sing.

Aye, and put me such an songed-note
That earth, aye, and heaven, should hear;
And thou, aye all o’ ye, the soul-songs
O’ my brothers, be afinished,
At the closing o’ my song.

Aye, and wearied, aye and wearied, I’d sing.
I’d sing for them, the loved o’ Him,
And brothers o’ thee and me. Amen.

This is the prelude and now comes the song:

I choose o’ the spill
O’ love and word and work,
The waste o’ earth, to build.

Ye hark unto the sages,
And oft a way-singer’s song
Hath laden o’erfull o’ truth,
And wasteth ’pon the air,
And falleth not unto thine ear.

Think ye He scattereth whither
E’en such an grain? Nay.
And do ye seek o’ spill
And put unto thy song,
’Twill fill its emptiness.

Ye seek to sing but o’ thy song,
And ’tis an empty strain. ’Tis need
O’ love’s spill for to fill.

The spill of earth, the love that goes unnoticed and unappreciated, the words that are unheard or unheeded, the work that seems to be for naught—none of these is waste. A song it is for the wearied ones, the heart-sick and discouraged, “the loved of Him and brothers of thee and me.”

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And yet she calls them waste but to show that they are not. “The waste of earth,” she says, “doth build the Heaven,” and this is the theme of much of her song.

Earth hath filled it up o’ waste and waste.
The sea’s fair breast, that heaveth as a mother’s,
Beareth waste o’ wrecks and wind-blown waste.
The day doth hold o’ waste.
The smiles that die, that long to break,
The woes that burden them already broke,
’Tis waste, ah yea, ’tis waste.
And yet, and yet, at some fair day,
E’en as the singing thou dost note
Doth bound from yonder hill’s side green
As echo, yea, the ghost o’ thy voice;
So shall all o’ this to sound aback
Unto the day.
Of waste, of waste, is heaven builded up.

It is to the waste of earth that she speaks in this message of love and sympathy:

Ah, emptied heart! The weary o’ the path!
How would I to fill ye up o’ love!
I’d tear this lute, that it might whirr
A song that soothed thy lone, awearied path.
I’d steal the sun’s pale gold,
And e’en the silvered even’s ray,
To treasure them within this song
That it be rich for thee.
From out the wastes o’ earth I’d seek
And catch the woe-tears shed,
That I might drink them from the cup
And fill it up with loving.
From out the hearts afulled o’ love
Would I to steal the o’er-drip
And pack the emptied hearts of earth.
The bread o’ love would I to cast
Unto thy bywayed path, and pluck me
From the thornèd bush that traileth o’er
The stepping-place, the thorn, that brothers
O’ the flesh o’ me might step ’pon path acleared.
Yea, I’d coax the songsters o’ the earth
To carol thee upon thy ways,
And fill ye up o’ love and love and love.

And a message of cheer and encouragement she gives to those who sorrow, in this:

“The web o’ sorrow weaveth ’bout the days o’ earth, and ’tis but
Folly who plyeth o’ the bobbin. I tell thee more, the bobbins stick
and threads o’ day-weave go awry. But list ye; ’tis he who windeth
o’ his web ’pon smiles and shuttleth ’twixt smiles and woe who
weaveth o’ a day afull and pleantious. And sorrow then wilt rift and
show a light athrough.”

Smiles amid sorrows. He who windeth of his web upon smiles not only rifts his own woes but those of others, as she expresses it in this verse:

The smile thou cast today that passed
Unheeded by the world; the handclasp
Of a friend, the touch of baby palms
Upon its mother’s breast—
Whither have they flown along the dreary way?
Mayhap thy smile
Hath fallen upon a daisy’s golden head,
To shine upon some weary traveler
Along the dusty road, and cause
A softening of the hard, hard way.
Perchance the handclasp strengthened wavering love
And lodged thee in thy friend’s regard.
And where the dimpled hands caress,
Will not a well of love spring forth?
Who knows, but who will tell
The hiding of these fleeting gifts!

And she gives measure to the same thought in this:

Waft ye through the world sunlight;
Throw ye to the sparrows grain
That runneth o’er the heaping measure.
Scatter flower petals, like the wings
Of fluttering butterflies, to streak
The dove-gray day with daisy gold,
And turn the silver mist to fleece of gold.
Hath the king a noble who is such
An wonder-worker? Or hath his jester
Such a pack of tricks as thine?

Both of these last have to do with the hands and with the use of the hands in the expression of love for others, but in the following poem Patience pays a tender and yet somewhat mystical tribute to the hands themselves, empty hands filled with the gifts of Him, the power to build and weave and soothe:

Hands. Hands. The hands o’ Earth;
Abusied at fashioning, Aye,
And put o’ this, aye, and that.
Hands. Hands upturned at empty.
Hands. Hands untooled, aye, but builders
O’ the soothe o’ Earth.

Hands. Hands aspread, aye, and sending forth
That which they do hold—the emptiness.
Aye, at empty they be, afulled o’ the give o’ Him.
At put at up, aye, and down, ’tis at weave
O’ cloth o’ Him they be.

Hands. Hands afulled o’ work o’ Him;
Aye, and ever at a spread o’ doing in His name.
Aye, and at put o’ weave
For naught but loving.

There are no doubt such hands on earth, many of them “ever at a spread of doing in His name,” but not often have their work and their mission been so beautifully and so fittingly expressed as in this strange verse which, to me at least, grows in wonder at every reading. And this not so much because of the quaintness of the words and the singularity of the construction, as for the thought. This, however, is characteristic of all of her work. There is always more in it than appears upon the surface. And yet when one analyzes it, one finds that whatever may be the nature or the subject of the composition, in nearly every instance love is the inspiration.

The love that she expresses is universal. It goes out to nature in all its forms, animate and inanimate, lovely and unlovely. It is manifested in all her references to humanity, from the infant to doddering age; and her compositions are filled with appeals for the application of love to the relations between man and man. But it is when she sings of God that she expresses love with the most tender and passionate fervency—His love for man, her love for Him. “For He knoweth no beginning, no ending to loving,” she says, “and loveth thee and me and me and thee ever and afore ever.” “Sighing but bringeth up heart’s weary; tears but wash the days acleansed; hands abusied for them not thine do work for Him; prayers that fall ’pon but the air and naught, ye deem, sing straight unto Him. Close, close doth He to cradle His own to Him.” She gives poetic expression to this divine love in the song which follows:

Brother, weary o’ the plod,
Art sorried sore o’ waiting?
Brother, bowed aneath the pack o’ Earth,
Art seeking o’ the path
That leadest thee unto new fields
O’ green, and breeze-kissed airs?
Art bowed and bent o’ weight o’ sorry?
Art weary, weary, sore?
Then come and hark unto this song o’ Him.

Hast thou atrodden ’pon the Earth,
And worn the paths o’ folly
Till thou art foot-sore?
And hast the day grinned back to thee,
A folly-mask adown thy path
That layeth far behind thee?
Thy heart, my brother, hast thou then
Alost it ’pon the path?
And filled thee up o’ word and tung
O’ follysingers long the way?

Ah, weary me, ah, weary me!
Come thou unto this breast.
For though thou hast suffered o’ the Earth,
And though thy robe be stained
O’ travel o’er the stoney way,
And though thy lips deny thy heart,
Come thou unto this breast,
The breast o’ Him.
For He knoweth not the stain.
Aye, and the land o’ Him doth know
No stranger ’mid its hosts.
Ayea, and though thou comest mute,
This silence speaketh then to Him,
And He doth hold Him ope His arms.

So come thou brother, weary one,
To Him, for ’tis but Earth and men
Who ask thee WHY.

She pours out her love for God in many verses of praise and prayer.

Bird skimming to the south,
Bear thou my song,
Sand slipping to the wave’s embrace,
Do thou but bear it too!
And, shifting tide, take thou
Unto thy varied paths
The voicing of my soul!

I’d build me such an endless
Chant to sing of Him
That days to follow days
Would be but builded chord
Of this my lay.

Still more ardently does she express her love in these lines:

Spring, thou art but His smile
Of happiness in me, and sullen days
Of weariness shall fall when Spring is born
In winds of March and rains of April’s tears.
Methinks ’tis weariness of His that I,
His loved, should tarry o’er the task
And leave life’s golden sheaves unbound.
And, Night, thou too art mine, of Him.
Thy dim and veiled stars are but the eyes
Of Him that through the curtained mystery
Watch on and sever dark from me.
And, Love, thou too art His,
His words of wooing to my soul.
Should I, then, crush thee in embrace,
And bruise thee with my kiss,
And drink thy soul through mine?
What, then! ’Tis He, ’tis He, my love,
That gave me thee, and while my love is thine,
What wonder is it causeth here
This heart of mine to stifle so
And seek expression in a prayer of thanks?

With equal fervency of devotion and gratitude she sings this tribute to the day:

Ah, what a day He hath made, He hath made!
It flasheth abright and asweet, and asweet.
It showeth His love and His smile, yea, His smile.

The hills stand abrown, aye astand brown,
And peaked as a monk in his cowl, aye, his cowl!
The grass it hath seared, aye, hath seared
And scenteth asweet, yea, asweet.
Ayonder a swallow doth whirl, aye, doth whirl,
And skim mid the grey o’ the blue,
Aye, the grey o’ the blue.
The young wave doth lap ’pon the sands,
Yea, lap soft and soft ’pon the sands.
The field’s maid doth seek, yea, doth seek,
And send out her song to the day,
Yea, send out her song to the day.

My heart it is full, yea, ’tis full,
For the love of Him batheth the day,
Yea, the love of Him batheth the day.

Ah, what a day He hath made,
Yea, He hath made it for me!

Her prayers are not appeals for aid; they are not begging petitions. They are outpourings of love and trust and gratitude.

To an old couple, friends of Mr. and Mrs. Curran, who passed a round-eyed evening with Patience, she said:

Keep ye within thy heart a song
And murmur thou this prayer:

“My God, am I then afraid
Of heights or depths?
And doth this dark benumb my quaking limbs?
And do I stop my song in fear
Lest Thee do then forsake me?
Nay, for I do love Thee so,
I fain would choose a song
Built from my chosen tung,
And though it be but chattering
Of a soul bereft of reasoning,
I know Thou would’st love it as Thine own,
For I do love Thee so!”

This was not given for another, but is her own cry:

I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught!
But cry aloud unto the sunlight
Who bathes the earth in gold
And boldly breaketh into crannies
Yet unseen by man:
Flash thou in flaming sheen!
Mine own song of love doth falter
And my throat, it is afail!

And thou, the greening shrub along the way,
And earth at bud-season,
Do thou then spurt thy shoots
And pierce the air with loving!
And age-wabbled brother—
I do love thee for thy spending,
And I do gaze in loving at thy face,
Whereon I find His peace,
And trace the withered cheek
For record of His love.
Around thy lips doth hang
The child-smile of a trusting heart;
And world hath vanished
From thine eyes, bedimmed
To gard thee at awakening.
Thou, too, art of my song of love.

I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught.
These hands are Thine for loving,
And this heart, already Thine,
Why offer it?
I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught.

This one does ask for something, but only to know Him:

Teach me, O God,
To say, “’Tis not enough.”
Aye, teach me, O Brother,
To sing, and though the weight
Be past this strength,
Teach me, O God, to say,
“’Tis not enough—to pay!”

Teach me, O God, for I be weak.
Teach me to learn
Of strength from Thee.

Teach me, O God, to trust, and do.
Teach me, O God, no word to pray.
Teach me, O God, the heart Thou gavest me.
Teach me, O God, to read thereon.
Teach me, O God, to waste not word.
Teach me that I be Ye!

That last line presents the most impressive principle of the religion she expresses, and which, we might almost say, she embodies. “Who are you?” she was once asked abruptly.

“I be Him,” she replied; “alike to thee. Ye be o’ Him.”

At another time she said:

“I be all that hath been, and all that is, all that shalt be, for that be He.”

Taken alone this would seem to be a declaration that she herself was God, but when it is read in connection with the previous affirmation it is readily understood.

“Thou art of Him,” she said again, “aye, and I be of Him, and ye be of Him, and He be all and of all.”

In this prayer, where she says “Teach me, O God, no word to pray,” it is evident from her other prayers that she uses the word pray in the sense of “to beg.” Her prayers are merely expressions of love and gratitude.

She herself interprets the line, “Teach me, O God, to waste not word,” in this verse:

Speak ye a true tongue,
Or waste ye with words the Soul’s song?
A damning evidence is with wasted words;
For need I prate to yonder star
When hunger fills the world wherein I dwell?
Cast I a glance so precious as His
Which wakes at every dawn?
Speak I a tongue one half so true
As sighing winds who sing amid
Aeolian harps strung with siren tress?
For lo, the sea murmureth a thousand tones,
Wrung from its world within,
But telleth only of Him,
And so His silence keeps.

In the order in which we have chosen to present these poems, they are more and more mystical as we go on. We trust, then, that the reader meeting them for the first time will feel no impertinence in increasing attempts at elucidation from one who has read them often and pondered them much.

There is another and a very interesting phase of these communications in the place Christ holds in them. Patience’s attitude toward the Savior is one of deep and loving reverence.

“Didst thou then,” she says, “with those drops so worth, buy the throbbing at thy memory set aflutter? And is this love of mine so freely thine by that same purchase, or do I love thee for thy love of me? And do I, then, my father’s tilling for love of Him, like thee to shed my blood and tears for reapers in an age to come, because He wills it so? God grant ’tis so!”

Nor does she hesitate to assert His divinity with definiteness. “Think ye,” she cries, “that He who doth send the earth aspin athrough the blue depth o’ Heaven, be not a wonder-god who springeth up where’er He doth set a wish! Yea, then doth He to spring from out the dust a lily; so also doth He to breathe athin (within) the flesh, and come unto the earth, born from out flesh athout the touch o’ man. ’Tis so, and from off the lute o’ me hath song aflowed that be asweeted o’ the blood o’ Him that shed for thee and me.”

And she puts the same assertion of His divine birth into this tribute to the Virgin:

Mary, mother, thou art the Spring
That flowereth, though nay man aplanteth thee.
Mary, mother, the song of thee
That lulled His dreams to come,
Sing them athrough the earth and bring
The hope of rest unto the day.

Mary, mother, from out the side of Him
That thou didst bear, aflowed the crimson tide
That doth to stain e’en unto this day—
The tide of blood that ebbed the man
From out the flesh and left the God to be.

Mary, mother, wilt thou then leave me catch
These drops, that I do offer them as drink
Unto the brothers of the flesh of me of earth?
Mary, mother of the earth’s loved!
Mary, bearer of the God!
Mary, that I might call thee of a name befitting thee,
I seek, I seek, I seek, and none
Doth offer it to me save this:
Mother! Mother! Mother of the Him;
The flesh that died for me.

THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY

“Earth! Earth, the mother of us all! Aye, the mother of us all! How loth, how loth, like to a child we be, to leave and seek ’mid dark!”—PATIENCE WORTH.

If the personality of Patience Worth and the nature and quality of her literary productions are worthy of consideration as evidences of the truth of her claim to a spiritual existence, then in the sufficiency of the proof may be found an answer to the world-old question: Is there a life after death? To what extent the facts that have been presented in this narrative may be accepted as proof, is for the reader to determine. But Patience has not been content to reveal a strange personality and a unique literature; she has had much to say upon this question of immortality. There is more or less spiritual significance in nearly all of her poetry and in some of her prose, and while her references to the after life are usually veiled under figures of speech, they nevertheless give assurances of its existence. She makes it clear, however, that she is not permitted to reveal the nature of that life beyond the veil, but she goes as far apparently as she dares, in the repeated assertion, through metaphor and illustration, of its reality.

“My days,” she cries, “I have scattered like autumn leaves, whirled
by raging winds, and they have fallen in various crannies ’long the
way. Blown to rest are the sunny spring-kissed mornings of my youth,
and with many a sigh did I blow the sobbing eves that melted into
tear-washed night. Blow on, thou zephyr of this life, and let me
throw the value of each day to thee. Blow, and spend thyself, till,
tired, thou wilt croon thyself to sleep. Perchance this casting of
my day may cease, and thou wilt turn anew unto thy blowing and reap
the casting of the world.

“What then is a sigh? Ah, man may breathe a sorrow. Doth then the
dumbness of his brother bar his sighing? Nay—and hark! The sea doth
sigh, and yonder starry jasmine stirreth with a tremorous sigh; and
morning’s birth is greeted with the sighing of the world. For what?
Ah, for that coming that shall fulfill the promise, and change the
sighing to a singing, and loose the tongue of him whom God doth know
and, fearful lest he tell His hidden mysteries, hath locked his
lips.”

And again she asks: “Needest thou see what God himself sealeth thine eyes to make thee know?” Meaning, undoubtedly, that only through the process of death can the soul be brought to an understanding of that other life; and she declares that even if we were shown, we could not comprehend. “If thou should’st see His face on morrow’s break,” she says, “’twould but start a wagging,” a discussion. And she continues: “Ah, ope the tabernacle, but look thou not on high, for when the filmy veil shall fade away—ah, could’st thou but know that He who waits hath looked, aye looked, on thee, and thou hast looked on Him since time began!” This enigmatical utterance is in itself sufficient to start a “wagging,” but Patience evidently feels that the solution is beyond our powers: for she repeatedly asserts that the key to the mystery is within our reach if we could but grasp it. “Fleet as down blown from its moorings, seeking the linnet who dropped her seed, so drift ye,” she says, “ever seeking, when at the root still rests the seed pod.” And again: “Knowest thou that fair land to which the traveler is loath to go, but loath, so loath, to leave? Ah, the mystery of the snail’s shell is far deeper than this.”

Yet she tells us again and again that Nature itself is the proof of another life. “Why live,” she asks, “the paltry span of years allotted thee, in desolation, while all about thee are His promises? Thou art, indeed, like a withered hand that holds a new-blown rose.” The truth, she says, is not to be found in “books of wordy filling,” but in the infant’s smile and in the myriad creations and resurrections that are ever within our cognizance. “I pipe of learning,” she cries, “and fall silent before the fool who singeth his folly lay.”

The natural evidences she points out are visible to all and within the comprehension of the feeblest intelligence, but he whose vision is obscured by book knowledge “is like unto the monk who prays within his cell, unheedful of the timid sunbeam who would light the page his wisdom so befogs.” “Ah!” she exclaims, “the labor set thee to unlearn thine inborn fancies!” meaning, apparently, the suppression of the intuitions of immortality; and in the same line of thought she cries: “Am I then drunkened on the chaff of knowledge supped by mine elderborn? Nay, my forefolk drank not truth, but sent through my veins acoursing, chaff, chaff, naught by chaff.” Plainly, then, Patience has no great respect for learning, and it is the book of Nature rather than the book of words that she would have us read.

I made a song from the dead notes of His birds,
And wove a wreath of withered lily buds,
And gathered daisies that the sun had scorched,
And plucked a rose the riotous wind had torn,
And stolen clover flowers, down-trodden by the kine,
And fashioned into ropes and tied with yellow reed,
An offering unto Him: and lo, the dust
Of crumbling blossoms fell to bloom again,
And smiled like sickened children,
Wistfully, but strong of faith that mother-stalk
Would send fresh blossoms in the spring.

So it is she sings, presenting the symbolisms of nature to illustrate the renewal or the continuance of life; or again, she likens life to the seasons (as did Shakespeare and Keats, and many another poet) in this manner:

My youth is promising as spring,
And verdant as young weeds,
Whose very impudence taketh them
Where bloom the garden’s treasures.
My midlife, like the summer, who blazeth
As a fire of blasting heat, fed by withered
Crumbling weeds of my spring.
My sunset, like the fall who ripeneth
The season’s offerings. And hoar frost
Is my winter night, fraught with borrowed warmth,
And flowers, and filled with weeds,
Which spring e’en ’neath the frozen waste?
Ah, is the winter then my season’s close?
Or will I pin a faith to hope and look
Again for spring, who lives eternal in my soul?

Faith is the keynote of many of her songs, the faith that grows out of that profound love which is the essential principle of the religion she presents. The triumph of faith she expresses in the poem which follows:

O sea! The panting bosom of the Earth;
The sighing, singing carol of her heart!
I watch thee and I dream a dream
Whose fruit doth sicken me.
White sails do fleck thy sheen, and yonder moon
Doth seem to dip thy depths
And sail the silver mirror, high above.
Unharbored do I rove. Along the shore behind,
The shadow of Tomorrow creepeth on.
A seething silvered path doth stretch thy length,
To meet the curving cheek of Lady Moon.
I dream the flutt’ring waves to fanning wings
And fain would follow in their course. But stay!
My barque doth plow anew, and set the wings to flight;
For though I watch their tremorous mass, my craft
But saileth harbor-loosed, and ever stretcheth far
Beyond the moon’s own phantom path—
And I but dream a dream whose fruit doth sicken me.
Ah, Sea! who planted thee, and cast
A silver purse, unloosed, upon thy breast?
My barque, who then did harbor it,
And who unfurled its sail?
And yonder moon, from whence her silver coaxed?
Methinks my dream doth wax her wroth,
Else why the pallor o’er her cast?
Dare I to sail, to steer me at the wheel?
Shall I then hide my face and cease my murmuring,
O’erfearful lest I find the port?
Nay, I do know thee, Lord, and fearless sail me on,
To harbor then at dawning of new day.
I stand unfearful at the prow.
At anchor rests my barque. Away, thou phantom Moon,
And restless, seething path!
My chart I cast unto the sea,
For I do know Thee, Lord!

This triumph of faith is also the theme of the weird allegory which follows. It is, perhaps, the most mystical of Patience’s productions.

THE PHANTOM AND THE DREAMER

_Phantom:_
Thick stands the hill in garb of fir,
And winter-stripped the branching shrub.
Cold gray the sky, and glistered o’er
With star-dust pulsing tremorously.

Snow, the lady of the Winter Knight,
Hath danced her weary and fallen to her rest.
She lieth stretched in purity
And dimpled ’neath the trees.
A trackless waste doth lie from hill
To valley ’neath, and Winter’s Knight
Doth sing a wooing lay unto his love.

Cot on cot doth stand deserted,
And thro’ the purpled dark they show
Like phantoms of a life long passed
To nothingness. Hear thou the hollowness
Of the sea’s coughing beat against
The cliff beneath, and harken ye
To the silence of the valley there.
Doth chafe ye of thy loneliness?
Then sleep and let me put a dream to thee.

See ye the cot—
A speck o’ dark adown the hillside,
And sheltered o’er with fir-bows,
Heavy-laden with the kiss of Lady Snow?
Come hither then. Let’s bruise this snowy breast,
And fetch us there unto its door.
See! Here a twig
Hath battled with the wind, and lost.
We then may cast it ’mid its brothers
Of the bush and plow us on.
Look ye to the thick thatch
O’er the gable of the roof,
Piled higher with a blanketing of snow;
And shutters hang agape, to rattle
Like the cackle of a crone.
The blackness of a pit within,
And filled with sounds that tho’ they be
But seasoning of the log, doth freeze
Thy marrowmeat. I feel the quake
And shake thee for thy fear.

Stride thou within and set a flint to brush
Within the chimney-place. We then shall rouse
The memory of the tenant here—
A night, my friend, thee’lt often call to mind.
The flame hath sprung and lappeth at the twigs.
Thee’lt watch the burning of thy hastiness,
And wait thee long
Until the embers slip away to smoke.
Then strain ye to its weaving
And spell to me the reading of its folds.

_Dreamer:_
I see thin, threading lines that writhe them
To a shape—a visage ever changeful,
Or mine eyes do play me false,
For it doth smile to twist it to a leer,
And sadden but to laugh in mockery.
I see a lad whose face
Doth shine illumed, and he doth bear
The kiss of wisdom on his brow.
I see him travail ’neath a weary load,
And close beside him Wisdom follows on.
Burdened not is he. Do I see aright?
For still the light of wisdom shineth o’er.
But stay! What! Do mine eyes then cheat?
This twisting smoke-wreath
Filleth all too much my sight!

_Phantom:_
Nay, friend, strain thee now anew.
The lad! Now canst thou see?
Nay, for like to him
Thou hast looked thee at the face of Doubt.

_Dreamer:_
Who art thou, shape or phantom, then,
That thou canst set my dream to flight?
I doubt me that the lad could stand
Beneath the load!

_Phantom:_
Nay, thee canst ravel well, my friend.
The lad was thee, and Doubt
O’ertook with Wisdom on thy way.
Come, bury Doubt aneath the ash.
We travel us anew.
Seest thou, a rimming moon doth show
From ’neath the world’s beshadowed side.
A night bird chatteth to its mate,
And lazily the fir-boughs wave.
We track us to the cot whose roof
Doth sag—and why thy shambling tread?
I bid ye on!

_Dreamer:_
Who art thou—again I that demand—
That I shall follow at thy bidding?
Who set me then this task?

_Phantom:_
Step thou within!
Stand thee on the thresh of this roofless void!
Look thou! Dost see the maid
Who coyly stretcheth forth her hand
To welcome thee? She biddeth thee
To sit and sup. I bid thee speak.
Awaken thee unto her welcoming.

_Dreamer:_
Enough! This fancy-breeding sickeneth
My very soul! A skeleton of murdered trees,
Ribbed with pine and shanked of birch!
And thee wouldst bid me then
Embrace the emptiness.
I see naught, and believe but what I see.

_Phantom:_
Look thou again, and strain.
What seest thou?

_Dreamer:_
I see a newly kindled fire,
And watch its burning glow until
The embers die and send their ghosts aloft.
But ash remaineth—and I chill!
For rising there, a shape
Whose visage twisteth drunkenly,
And from her garments falls a dust of ash.

_Phantom:_
Doubt! Unburied, friende! We journey on,
And mark ye well each plodding footfall
Singing like to golden metal with the frost.
The night a scroll of white, and lined
With blackish script—
The lines of His own putting!
Read thee there! Thou seest naught,
And believe but what ye see!
Stark nakedness and waste—but hearken ye!
The frost skirt traileth o’er the crusted snow
And singeth young leaves’ songs of Spring.

Still art thou blind!
But at His touching shall the darkness bud
And bloom to rosy morn. And even now,
Were I to snap a twig ’twould bleed and die.
See ye; ’tis done! Look ye!
Ye believe but what ye see:
Here within thy very hand
Thou holdest Doubt’s undoing.
I bid ye look upon the bud
Already gathered ’neath the tender bark.
The sun’s set and rise hath coaxed it forth.
Thee canst see the rogue hath stolen red
And put it to its heart. And here
Aneath the snow the grass doth love the earth
And nestles to her breast.
I stand me here, and lo, the Spring hath broke!
The dark doth slip away to hide,
And flowering, singing, sighing, loving Spring
Is here!

_Dreamer:_
Aye, thou art indeed
A wonder-worker in the night!
A black pall, a freezing blast,
An unbroken path—and thou
Wouldst have me then to prate o’ Spring,
And pluck a bud where dark doth hide the bush!
Who cometh from the thicket higher there?

_Phantom:_
’Tis Doubt to meet thee, friend!

_Dreamer:_
Who art thou? I fain would flee,
And yet I fear to leave lest I be lost.
I hate thee and thy weary task!

_Phantom:_
Nay, brother, thy lips do spell,
But couldst thee read their words aright
Thee wouldst meet again with Doubt.
Come! We journey on unto the cot
Beloved the most by me. I bid thee
Let thy heart to warm within thy breast.
A thawing melteth frozen Hope.
See how, below, the sea hath veiled
Her secret held so close,
And murmured only to the winds
Who woo her ever and anon.
The waves do lap them, hungry for the sands.
Careful! Lest the sun’s pale rise
Should blind thee with its light.
A shaft to put it through
The darkness of thy soul must needs
But be a glimmering to blind.
Step ye to the hearthstone then,
And set thee there a flame anew.
I bid ye read again
The folding of the smoke.

_Dreamer:_
’Tis done, thou fiend!
A pretty play for fools, indeed.
I swear me that ’tis not
For loving of the task I builded it,
But for the warming of its glow.

_Phantom:_
In truth ye speak. But read!

_Dreamer:_
I see a hag whose brow
Doth wrinkle like a summer sea.
For do I look unto the sea
At Beauty’s own fair form,
It writheth to a twisted shape,
And I do doubt me of her loveliness.
The haggard visage of the crone
I now behold, doth set me doubting
Of mine eye, for dimples seem
To flutter ’neath the wrinkled cheek.

_Phantom:_
So, then, thee believest
But what thine eyes behold!
Thee findest then
Thy seeing in a sorry plight.
I marvel at thy wisdom, lad.
Look ye anew. Mayhap thee then
Canst coax the crone away.

_Dreamer:_
Enough! The morn hath kissed the night adieu,
And even while I prate
A redwing crimsoneth the snow in flight.
Kindled tinder smoldereth away,
And I do strain me to its fold.
I glut me of the loveliness I there behold,
For from the writhing stream a sprite is born
Whose beauteous form bedazzles me,
And she doth point me
To the golding gray of morn. The sea
Is singing, singing her unto my soul.
I dreamed she sighed, but waked to hear her sing.
I hear thee, Phantom, bidding me on, on!
But morn hath stolen dreams away.
I strain me to the hills to trace our path,
And lo, unbroken is the snow,
And cots have melted with the light,
And yet, methinks a murmuring doth come
From out the echoes of the night,
That hid them ’neath the crannies of the hills.
Life! Life! I lead thee on!
And faith doth spring from seedlings of thy doubt!

EPILOGUE.

Thick stands the hill in garb of fir and snow.
The Lady of the Winter’s Knight hath danced
Her weary, and stretched her in her purity,
To cover aching wounds of Winter’s overloving woo.

* * * * *

“And faith doth spring from seedlings of thy doubt!” plainly meaning an active doubt that searches for the truth and finds it. But she personifies Doubt in another and more forbidding form in this:

Like to a thief who wrappeth him
Within the night-tide’s robe,
So standeth the specter o’ the Earth;
Yea, he doth robe him o’ the Earth’s fair store.
Yea, he decketh in the star-hung purple o’ the eve,
And reacheth from out the night unto the morn,
And wringeth from her waking all her gold,
And at his touching, lo, the stars are dust,
And morn’s gold but heat’s glow, and ne’er
The golden blush of His own metal store.

Yea, he strideth then
Upon the flower-hung couches of the field,
And traileth him thereon his robe,
And lo, the flowers do die of thirst
And parch of scoarching of his breath.
Yea, and ’mid the musics of the earth he strideth him,
And full-songed throats are mute.
Yea, music dieth of his luring glance.
And e’en the love of earth he seeketh out
And turneth it unto a folly-play.
Yea, beneath his glance, the fairy frost
Upon the love sprite’s wing
Doth flutter, as a dust, and drop, and leave
But bruised and broken bearers for His store.

Yea, and ’mid man’s day he ever strideth him
And layeth low man’s reasoning. His robes
Are hung of all the earth’s most loved.
From off the flowers their fresh; from off the day
The fairness of her hours. For dark, and hid
Beneath his cloak, he steppeth ever,
And doth hiss his name to thee—
Doubt.

I have said that the message of Patience Worth contained a revelation, a religion and a promise. The revelation is too obvious to need a pointer. In the preceding chapter were presented the elements of the religion that she reveals, with which should be included the unfaltering faith expressed in these poems. Love and Faith—these are the two Graces upon whom, to personify them, all her work is rested, and from them spring the promise she conveys. That promise has to do with the hereafter, and Patience knows the human attitude in relation to that universal problem, and she gives courage to the shrinking heart in this poem on the fear of death:

I stride abroad before my brothers like a roaring lion,
Yet at even’s close from whence cometh the icy hand
That clutcheth at my heart and maketh me afraid—
The slipping of myself away, I know not whither?
And lo, I fall atremble.
When I would grasp a straw, ’tis then I find it not.
Can I then trust me on this journey lone
To country I deem peopled, but know not?
My very heart declareth faith, yet hath not thine
Been touched and chilled by this same phantom?
Ah, through the granite sips the lichen—
And hast thou not a long dark journey made?
Why fear? As cloud wreaths fade
From spring’s warm smile, so shall fear
Be put to flight by faith.

I pluck me buds of varied hue and choose the violet
To weave a garland for my loved and best.
I search for bloom among the rocks
And find but feathery plume.
I weave, and lo, the blossoms fade
Before I reach the end,
And faded lie amid my tears—
And yet I weave and weave.
I search for jewels ’neath the earth,
And find them at the dawn,
Besprinkled o’er the rose and leaf,
And showered by the sparrow’s wing,
Who seeketh ’mid the dew-wet vine
A harbor for her home.
I search for truth along the way
And find but dust and web,
And in the smile of infant lips
I know myself betrayed.
I watch the swallow skim across the blue
To homelands of the South,
And ah, the gnawing at my heart doth cease;
For how he wings and wings
To lands he deemeth peopled by his brothers,
Whose song he hears in flight!
Not skimming on the lake’s fair breast is he,
But winging on and on,
And dim against the feathery cloud
He fades into the blue.
I stand with withered blossoms crushed,
And weave and weave and weave.

This is Patience’s answer to the eternal question:

Can I then trust me on this journey lone
To country I deem peopled, but know not?

It is the cry of him who believes and yet doubts, and Patience points to the swallow winging across the blue “to lands he deemeth peopled with his brothers” who have gone on before. In imagination he can hear their song in the home lands of the South, and though he cannot see them, and cannot have had word from them, he knows they are there, and he does not skim uncertainly about the lake, but with unfaltering faith “wings him on and on” until—

Dim against the feathery cloud
He fades into the blue.

But Patience does not content herself with appeals to faith, eloquent as they may be. While her communications are always clothed in figures of speech, they are sometimes more definite in statement than in the lines which have been thus far presented. In the prose poem which follows, she asks and answers the question in a way that can leave no doubt of her meaning: