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    Bees in Amber - A Little Book of Thoughtful Verse
    Bees in Amber - A Little Book of Thoughtful Verse
    Bees in Amber - A Little Book of Thoughtful Verse
    Ebook163 pages1 hour

    Bees in Amber - A Little Book of Thoughtful Verse

    By John Oxenham

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    About this ebook

    This vintage book contains John Oxenham’s 1913 collection of poetry, "Bees In Amber - A Little Book Of Thoughtful Verse". This fantastic collection is recommended for all lovers of poetry, and constitutes a veritable must-read for fans of Oxenham’s beautiful work. The poems of this collection include: “Credo”, “New Year’s Day and Everyday”, “Philosopher’s Garden”, “Flowers of the Dust”, “The Pilgrim Way”, “Everymaid”, “Better and Best”, “The Shadow”, “The Potter”, “Nightfall”, “The Pruner”, “The Ways”, “Seeds”, “Whirring Wheels”, “The Bells of YS”, “The Little Poem of Life”, and many more. William Arthur Dunkerley (1852 - 1941) was an English poet, novelist, and journalist. Many antiquarian texts such as this are increasingly hard to come by and expensive, and it is with this in mind that we are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition. It comes complete with a specially commissioned new biography of the author.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateMay 6, 2015
    ISBN9781473394605
    Bees in Amber - A Little Book of Thoughtful Verse

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      Book preview

      Bees in Amber - A Little Book of Thoughtful Verse - John Oxenham

      Bees in Amber.

      New Year’s Day—and Every Day.

      Each man is Captain of his Soul,

      And each man his own Crew,

      But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas,

      And He will bring us through.

      We break new seas to-day,—

      Our eager keels quest unaccustomed waters,

      And, from the vast uncharted waste in front,

      The mystic circles leap

      To greet our prows with mightiest possibilities;

      Bringing us—what?

      —Dread shoals and shifting banks?

      —And calms and storms?

      —And clouds and biting gales?

      —And wreck and loss?

      —And valiant fighting-times?

      And, maybe, Death!—and so, the Larger Life!

      For should the Pilot deem it best

      To cut the voyage short,

      He sees beyond the sky-line, and

      He’ll bring us into Port.

      And, maybe, Life,—Life on a bounding tide,

      And chance of glorious deeds;—

      Of help swift-born to drowning mariners;

      Of cheer to ships dismasted in the gale;

      Of succours given unasked and joyfully;

      Of mighty service to all needy souls.

      So—Ho for the Pilot’s orders,

      Whatever course He makes!

      For He sees beyond the sky-line,

      And He never makes mistakes.

      And, maybe, Golden Days,

         Full freighted with delight!

      —And wide free seas of unimagined bliss,

      —And Treasure Isles, and Kingdoms to be won,

      —And Undiscovered Countries, and New Kin.

      For each man captains his own Soul,

      And chooses his own Crew,

      But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas.

      And He will bring us through.

      Philosopher’s Garden.

      "See this my garden,

      Large and fair!"

      —Thus, to his friend,

      The Philosopher.

      " ’Tis not too long,"

      His friend replied,

      With truth exact,—

      "Nor yet too wide.

      But well compact,

      If somewhat cramped

      On every side."

      Quick the reply—

      "But see how high!—

      It reaches up

      To God’s blue sky!"

      Not by their size

      Measure we men

      Or things.

      Wisdom, with eyes

      Washed in the fire,

      Seeketh the things

      That are higher—

      Things that have wings

      Thoughts that aspire.

      Flowers of the Dust.

      The Mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small—

      So soft and slow the great wheels go they scarcely move at all;

      But the souls of men fall into them and are powdered into dust,

      And in that dust grow the Passion-Flowers—Love, Hope, Trust.

      Most wondrous their upspringing, in the dust of the Grinding-Mills,

      And rare beyond the telling the fragrance each distils.

      Some grow up tall and stately, and some grow sweet and small,

      But Life out of Death is in each one—with purpose grow they all.

      For that dust is God’s own garden, and the Lord Christ tends it fair,

      With oh, such loving tenderness! and oh, such patient care!

      In sorrow the seeds are planted, they are watered with bitter tears,

      But their roots strike down to the Water-Springs and the Sources of the Years.

      NOTE.—The first line only is adapted from the Sinngedichte of Friedrich von Logau.

      These flowers of Christ’s own providence, they wither not nor die,

      But flourish fair, and fairer still, through all eternity.

      In the Dust of the Mills and in travail the amaranth seeds are sown,

      But the Flowers in their full beauty climb the Pillars of the Throne.

      The Pilgrim Way.

      But once I pass this way,

      And then—no more.

      But once—and then, the Silent Door

      Swings on its hinges,—

      Opens. . . . closes,—

      And no more

      I pass this way.

      So while I may,

      With all my might,

      I will essay

      Sweet comfort and delight,

      To all I meet upon the Pilgrim Way.

      For no man travels twice

      The Great Highway,

      That climbs through Darkness up to Light,—

      Through Night

      To Day.

      Everymaid.

      King’s Daughter!

      Wouldst thou be all fair,

      Without—within—

      Peerless and beautiful,

      A very Queen?

      Know then:—

      Not as men build unto the Silent One,—

      With clang and clamour,

      Traffic of rude voices,

      Clink of steel on stone,

      And din of hammer;—

      Not so the temple of thy grace is reared.

      But,—in the inmost shrine

      Must thou begin,

      And build with care

      A Holy Place,

      A place unseen,

      Each stone a prayer.

      Then, having built,

      Thy shrine sweep bare

      Of self and sin,

      And all that might demean;

      And, with endeavour,

      Watching ever, praying ever,

      Keep it fragrant-sweet, and clean:

      So, by God’s grace, it be fit place,—

      His Christ shall enter and shall dwell therein.

      Not as in earthly fane—where chase

      Of steel on stone may strive to win

      Some outward grace,—

      Thy temple face is chiselled from within.

      Better and Best.

      Better in bitterest agony to lie,

      Before Thy throne,

      Than through much increase to be lifted up on high,

      And stand alone.

      Better by one sweet soul, constant and true,

      To be beloved,

      Than all the kingdoms of delight to trample through,

      Unloved, unloved.

      Yet best—the need that broke me at Thy feet,

      In voiceless prayer,

      And cast my chastened heart, a sacrifice complete,

      Upon Thy care.

      For all the world is nought, and less than nought,

      Compared with this,—

      That my dear Lord, with His own life, my ransom bought,

      And I am His.

      The Shadow.

      Shapeless and grim,

      A Shadow dim

      O’erhung the ways,

      And darkened all my days.

      And all who saw,

      With bated breath,

      Said, It is Death!

      And I, in weakness

      Slipping towards the Night,

      In sore affright

      Looked up. And lo!—

      No Spectre grim,

      But just a dim

      Sweet face,

      A sweet high mother-face,

      A face like Christ’s Own Mother’s face,

      Alight with tenderness

      And grace.

      Thou art not Death! I cried;—

      For Life’s

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