GLEANING AFTER THE FIRE

WE tread a weary and blackened plain,
Missing the good that we most desire,
Our way is soddened by mist and rain
That follows the track of blasting fire.
We falter and pause, as one who gropes
For a way more pleasant and something higher,
Passing the graves of our buried hopes,
Like him who gleans on the track of fire.

We strain each muscle, and sob and choke,
To gain a march on the desolate scene;
For we see, through rifts of the blinding smoke
Bright gleams of flowers and banks of green.
We know the singing of birds is there,
And murmur of brooks we may not hear.
We know that the land is fresh and fair,
And the way we travel is dead and sere.

At times we trust we are gaining ground,
But the murky line of the fire recedes.
Our ears catch only the hollow sound
Of baseless dogmas and jarring creeds.
When strength was failing we paused to ask
Is there nothing better, and is this all?
Is life-long labor a bootless task
To end at last in a dead blank wall?

Is the struggle of self the highest aim?
Is naught to be gained by noble deeds?
From the crackling stubble the answer came
In a babel of tongues and jarring creeds.
We passed the bones of the martyred dead
Who perished by rack, and cord, and flame;
And shrank from the lying priest who said
That Christ and the Twelve would do the same.

And ever the priest was at our side,
And ever he threatened and lied and fawned.
And ever proclaimed himself a guide
Through the murky fire to the fields beyond,
But our hearts are deadened to priestly ire,
Our ears are deaf to the priestly call;
We glean in silence behind the fire,
And look for rest at the dead, blank wall.