The Mystery.
By Margaret Steele Anderson
This is your cup, the cup assigned to you
From the beginning. Yea, my child, I know
How much of that dark drink is your own, brew
Of fault and passion. Ages long ago,
In the deep years of yesterday, I knew.
This is your road, a painful road and drear.
I made the stones, that never give you rest;
I set your friend in pleasant ways and clear.
And he shall come, like you, unto my breast;
But you, my weary child!, must travel here.
This is your work. It has no fame, no grace,
But is not meant for any other hand.
And in my universe hath measured place.
Take it; I do not bid you understand;
I bid you close your eyes, to see my face!