Arguments for the being of a God, and exhortation to labour in His service.

How long, O heart, in this deceptive summer-dwelling,
Wilt thou, like children, build houses of clay?
Thou art a bold bird to quit the fostering hand,
For not in this summer dwelling is thine own nest!
Wherefore has thou become a stranger to that nest?
Wherefore, like a grave owl, hast thou chosen this desolate waste?
Cleanse thy wings and thy feathers from all admixture of dust,
And soar upwards to the pinnacles of heaven!
Behold in the dance those blue-fringed turbans,
Those garments of light streaming out to the world!
They whirl round and round by night and by day,
They intend to arrive victorious at the goal of their aspirations!
But each one, like the ball which receives its motion from the bat,
Is impelled to the dance by his own desires.
One turns his face from the sun-set to the sun-rise;
One launches his vessel in the tides of the ocean;
One plunges ardently into the tumult of the day mart;
One kindles his lights in the nightly throng;
One traces out the letters of felicity,
One breaks in twain the threads of prosperity;
So they eagerly run forwards to shorten their journey,
And from their onward movement can never rest;
Yet they are never worn down by the toils of travel,
Nor is there pain to their loins, or soreness to their feet.
But what knows any one on what he bestows so much labour?
Who knows to whom they turn their faces?
At every moment they shew some fresh painting;
Yet in the Society of Painters (a religious sect) they are nothing worth.
How long wilt thou give the reins into the hand of Doubt?
How long say to everything—“This is my Lord?”
Like the Friend knock at the door of the True King,
And cry—“I like not that which sets.”—*
Dismiss every vain fancy, and abandon every doubt;
Blend into one every spirit and form and place;
See One—know One—speak of One—
Desire One—chant of One—and seek One.
For every atom there is a pathway and approach to God;
To every one is pledged the certainty of his existence;
On the heart of every thoughtful man is painted His image,
And for every painting there must be a painter.
If a thousand characters appear upon the board,
Not a stroke will be right without the pen of a writer;
Amidst the ruins thou canst not find a brick
Which has not come forth from a shaping mould.
On every brick the pen of the finger hath written,
That the hand of wisdom traced the letters.
When thou readest these letters on the brick,
Thou canst not but think of the existence of the brickmaker;
When thou beholdest displayed before thee the archi­tecture of the universe,
How is it that thy mind is not busied about the architect?
When thou see’st the work, turn thy face towards the workman;
Gather a judgment of the workman from the work!
In the last hour, which no man can escape,
The reckoning for thy work will be with the Over­looker only:
To Him only lift up the eye of thy desires,
And ask Him with His blessedness to seal thy labour!