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The Imperishable (Poem)

Within man’s inmost self the best persists,
It cannot die, for part it is
Of one vast grand Eternity.
There is no other thought within the bounds of time
Which yields a harvest of such sweet content,
And makes one sing "Let come what may
I count it well that I have lived."
If time be but a passing sound—
A point, a phase of real being—
A mode of that which has no end, eternal,
Endless, infinite, far, far, above all thought!
Then, surely, Life is everything, and Love,
The link that binds to God, is part
Of that which ne’er was born—
Hence, cannot cease to be.
All else must fade and vanish into space,
Our earth, the stars, and all that seems to be,
Shall fade before th' eternal sun.
The seed sown in the dark dull soil
In silence germinates, and, bursting
In the springtide of its term reveals
The upward tendency of things towards their source.
And so, in ample time, our soul—life in its growth
Shall cause the wilderness to blossom as the rose,
And all the seeming discords of our little life
Shall sink into mere nothingness—
Viewed from the summit of uplifted thought.
From this fair height the pilgrim may behold
The Goal, The Crown, The Holy Grail.
’Tis true Man’s best persists beyond the range of sense,
Unfettered, peaceful, unsubdued.

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Arthur E. Massey

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