No rocks, across the pathway lie,
--No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown,
--And yet it winds, we know not why,
And turns as if for tree or stone.
Perhaps some lover trod the way
With shaking knees and leaping heart,
--And so it often runs astray
With sinuous sweep or sudden start.
Or one, perchance, with clouded brain
From some unholy banquet reeled,
--And since, our devious steps maintain
His track across the trodden field.
Nay, deem not thus,--no earthborn will
Could ever trace a faultless line;
Our truest steps are human still,
--To walk unswerving were divine!
Truants from love, we dream of wrath;
--Oh, rather let us trust the more!
Through all the wanderings of the path,
We still can see our Father's door!
V
The Professor finds a Fly in his Teacup.
I have a long theological talk to relate, which must be dull reading to
some of my young and vivacious friends. I don't know, however, that any
of them have entered into a contract to read all that I write, or that I
have promised always to write to please them.
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