Wilbur Larremore (1855–1918)

TO thee the prayer of all was granted—Light!

Thou hast felt life-warmth through the age’s rime,

Hast pierced the mask of flesh, the veil of time,

That heart from heart and soul from soul benight.

And whoso kens thy word to man aright

Finds in the world a spiritual clime,

Beholds the Present as a land sublime,

Peopled with beings of heroic height.

To eras gone their prophet-seers have brought

God’s new-born truth to feed a hungering race;

And thou, like those of old, hast read His thought

Writ in the stars by night;—His secret place,

The solemn forest, thou by day hast sought,

And heard His voice through boughs that hid His face.