by Emma Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)
The sun may be clouded, yet ever the sun Will sweep on its course till the cycle is run. And when onto chaos the systems are hurled, Again shall the Builder reshape a new world. Your path may be clouded, uncertain your goal; Move on, for the orbit is fixed for your soul. And though it may lead into darkness of night, The torch of the Builder shall give you new light. You were, and you will be; know this while you are, Your spirit has travelled both long and afar. It came from the Source, to the Source it returns; The spark that was lighted, eternally burns. It slept in the jewel, it leaped in the wave, It roamed in the forest, it rose in the grave, It took on strange garbs for long eons of years, And now in the soul of yourself it appears. From body to body your spirit speeds on; It seeks a new form when the old one is gone; And the form that it finds is the fabric you wrought On the loom of the mind, with the fibre of thought. As dew is drawn upward, in rain to descend, Your thoughts drift away and in destiny blend. You cannot escape them or petty, or great, Or evil, or noble, they fashion your fate. Somewhere, on some planet, some time and somehow Your life will reflect all the thoughts of your now. The law is unerring; no blood can atone; The structure you rear you must live it alone. From cycle to cycle, through time and through space, Your lives with your longings will ever keep pace. And all that you ask for, and all you desire, Must come at your bidding, as flames out of fire. Once list to that voice and all tumult is done, Your life is the life of the infinite One, In the hurrying race you are conscious of pause, With love for the purpose and love for the cause. You are your own devil, you are your own God, You fashioned the paths that your footsteps have trod; And no one can save you from error or sin, Until you shall hark to the spirit within.