The Roads That Meet.

ART.     One is so fair, I turn to go,     As others go, its beckoning length;     Such paths can never lead to woe,     I say in eager, early strength.     What is the goal?     Visions of heaven, wake;     But the wind's whispers round me roll:     "For you, mistake!"     LOVE.     One leads beneath high oaks, and birds     Choose there their joyous revelry;     The sunbeams glint in golden herds,     The river mirrors silently.     Under these trees     My heart would bound or break;     Tell me what goal, resonant breeze?     "For you, mistake!"     CHARITY.     What is there left? The arid way,     The chilling height, whence all the world     Looks little, and each radiant day,     Like the soul's banner, flies unfurled.     May I stand here;     In this rare ether slake     My reverential lips, and fear     No last mistake?     Some spirits wander till they die,     With shattered thoughts and trembling hands;     What jarred their natures hopelessly     No living wight yet understands.     There is no goal,     Whatever end they make;     Though prayers each trusting step control,     They win mistake.     This is so true, we dare not learn     Its force until our hopes are old,     And, skyward, God's star-beacons burn     The brighter as our hearts grow cold.     If all we miss,     In the great plans that shake     The world, still God has need of this, -     Even our mistake.