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176 | Uncollected and Other Poems Human pain is a splendid thing, The throb of the great world soul, The healthy hurt, the warning sting That shows the wrong in suffering That drives to the onward goal! But most our own is the full delight Of the thing we ought to be— A joy like sunshine, wide and bright, That is the Human creature’s right— Not this brute agony! (Woman’s Journal, 27 August 1904, 274) Heirlooms To my child I have transmitted, Just as they were given me, The traditions that were fitted To my ancient feeble-witted Undeveloped ancestry. Sacred feeling, pure emotions, Which originally came From the age of lukewarm oceans And vast beasts of sinuous motions— And were suited to the same. All untouched the gift has rested— I have never cut the string— Unassorted, undigested, Unconsidered, uncontested— Take, my child, the sacred thing! But presume not to unfold it: Let no worn-out remnant stray— Just exactly as you hold it Let more ages harder mould it— Hand it down along the way. (Woman’s Journal, 3 September 1904, 282) Labor is Prayer What should I ask of God? To come? He is here. He is here and now in me. It is Him that I feel. I, feeling, am that much God. To give? He has given, is giving, gives. The flow and the pulse of things, Each step and quiver of life, is full of God. ...

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