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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889

The Quiet Pilgrim

By Edith Matilda Thomas (1854–1925)

What shall I say? He hath both spoken unto me, and Himself hath done it: I shall go softly all my years in the bitterness of my soul.—ISAIAH xxxviii. 15.

WHEN on my soul in nakedness

His swift, avertless hand did press,

Then I stood still, nor cried aloud,

Nor murmured low in ashes bowed;

And, since my woe is utterless,

To supreme quiet I am vowed;

Afar from me be moan and tears,—

I shall go softly all my years.

Whenso my quick, light-sandalled feet

Bring me where Joys and Pleasures meet,

I mingle with their throng at will;

They know me not an alien still,

Since neither words nor ways unsweet

Of storèd bitterness I spill;

Youth shuns me not, nor gladness fears,—

For I go softly all my years.

Whenso I come where Griefs convene,

And in my ear their voice is keen,

They know me not, as on I glide,

That with Arch Sorrow I abide.

They haggard are, and drooped of mien,

And round their brows have cypress tied:

Such shows I leave to light Grief’s peers,—

I shall go softly all my years.

Yea, softly! heart of hearts unknown.

Silence hath speech that passeth moan,

More piercing-keen than breathèd cries

To such as heed, made sorrow-wise.

But save this voice without a tone,

That runs before me to the skies,

And rings above thy ringing spheres,

Lord, I go softly all my years!