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Each in His Own Tongue.
Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,
When the moon is new and thin,
Into our hearts high yearnings
Come welling and surging in, -
Come from the mystic ocean,
Whose rim no foot has trod, -
Some of us call it Longing,
And others call it God.
A picket frozen on duty -
A mother starved for her brood, -
Socrates drinking the hemlock;
And Jesus on the rood;
And millions who, humble and nameless,
The straight hard pathway trod,
Some call it Consecration
And others call it God.
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