156

date: 1920-04-08

names-on-the-page: Mrs. Watts; Mrs. Filley

transcription: April 8, 1920 - Page 3

I have teemed the essence of my hope
Unto a urn of song and filled
His goblet of it, and he drank.
Nor did he smile, this grey monk day!
When sudden a wail scratched
At the window of his cell and he lifted
His face and the cowl slipped
And I saw him laugh.

Following this she made this sage remark:

"My faith is a bubble which I blow with my lips, and oft prick!"

Mrs. Watts had been discussing certain phases of healing and said it was
hard to get people to agree on God's office in the matter. Patience
gave this poem as her contribution to the discussion:

-Is This Egotry-

I make no argument
With God. Is this egotry?
Methinks I have listened o'er long
To His arguments from the lips of men,
For each man tunes his own mouthings
With God's convictions, declaring himself
The trumpet of truth at the hand
Of the Lord.

I make no arguments with God.
I find Him in silence. So why need I
List to the prating of man who sets
His words tortured in complication?
I say I hear in silence
The still voice within me and know
It is not afraid that it acclaim
My faith. I make no arguments
With God. In this I announce not
Mine own egotry but admit man's!

Mrs. Filley received this personal song:

-Inadequate Words-

My words are thistledown,
Light as air. They are little cups,
Shallow things which will not hold.
They are shadows, fitful shadows
Which shuttle the light and will not
Stay. They are leaves rustling.
They are idle breezes.
They are darting motes and little shafts

Con'd

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