ON THE SHELF by EDWARD NOYES POMEROY

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use,
As though to breathe were life.
—@3Tennyson's Ulysses.@1

"To pause, to make an end!" to heed
The hours' procession moving slow,
From mortal inward wounds to bleed,
But not to die face to the foe;

To see the strong world crowding on
With unspent energy and fire,
Prize after prize to yield unwon,
And sadder yet to lack desire;

To see vacations come and close,
Returning now to work no more—
No more with toil to earn repose,
Although more weary than before.

Nor this alone, since memory
Runs backward to the age of gold
(An age to most unknown to be
Till squandered is its wealth untold);

But now to think of hours misspent,
Of opportunities unused,
Of losses that were accident,
But are the Master's trust abused;

Of wisdom's pages left unturned,
Of conscience damaged by pretense,
Of heedlessness that left unlearned
The lessons of experience;

Of dues to God that were not given,
Of words for mourners left unsaid,
Of treasure not laid up in heaven,
Of efforts that were never made.

And now to stand without the fight,
All powerless for a single stroke,
Where wrong is hotly pressing right
Whose standards waver in the smoke,

To hear the cheers that rend the air
When error's champions assail,
To sink to earth in mute despair,
Since truth unaided seems to fail.

My God, it is a time of pain,
Of peril and extremity;
The solaces of earth are vain,
But I will stay myself on Thee;

Will heavenward turn my earnest gaze,
Will overcome my slothful self,
Will seek the knowledge of Thy ways,
Though rusting on this dusty shelf.

Until at last when life is done,
And thou dost not my prayers refuse,
I shall be found a living stone,
And polished for the Master's use.

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