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T
HIS "dynamo" so strangely fed, it gathers up as spools of thread Till it contains the current great which swings a deep com- mercial gate; So passing strange this silent power, " life's dynamo," each living hour, That should it for one moment pause, we must succumb to Nature's laws. Our power house is strangely made to give the dynamo the aid Which, for its work so well designed, to quicken life in all mankind, And though in life we fail to see, the spark exists in you and me Which, when no more with us remain, our house goes down to dust again. All space it seems with life abounds, the valleys and the higher grounds, And while our eyes may not perceive, and while our works may not achieve Results which leave the vision clear, that is no sign that wisely here He has not left the dynamos, that through life's day provide repose: And that repose of which I speak, is, when life's house is old and weak And having given way to death, returns to clay, no longer breath Shall stimulate the lifeless clay; the house once loved will fade away And to the dust from whence it came return to take its place again. This strange and likewise wondrous power lightens the way in darkest hour, It builds us up, with kindling fires we glow, with what its touch inspires; And when our form, our house, is dead, the spark lives on and on, instead, And we are factors in the plan, Divine it seems, as God in man. |