The Stundist in Siberian Exile AND OTHER POEMS, William Fetler, 1922

y all along, Until we join the white-robed throng In the City of perfect Rest. May 29, 1921. TO MY WIFE 75 TO MY WIFE My darling wife, my helpmeet kind and true— In foreign climes my thoughts go out to you. Your loving smile, your quiet words and ways, Lend such a comfort in my pilgrim days. Though far apart, yet you are ever near— My Dear! Remember, years ago, when in my solitude I met you, loved at once, and first I wooed. . . . As lily of the valley you were to me. As a desired haven to mariner at sea. Your love, so pure and childlike, brought me such calm and cheer— My Dear! Now, years have come and gone, the sun did rise and wane. We’ve known not only solace, but also tears and pain. Our love has learned to suffer, but stronger grew thereby, As in the midnight watches we heard our baby’s cry: And on your face, through agony, I saw a smile appear— My Dear ! 76 TO MY WIFE And never had I loved you, my darling wife, as then; I gently kissed your forehead, I knelt and kissed again. Your face, so pale, transparent, with peaceful, loving eyes Was in itself a sermon, that lifted me to the skies : The great, deep mother-heart of God through you became so clear— My Dear ! And now, I know, God suffered, in order that we may live ; He loved when He gave His Son, and He taught us to suffer and give. And as His Son was bleeding on Calvary’s cruel tree— He gave new birth to a people. He died for you and me : He led captivity captive, arose, and again will appear— My Dear ! May 24, 1921. MY ISAAC 77 MY ISAAC My Isaac—was it hard to sacrifice him ? Him, who was dearer than my very soul! I felt like to a tree plucked up, roots, stem and branches, It seemed as I were sacrificing all. My Isaac I Born to me when well-nigh dying— A miracle, a gift, a sacred trust. And now—can that be true ?—I must be living, present To see him pass away, and pass away he must! Can I forget how, when he—still a baby— I used to sport with him—my life, my joy. When in strong father’s arms I used to take him— He laughed so merrily, my darling boy ! And now—Moriah I Place of bitter sorrow. Of bleeding hearts, of cruel thorns, of fire. . . . I first resented, argued, I protested : Who has the right to take my soul’s desire ? But then, as quietly I wept before Him, “ My child,” He said, “ Thou art as dear to me, And even more than Isaac to thy spirit ; Were this not needed, would I ask of thee ? 78 MY ISAAC " You loved him so, since he is your creation. In him you lived, for him you moved and toiled; But God is greater than your utmost efforts— By sparing what is good, your best is spoiled. “ For whosoever saves his life shall lose it; Be that one’s parent, child, or work or wife; . .. But who his best for me brings to Moriah, Shall reign with Me in Resurrection Life.” May 8, 1921. THE ISHMAELS AND THE ISAACS 79