The Holy Name

’TIS said when pious Moslem walk abroad, If on the path they spy a floating bit Of paper, reverently they turn aside And shun the scrap, nor set a foot on it, Lest haply thereupon the awful name Of mighty Allah should by chance be writ.

We smile at the vain dread; but blind and dull The soul that only smiles, and cannot see A thought of perfect beauty folded in The zealot’s reverent fear, as in some free And flaunting flower-cup may be hived and held One drop of precious honey for the bee.

Small wind-blown things there are, which any day Float by in air or on our pathway lie, Swift-winged moments speeding on their way, Brief opportunities, which we pass by Heedless and smiling, little subtle threads Of influence—intimations soft and sly.

Careless we tread them down, as, pressing on, Our eager inconsiderate feet we set On the unvalued treasures where they lie. We are too blind to prize or to regret, Too dull to recognize the mystic Name Graven upon them as on amulet.

Ah! dears, let us no longer do this thing, And thus the sweeter life lose and let fall; But with anointed eyes and reverent feet Pass on our way, noting and prizing all, Knowing that God’s great token-sign is set, Not on the large things only, but the small.