human
I saw the artist in a colour-shop Staining some bits of glass variously shaped To map the painted window of a church, And marvelled that the tintings all seemed wrong; Red, green, and brown should have been interchanged To show the colours right. Why did he use His brush so carelessly, my folly asked. 'Wait for the fire,--the fire will make all right, The reds and greens and browns will change again, Fusing harmoniously,' so Knowledge spake; And thus a thought of wisdom came to me Touching the truth, how kindly curative Must be the pains and cares and griefs of life, For that the furnace of adversity, Melts to its proper good each seeming ill. Again, I noticed how the artist chose Not clear good glass, whether of plate or crown, But common-looking stuff, bubbled and flawed, As if selected for its blemishes Rather than for transparent purity. 'Why not choose better glass to paint upon?' To this he answered, 'Wouldn't do at all. My faces mustn't look lifeless and dull, But, as instinct with motion, light and life, Not in enamelled uniformity: The sunshine cannot sparkle where all's smooth; I choose the most imperfect panes to make A perfect, vigorous picture.'--Then I learnt How wonderfully Providence is pleased To cause all evil things to help the good; Nay, deeper, to ordain that good itself Can scarcely be discerned without the harm Of some companion-ill; even as gold Is useless unalloyed; and Very Light Unshadowed kills, as unapproachable; And absolute unmitigated good Alone is Godhead. Every creature here (In this our human trial-world at least) Is full of faults and spots and blemishes, If only to set off his better self, His talents, graces, excellent good gifts, Burnt in the fire to brighter excellence And fused harmonious into perfect man.