 My Little Book of Prayer. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. My Little Book of Prayer by Muriel Strode. My Creed. Not one holy day, but seven. Worshiping not at the call of a bell, but at the call of my soul. Seeing not at the baton sway, but to the rhythm in my heart. Loving because I must, giving because I cannot keep. Doing for the joy of it. I will ask no other anointing, save this, to draw very near to my own soul. I may not overcome the inevitable, but oh, it is mine to see that the inevitable does not overcome me. I prayed for deliverance, and to prove the efficacy of prayer, I became my own deliverer. Oh God, what here befall, spare me that supreme calamity. Let no afterbitterness settle down with me. Misfortune is not mine until that hour. I will not ask that you nor you shall teach my soul the way, but I will trust my soul. I will not ask that you nor you approve, the wild time is itself, nor ask consent of rose, nor read. If the populace marched in file, poor my signal to break from the ranks. For thousand generations did thus and so, poor my cue to do otherwise. I longed to build as you had build it, but I knew that your joy lay in the conception of your own design. I longed to follow where your feet had trod, but I had watched your exhilaration as you fell the new way. I longed to do that thing you did and be that thing you are, but I knew life's compliment was yours because you were yourself. I will not follow where the path may lead, but I will go where there is no path and I will leave a trail. Infinitely will I trust nature's instincts and proptings, but I will not call my own perversions nature. Each receives but that which is his own returning, each hears but that which is the echo of his own call. Each feels but that which has eaten into his own heart. I do not bemoan misfortune. To me there is no misfortune. I welcome whatever comes. I go out gladly to meet it. It is no stigma to wear rags that disgraces in continuing to wear them. O my Cinderella, how gaily thou dost dance in thy crystal slippers. Can it be that thou too art dancing to a memory? Dust remember a night long vigil when the salt must be culled from the ash. Say not that this or that thing came to thwart you. It came only to test you. I never doubt my strength to bear whatever fate may bring. But, O, that I may not go down before that which I bring myself. Think not because the Crassala struggles that it is in need of you. O, I pray you, stay your eager hands lest you despoil its silver wings. The earth shall yet surrender to him, and the fate shall do his will, who marches on, though the promised land proved to be but a mirage, and the day of deliverance was cancelled. The God shall yet anoint him, and the morning stars shall sing. But when I pray my prayer of thankfulness, it shall be that I had only poverty to overcome. I have seen him who must overcome wealth. O God, let not that cumbrance be upon me of unmeaning lands and store. O let that weary weight rest not upon my soul. But give me, Lord, O give me for my enchantment, that little wilding place of mine which I have worn with bypasses I wandered there and dreamed. I will not pray that each day be a perfect day, but I will pray to lapse not into indifference. I will not pray that each time I shall build both strong and true, but imperfect I will pray for impulse that I may build anew. Give me not, O God, that blind, fool faith in my friend that sees no evil where evil is. But give me, O God, that sublime belief that seeing evil I yet have faith. I pray not for the laggards rest, nor surcease, nor respite, do I crave. But, Lord, Lord, discipline my soul to tranquil ways. Teach me the endless calm. O God, I pray that not too much of calm be mine, but one day let the maddening rush of waters break against my soul. O God, I pray for not too much of joy, but let me also weep alone in life's great night of woe. O God, I pray for not too much of loving, but let my breast know bitterness, and let my heart know an unanswered cry. Not mine to declare when wounded that there is no pain, but, O, to be able to say I can endure pain. Not mine to say when defeated that I do not care, but caring to be able to say it shall not matter ultimately. O, to be that strong in myself that I ask not tomorrow to be revealed, the incoming may still thy hearts weeping, but only that which thou sendest forth will still the deeper cry of thy soul. And when I pray my prayer for a content at mind, perhaps I will bethink me and pray for discontent, lest life's awful apathy set in. A feeble conception means a child still born or a weakling. All I tell you it is desire, desire, desire that brings forth the vital offspring. Wishing will bring things in the degree that it incites you to go after them. I would travel in all climbs that I might return and tell you of the beauty of my own little garden plot. I would explore heaven and hell that I might come back and tell you what a charming place is the earth. The star shines on in its starry realm. No-ever stops to relate. It is I, I this lowly firefly with heart aflame with longing that shall tell you the wondrous story of the star. When I shall get back to the naturalness of things, I shall dispense with that prayer to resist desire. Give me that toiler's joy who has seen the sunlight burst on the distant turns in the land of his desire. Pray that thy dreams come true, yet thou shalt pray well if thou shalt pray for deferred fulfillment. His to rejoice with exceeding great joy who plucks the fruit of his planting, but his the divine anointing who watched and waited and toiled and prayed and failed and can yet be glad. I prayed to be set free, and then I prayed that only mine own hands should set me free, that gaining freedom I might not miss the overcomer's joy. I'm glad the thorn is on my brow that the blood trickles over my face. When I see my brother's wounds, I will also feel his pain. I'm glad I fell today beneath my cross. When I see another prostrate, I will know the weight of the burden. I'm glad I cried for succor. I will know the sound of a heart cry. I'm glad I suffered alone, deserted. I will know the bitterness of desolation. Let my grave be unmarked. I fear not to be forgotten. I pray not for your approval. The approval is not to you. May God forgive you your weakness, but let him damn mine. That you will not pardon. It will not essentially matter. But oh, if it should be that I could not forgive myself. I searched up and down the earth and found it in my own soul. I implored heaven and hell, and the field daisies answered me. When I pray, it shall be to the God within, and the responsibility of the fulfillment shall rest on me. When I curse fate, I will not curse fate. I will not shift the responsibility. I will call down anathema on my own head. I will not covet the gift that is yours, but I will pray that mine own be revealed. I will not gaze with envious eyes while you mold the pliant clay. But I will take up mallet and chisel and go to work myself. Yesterday I prayed for patience and for strength to bear. But today I prayed for the Spirit to rise up in my might and declare, I am not the sacrifice. These are none of mine. Oh God, let me not say, line the power, glory be to God, whilst thou dust waiting. Listen for me to say, mine the power, glory be to God. I longed for opportunity to do my work, for conditions that would foster in advance, and just to prove the earnestness of my desire, that I could do the work where these things mine, I said about and did it while I pined. I will not pray for strength. Dear Heaven, I am a Hercules of disseminated force. I will not pray for opportunity. Dear Lord, the time and place are mine when I am equal to the time and place. Oh God, mine be that of which my lips fail in the utterance, which my soul can only express in its yearning. Yet mine is true as this deep desire is mine. Mine is true as this great unrest is mine. Not alone for that which is mine will I rejoice, but for that which has been withheld, which was coveted and longed for but denied, for I am what I am for having had to rise superior to the need. Hope not to sing a more wondrous song when thou hast reached the summit. Here on these slopes it must be borne whilst thou art toiling up the way. I may never take you farther than I have been myself. But you may press on when I tell you of the vision I beheld. You may never fashion from the thing I wrought. But you may take your reckoning from the rare design where my clumsy hands fell short. It is but common to believe in Him who believes in Himself. But oh, if you would do ought uncommon, believe yet in Him who does not believe in Himself. Restore the faith to Him. I will give my strong right hand to Him who knows not the clasp of friendship. I will sing my sweetest songs to Him who has heard not but discord. I will give my fairest roses to Him in whose life the flowers have never bloomed. I will give to the heart hungry my life's best love. I saw a rare flower growing, and I saw to know whence came its entrancing redolence, its wondrous glow. And I saw that where it grew the ground was wet with tears. I heard a song, and in raptured I sought to know the source of that melody, so deep, so sweet. And I saw that to reach the ambience, it must cross the threshold of a quivering lip. I will go back to the parting of the ways, and there on a cross-tree at the turn of the road, I will nail this half-spent life. And above that cross-tree I will write, and there is an again. Who goes back to the crossroads, reclaims his own divinity? Though you have not faith in me, I shall yet achieve. But, oh, would you witness the act divine, add your faith unto mine. If thou dost but free thyself, thou art a world liberator. If thou dost but set thine own feet out on the way of light, thou art redeemer of men. If thou givest that which thou dost not want, thou mayst benefit another. But, oh, thou must sometimes give that which thou dost want, if thou wouldst benefit thyself. And I said, I will measure my faith, though betrayed, yet each recurring time have I still believed. O my soul, my soul, when wilt thou have kept thy sacred promise? When wilt thou have proved thy holy trust? Not that I may more rejoice to live, but that with impunity I may also rejoice to die. Who waits and prays a more propitious time to be about his destiny makes a pitiable confession. The restlessness of intensity will not be still, will not sit by and wait. Let me live this life with no thought of a hereafter. Then I may live it as I would were there no hope to retrieve. And if the plan be not for immortality, oh, I shall not complain. What had it not been mine, this too brief span of years? What had I missed, this sweet mortality? A great work demands a great sacrifice. And who is not capable of a great sacrifice is not capable of a great work. The Aeolian must be in your breast, else the winds are in vain. Better than Tiaras, the Diodine of Freedom. Better than Broad Acres, the Garden of Hearts' Ease. Better than Mines of Gold, a Mint of Dreams. Better than Bars of Silver, the Silver of a Laugh. Better than Strings of Pearls, the Crystal of a Tear. Better than Bands of Choristers, a Lute in the Soul. I am Life's Mystery, and I alone am its solution. I'm the dreamer of dreams, and I am dreams come true. I am the supplicant, and I am the God that answers prayers. I prayed for death, but now I know I should have prayed only that I might die to the things that inspired that desire. I beg to escape from suffering. I prayed God to save my soul from sin. Today I stand aghast at the thing I should have been had my prayer been heard. I will not believe it was God's will that this disaster should come to me. But oh, since it has befallen, I am sure God's will must be that I rise up in glory, where I might go down in despair. I will not endeavor to forget my sorrow by belittling it. Let my sorrow remain what it is, but oh, lift me up to mightier proportions. Not all who die stay dead. Today an unappeased yesterday reached back and struck me with her lash. Not all deep sleep is dreamless. Last night from profound slumber my other self rose up and mocked at me. I may be helpless to change your attitude toward me, but I am not helpless to disregard it. I may be helpless that not one among the throngs shall walk a little away with me, but I am not helpless to pass on alone. I dreamed I fell down an awful precipice and awoke to find myself lying on its very brink. I dreamed I was lost in a bog, and when I awoke I saw before me the willowess that was luring me on. I dreamed I was crushed by an onrush of earth and awoke to find my foot resting against the rock that would dislodge the avalanche. I will have me a symphony of color and I will enmesh me in the noon sun's gold and wind about me the moonlight silver sheen. I will dream in a gown made of the haze of a summer evening twilight and I will have robe on robe of the sky's deep blue and I will line them with clouds of ermine and from their trailing folds red stars will gleam. I will pluck the green from the treetops where wild birds nest and sing and in the weaving I will ensnare a song. I will make another of the meadows green and I will hang about it garlands of wood violets and fringe it with yellow daffodils and dip it in the redolence of the hawthorn tree and there is yet another that I will wear when sorrow is my guest and I will make it of the cold gray mist. Not all my day can I spend in listening for I too must evolve where the night comes on. Not all day long can I sing your praise for the hour is here when I too must create. Not all day long can I contemplate for time is passing and I too must live. I will eat the dead sea fruit that is pressed to my lips. I will eat the aloes and wormwood. I will pass through the furnace where firebrands mark my soul. I will drink the brine of salty tears but I will drain my cup and cast it from me. I will bear my cross up calvary and from that exalted height will I view life anew. I am greater than my sorrow. I endure. It will pass away. If hungry and a thirst I will go to him who too has known the long gaunt form of want. If my burden were greater than my strength to bear I would go to him who faltered once beneath the load of care. If despairing and weary I long for rest I would go to him who once in datal darkness lost his way. You peer into my life to find a lingering past but I tell you it was sunk ten thousand fathoms deep and weighed it down with my dead self. You look into my breast to find that old, old, open wound but I tell you I seared it with my hot tears and only the cicatris is there. You look into my eyes to read that off-told story of defeat but I tell you that the plot was changed and you will see the flag of conquest waving from the turrets of my soul. Who plants flowers in his door yard first nurtured them in his soul. Long ere the magnolia waved o'er my state I caught the scent of its redolence and heard the birds singing in its branches. I will hasten to answer the cry of my soul lest long unheeded it cease to call. I will speed me about my high endeavor lest long delayed the fire burn low. I will quicken the day of the manifest lest long unfulfilled I lose faith in my dreams. I may never traverse the halls of art yet the dawning day is mine in the fading twilight and the lake at eve and the galaxy of the midnight sky. I may never come within hailing distance of a great music interpreter yet I may listen with my soul to the silent symphony of a moonlight sonata. I may never place in a dresden vase one single hot-house flower yet I may lave me in a field of yellow buttercups. I may never find among my chattels caskets of frankincense and myrrh yet I may sit in a rose-tree shade and I may wander through the wild violet's purple haze. I may never see the far-off shimmer of the white sand of an ocean beach yet I know where a tiny lake lies hidden in a bower of green and the birds sing all day long in the sunlight falls mottled on the water. I said it is desolation it is neither seed-time nor harvest but the ground lay fallow. I complained it is ebb-tide I drift in the moonless narrows but another hour a rift of illumination and flood-tide and I swap out to the high seas was a buffoon's painted face I looked upon but I saw through his rippling laughter the droop of sorrow in his lips was an artist's canvas at which I gazed resplendent with the burst of a sunrise at sea but I saw the artist and I knew by the light of memory that lingered in his eyes that he had traversed the shadow was a carol that filled the air but I knew by the tender mellowness of that voice that it was laden with the echo of a moan. I wandered one night out over the brink of eternity up to the gates of gold open and let me in I cried tis a weary pilgrim a lost soul is there no room in heaven is there no balm in Gilead an outcast of men will you not take me in the lifeboat is for the storm-tossed ship and so is the signal light in the harbor and this is the wreck of a soul crying for the lifeline the gate swung open I awoke and went out again into the world of men and all day I sang at my work I said it is a loveless world and I confessed to have attracted my own life I said I have no faith and I confessed to have at one time or other been my own Judas I dipped my brush in venom into the discerning eye but portrayed myself the world may come upon thy greatness in a night not so with thee a sudden uplift of voices may proclaim it but thou shalt listen as one who hears an old familiar story told thank you tomorrow when the fullness of life's treasure is mine that it will hold ought that is new or strange to me I tell you that I long have known each masterpiece that hangs upon the walls of my to-be and each royal robe that I shall wear was spun from the starshine in my dreams and not a jewel shall rest upon my brow but whose strange light has long enchanted me and not a strange shall rise to charm my ear but whose far melody has long been playing in my soul whether thou be king or peasant I shall remember only that thou art a soul though thy raiment be of hardened gray yet I shall speak to royalty and though it be of ermine I shall speak only to the peasant heart beneath I would not be the ship that plies a wanted mane but I would be the tramp boat and sail the port of the world I would not be the beaten path but I would be the byways the undiscovered country I would not be the old but I would be the new the vital the oncoming I would not be of the ninety and nine but I would be the one and through the wilderness I would mark a new trail there are no surprises to him who has ordered his life who planted the tree at his window ledge is not surprised that birds should come singing there who nurtured the shrub by his garden wall is not surprised when the roses bloom who set his tent by a heaven-blue lake is not surprised at mourn that great white swans are resting near give me one hour of love given by the intensity of its own fire rather than a lifetime of embers whose feeble flame knows not outburst or extinction give me one effervescent glass with its sodden dregs of memory if I may be relieved of the draught of incipidity give me a life of action and I will accept its sorrow and its tragedy if I may escape the way of inannation he shall be my mentor who can love more and forgive oftener he shall teach me duties to self who can make greater sacrifice he shall teach me skill at thrift who scatters with a lavish hand I stood afar off watching the conflict of humanity till wise old life came along and tossed me into the arena saying there take that pedant you would know I pondered along the book of suffering till time stood before me saying there is a quicker way and he thrust his flaming brand against my breast count not upon thy distinction that thou hast been chosen share of joys the rabble may have of my gold and my pleasure but oh I will have a care as to who shall share of my sorrow today I am a serf but tomorrow is the day of manumission today I will make a survey but tomorrow I will reset the stakes today I splash in the shallows but tomorrow I will pass the danger line and swim the infinite sea today I walk the confines but tomorrow I will swing out into the illimitable I will not find my joy not in a bed of hot house roses but in a wayward roadside flower not in an august seashore but in a hidden woodland stream not in a stately ocean liner but in a tiny boat that drifts and dips and trails among the water lilies not in the emblazoned halls of revelry but out under the quiet stars he is my greatest well-wisher who wishes me not only all attainment but much defeat not only all joy but much of sorrow not only all solace but much despair who thinks he will fail will probably fail who believes that dreams are only dreams will probably find it so who doubts himself will achieve only such results as will confirm it End of My Little Book of Prayer by Muriel Strode