My Creed

Alice Cary (1820–1871)

I HOLD that Christian grace abounds

Where charity is seen; that when

We climb to heaven, ’t is on the rounds

Of love to men.

I hold all else, named piety,

A selfish scheme, a vain pretence;

Where centre is not—can there be

Circumference?

This I moreover hold, and dare

Affirm where’er my rhyme may go,—

Whatever things be sweet or fair,

Love makes them so.

Whether it be the lullabies

That charm to rest the nursling bird,

Or the sweet confidence of sighs

And blushes, made without a word.

Whether the dazzling and the flush

Of softly sumptuous garden bowers,

Or by some cabin door, a bush

Of ragged flowers.

’T is not the wide phylactery,

Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers,

That make us saints: we judge the tree

By what it bears.

And when a man can live apart

From works, on theologic trust,

I know the blood about his heart

Is dry as dust.