I cried, 'Dear Angel, lead me to the heights,
    And spur me to the top.'
    The Angel answered, 'Stop
And set thy house in order; make it fair
For absent ones who may be speeding there.
    Then will we talk of heights.'

I put my house in order. 'Now lead on!'
    The Angel said, 'Not yet;
    Thy garden is beset
By thorns and tares; go weed it, so all those
Who come to gaze may find the unvexed rose;
    Then will we journey on.'

I weeded well my garden. 'All is done.'
    The Angel shook his head.
    'A beggar stands,' he said,
'Outside thy gates; till thou hast given heed
And soothed his sorrow, and supplied his need,
    Say not that all is done.'

The beggar left me singing. 'Now at last--
    At last the path is clear.'
    'Nay, there is one draws near
Who seeks, like thee, the difficult highway.
He lacks thy courage; cheer him through the day.
    Then will we cry, 'At last!''

I helped my weaker brother. 'Now the heights;
    Oh, Guide me, Angel, guide!'
    The Presence at my side,
With radiant face, said, 'Look, where are we now?'
And lo! we stood upon the mountain's brow--
    The heights, the shining heights!

Poems of Progress and New Thought Pastels by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1911.

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