The Parable of the Paper Mill.

Once a Queen—so runs my story—
Seeking far for something new,
Found it in a mill, where strangely,
Nought but rags repaid her view.
Rags from out the very gutters,
Rags of every shape and hue,
While the squalid children, picking,
Seemed but rags, from hair to shoe.

« What then, » rang her eager question,
« Can you do with things so vile? »
« Mould them into perfect whiteness, »
Said the master with a smile.
« Whiteness! » quoth the Queen half doubting;
« But these reddest crimson dyes,
Surely naught can ever whiten
These to fitness in your eyes? »

« Yes, » he said, « though these are colors
Hardest to remove of all,
Still I have the power to make them
Like the snowflake in its fall. »
(Through my heart the words so simple,
Throbbed with echo, in and out;
« Crimson, » « scarlet, » « white as snowflake, »
Can this man?—and can God not?)

Now upon a day thereafter—
Thus the tale went on at will—
To the Queen there came a present
From the master at the mill.
Fold on fold of fairest texture,
Lay the paper purest white;
On each sheet there gleamed the letters
Of her name, in golden light.

« Precious lesson, » wrote the master,
« Hath my mill thus given me,
Showing how our Lord can gather
Vilest hearts, from land or sea.
In some heavenly alembic,
Snowy white from crimson bring,
Stamp His name on each and bear them
To the palace of the King. »

Paper World. Anon.