Collected Poems of Clarence Edwin Flynn; Second Edition, 1930 and Earlier

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PREFACE

POEMS — Si Gidders (1902) — Hagar’s Song (1906) — The Cry of a Human (1906) — Child’s Prayer (1907) — My Father’s House (1908) — Hope (1909) — The King (1909) — Battle Hymn (1914) — Song of the Dove (1914) — The Gateway of the Kingdom (1915) — Magi and Shepherd (1915) — The Open Tomb (1915) — A Price Unpaid (1915) — Two Princes (1915) — The Voices of God (1915) — The Wealth of Cheer (1915) — True Values (1916) — Pictures (1918) — When the Curtain Falls (1918) — The World’s Drama (1918) — Jim (1919) — Let Us Be Right (1919) — Light and Shadow (1919) — The New Day (1919) — The New Year (1919) — God’s Garden (1920) — The Open Soul (1920) — The Outcome (1920) — The Silent Drama (1920) — A Trouble Making World (1920) — The Builders (1921) — The Children v1921 — Climaxes v1921 — Home v1921 — The Magic Gateway (1921) — Shadows v1921 — The Sunbeam and the Shadow (1921) — The Teacher v1921 — After-Images (1922) — Almost (1922) — Along the Road (1922) — A Call for Substitutes (1922) — Compensation (1922) — A Creed (1922) — The Engineer (1922) — The Flag at Sea (1922) — The Gift of the Farm (1922) — The Gifts of the Church (1922) — God of To-Day (1922) — The Heart of a Child Is a Scroll (1922) — His Epitaph (1922) — The Lens (1922) — The Magic of the Screen (1922) — The Making of Heaven (1922) — The Man Who Knows (1922) — The Marine (1922) — The Measure of Life (1922) — Monuments (1922) — My Riches (1922) — A Parents’ Prayer v1922 — Patchwork (1922) — A Perfect Day (1922) — Picture Books (1922) — Picture Writing (1922) — A Prayer for Thanksgiving (1922) — A Psalm of the Movies (1922) — The Radio Neighborhood (1922) — The Section Foreman (1922) — The Shadow World (1922) — The Stars and Stripes for Me (1922) — The Station (1922) — The Teacher v1922 — The Temple (1922) — Voices of the Dawn (1922) — The Watchdog of the Sea (1922) — Where Is Heaven? (1922) — Climaxes v1923 — The Creator (1923) — Electricity (1923) — An Electric Personality (1923) — The End of the Trail (1923) — If Christ Is Not Divine (1923) — It Might Be Worse (1923) — The Making of Home (1923) — No Room in the Inn (1923) — Our Hearts Forget (1923) — A Prayer (1923) — The Second Wind (1923) — The Serving Giant (1923) — The Teacher v1923 — Transforming Love (1923) — The Window of Dreams (1923) — Brotherhood (1924) — The Builder v1924 — Childhood on the Farm (1924) — The Clock (1924) — The Dream (1924) — An Easter Vision (1924) — The Electric Spark (1924) — Fade-Outs (1924) — Film Judgment (1924) — Finding God (1924) — The Firefly (1924) — The God of the Beginning (1924) — Jove’s Plaint (1924) — The Land of Heart’s Desire (1924) — Minds (1924) — Miracle (1924) — The Picture’s Lament (1924) — Prayer for Normal Men (1924) — The Railroad (1924) — Shadows on the Wall (1924) — Sorrow (1924) — The Things That I Believe (1924) — Today and Tomorrow (1924) — The Tree (1924) — The Unknown Soldier (1924) — What Does It Matter? (1924) — Why We Are Here (1924) — The Age of a Heart (1925) — Blossoms (1925) — The Children v1925 — Credo (1925) — The Easter Message (1925) — The Fabulous City (1925) — Home v1925 — Palm Sunday v1925 — Roads v1925 — The Teacher’s Reward (1925) — Via Dolorosa (1925) — The Chameleon (1926) — The City’s Nerves (1926) — Doing It Well (1926) — Enslaved Lightning (1926) — Flowers Are Thoughts of God (1926) — A Grace for Meals (1926) — The Grey Host (1926) — Heart Gates (1926) — The High Tension Line (1926) — “I am not eloquent” (1926) — Knocking (1926) — Life (1926) — The Question v1926 — The Rooster (1926) — The Rulers of the Earth (1926) — Sing a Little Song (1926) — Team-work (1926) — Their First Meal (1926) — The Umbrella Mender (1926) — The Cross v1927 — Cupid’s Lament (1927) — A Day at a Time (1927) — The Future (1927) — God’s Manners (1927) — The Great Adventure (1927) — The Heart of a Child (1927) — How It Started (1927) — In Conference (1927) — Inventive Genius (1927) — Morning Prayer (1927) — Old-Fashioned Pictures (1927) — The Problem (1927) — The Pupil (1927) — Requisition (1927) — Sanctuary (1927) — The Secret (1927) — Sight and Faith (1927) — Starting Things (1927) — Success (1927) — Thanksgiving v1927 — The Bantams (1928) — Charge Account (1928) — The Close-Up (1928) — Coming and Going (1928) — The Day’s Success (1928) — The Earth’s Plaint (1928) — Evolution (1928) — Faith v1928 — Freedom v1928 — The Harness (1928) — His Great Hour (1928) — “I held a sea shell to my ears” (1928) — Imminence (1928) — Iron (1928) — I Want (1928) — The Lucky Man (1928) — The Pioneer v1928 — The Recruit (1928) — Success and Failure (1928) — Sunshine and Shade (1928) — The Trouble with the Movies (1928) — Walking with God (1928) — Wander Lust (1928) — The Divine Image (1929) — Domsie (1929) — The Happy Ending (1929) — Have You Tried? (1929) — Memorial Day v1929 — The Modern Pupil (1929) — My Little Fire (1929) — The Red Bird (1929) — The Road to Tomorrow (1929) — Thankfulness (1929) — “Whatever he may wish or plan” (1929) — God and Spring (1930) — The Handicap (1930) — The Mixture (1930) — Sunsets For Sale (1930) — Thanksgiving v1930 — Two Teachers (1930) — Two Youths (1930) — What Do You Know? (1930)

There’s an old man named Si Gidders lives on Uncle Henry’s place,

Jest a common farmer feller, that is all;

Tall, an’ lean, an’ lank in figger, with an awful homely face,

But as much as you could estimate of gall.

Gidders has one wretched failin’, that of wonderin’ at things,

An’ it takes most all his time to humor that,

For it’s wonder, wonder, wonder till yer ear jest fairly rings,

With the how, an’ who, an’ which, an’ where, an’ what.

He will wonder why the sun don’t shine by night as well as day,

An’ why all the leaves ain’t red instid o’ green;

Why them brindled kind o’ chickens air the ones that allers lay,

An’ why Johnny Smith ain’t fat instid o’ lean.

He will wonder why the sky is blue an’ why it isn’t brown,

An’ why twelve o’clock don’t come at early morn;

He will wonder why things don’t fall up instid o’ fallin’ down,

An’ why Seckel pears don’t grow on stalks of corn.

He will wonder why Jim Perry’s hair ain’t black instid o’ red,

An’ why summer don’t start in at Christmas time;

Why it is that folks can’t never go to heaven till they’re dead,

An’ why three times three ain’t ten instid o’ nine;

Why don’t daisies bloom in winter, an’ why don’t we have no snow

When the temperature’s a hundred in the shade;

Why don’t tomcats never whistle, en why does a rooster crow

When his mate has just informed him that she’s laid.

So Si Gidders’ tongue is runnin’ an’ each new thing he may see

Allers sets a wonder workin’ in his head,

He will wonder what it is an’ how it ever came to be,

An’ why it ain’t painted black instid o’ red.

An’ I ’spect that when he dies an’ comes to heaven’s pearly gates

That he won’t find time to step inside at all,

For he’ll want to stop an’ wonder why they hain’t all made of tin,

An’ nailed up with old shoeleather to the wall.

Thou God of mercy, Thou who art

To Abraham a sword and shield,

Must I myself, an infant, yield

Unto the desert’s burning heart?

Have I been so undutiful

That this death be my recompense,

That Ishmael in his innocence

Should die so young and beautiful?

Is he so worthless in Thy sight,

Is all that he might do and be

So insignificant to Thee

Who lovest justice, truth, and right?

But though I crave Thy tenderness,

No longer will I plead with Thee

Whate’er Thy will so let it be.

For even death can bring but rest.

So not unto the burning sands

Do I commend my dearest joy,

My innocent, my precious boy,

But into Thy most gracious hands.

But I am like a wreck at sea;

My throat is parched, my heart is sore;

I sigh for rest, not that of yore.

Do to me, Lord, as pleaseth Thee.

When the cares of life are heavy and the world looks dark to me,

When board is high and funds are running low,

I can look back at the faces that I used to love to see—

The faces of the balmy long ago.

I can wander back along the brooks I loved when but a boy,

When I didn’t have to mend my shirts and sew

The buttons on I busted off, ah! those were days of Joy,

When I lived, a careless laddie, in the happy long ago.

Somehow, when my dinner’s heavy, then my heart gets heavy, too.

And I long to see the cooky jar again.

It isn’t any wonder that the world looks black and blue,

When you owe at least a half dozen men.

I am longing for the good old days when I could live care free,

And when I was hungry I could just tiptoe

Into the dark old pantry, and eat all that I could see,

And only get my britches fanned in the happy long ago.

Give me back the nice hot biscuit, give me back the fresh clean clothes,

Give me back the swimmin’ hole and all its joys,

Give me back the tenderness that a mother only knows

Makes the very life and soul of sturdy boys.

Give me back the apple-butter, and I’ll stir it till I die.

Give me back the places that I used to know.

Give me back the fresh fried sausage and the yellow pumpkin pie

That I used to do the chores for in the happy long ago.

The joy of being grown up has lost all its charm for me,

Since my clothes are growing threadbare down the seams,

And my Sunday hat needs darning, and my necktie seems to be

Drawing near the murmur of Elysian streams.

I am longing for the good old days, when life was new to me,

And the parties where I used to love to go,

The old-time apple cuttin’ and the jolly huskin’ bee,

Where I used to swing the lassies in the happy long ago.

Now I lay me down to sleep

’Mid the twilight’s gentle gloom,

Soothing me to slumbers deep

In my angel-guarded room,

While the stars look tenderly

Down upon the world and me.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

While the shadows hover near.

O, may angel pinions sweep

Where an evil would appear,

Angel footsteps softly press

’Round my bed in watchfulness.

If I should die before I wake,

And lightly leave my snowy bed,

And wander out, my way to take

Unto the side of Him who said

Beside the lake of Galilee:

“Forbid them not to come to me.”

I pray the Lord my soul to take

To walk with him ‘neath clearer skies

Where only joyful souls awake,

Where grander, sweeter songs arise,

Through all the years to come, the same

I humbly pray in Jesus’ name.

Some times I see in quiet, thoughtful hours

Adown the winding journey of the years,

Beyond a valley full of faded flowers

Whose petals still are wet with human tears,

An open door that looms beside the way,

And many weary pilgrims entering where

A glad face waits to welcome them alway,

And then I know my Father’s house is there.

I care not whether it be built of gold,

With pearly gates and shining sapphire walls,

Or whether it be humble, low, and old,

With footworn thresholds and with homely halls.

I only ask that when my feet have pressed

The journey through, and I have come alone

Unto my Father’s house, that I may rest

Among the loved and lost, and feel at home.

When every flower has shed its bloom

Afar upon life’s changing ground,

And in the chilling autumn gloom

Their leaves are drifted all around.

One blossom still will lift its eyes

Unto the changeless summer skies.

When life’s poor lyre has ceased to play,

When faith and love no longer sing,

Still through the shades of closing day

Will tremble one unbroken string

To make life’s music still ascend

In harmony unto the end.

Oh, flower of hope with deathless hue,

Oh, song of hope, unsilenced still,

Beyond the vast, eternal blue

Ye shine and echo on until

The journey’s ended and the way

Leads into God’s eternal day.

When the King came

He was so like His own, they knew Him not;

And cast in ways of poverty His lot.

There was no blazoned heraldry of fame

When the King came.

When the King died

Not many wept. The memory of His years

Did not bring many blossoms dewed with tears

Unto the new tomb in the mountainside,

When the King died.

When the King rose

’Twas not to go to some far distant land,

Nor yet to dwell within a palace grand,

’Twas to the palace of the hearts of men

He rose again.

The world has seen from age to age

Two marshaled hosts upon the plain

Each other in a war engage,

And strew the years with heroes slain;

And though they seem at times to fail,

The hosts of God shall still prevail.

Between the hosts of right and wrong

The conflict long has raged afield.

It still must rage, however long,

Till one shall see the other yield.

But, though a countless horde assail,

The hosts of God shall still prevail.

The days of blood are in the past,

And gone the conflict of the sword.

Unseen the lines of war are cast

Against the armies of the Lord.

But, though their words be fiery hail,

The hosts of God shall still prevail.

By night and day the conflict goes,

Unheard, unseen, but great and real;

And back and forth God’s friends and foes

Contend for this world’s woe or weal.

Fear not their weapons nor their mail,

For we shall see God’s hosts prevail.

Hearts, lose not courage. Brains, take fire,

And grow not listless in the fight.

The arms of God shall never tire,

And nothing can withstand His might.

What though at times our banners trail

In dust, our God shall still prevail.

The world shall know the ways of God.

The nations all shall walk in peace.

Wherever human foot has trod,

The sway of selfishness shall cease.

No more shall horse and rider pale

Go forth, when God’s hosts shall prevail.

Beneath serene and peaceful skies,

And from an earth without a stain,

Redemption’s anthem shall arise

Throughout the years, for God shall reign.

His cause shall not forever fail,

For, soon or late, He shall prevail.

ODOVE, whom do you woo

With your soft and gentle coo

In the freshness of the morning ’mid the sunlight and the dew?

When the first Spring flow’rs are fair

And your voice floats everywhere

On the bosom of the palpitating air?

O dove, how glad the note

That echoes from your throat

When the lazy clouds like castles of the sunny islands float

In the azure Summer sky,

Ah, let your joy run high,

For the dreary Winter’s coming by and by.

O dove, how sad the tone

As you sit and grieve alone

In the gathering of the twilight, in your sad, sweet monotone,

With the Autumn hillsides gray

Stretching far—so far away,

But the joys of Spring and Summer gone for aye.

THE gateway of the Kingdom 

It bendeth very low,

Within the reach of every place

Where common people go.

’Tis grand, but grandly simple.

’Tis great, yet very small,

Though wide enough that ever

There’s passage-way for all.

The gateway of the Kingdom

Is not of common gold.

Its pearl is far more precious

Than earthly realm can hold.

It has no rusty hinges.

No marble steps are piled.

The gateway of the Kingdom

Is the spirit of a child.

There’s a Babe within the manger. Humble men are on the hills.

Where the sheep are safely folded, there the silver moonlight spills.

There’s a rift across the heavens. There’s a light along the sky.

There’s a glory in the valley. There’s an angel song on high.

There’s a Babe within the manger. On the hills are humble men.

“Peace on earth,” rings forth the chorus, and their hearts respond, “Amen!”

There’s a Babe within the manger. There’s a star that shines above.

’Tis a star of age-long promise. ’Tis the morning star of love.

There are wise men. They are kneeling. They have brought their tribute there—

Gold, and frankincense, and myrrh. Behold the majesty they wear.

There are wise men. They are kneeling. Wisdom comes upon its knees.

In its simple recognition of the birth and reign of peace.

Humble men are on the hillsides, men of wisdom in the stall

Where the new-born King of Glory deigns to find His earthly all.

High and low have met together. There before a common shrine

Rich and poor, unlearned and lettered, each has found the King Divine.

Christ is Lord of humble peasant. He is Lord of royal son.

At His feet all men are equal. In His way all men are one.

A thousand gates

Lead to the grave; and through the weary years

The race of men, through bitter, blinding tears,

Have seen the forms they loved most enter there

Where ever waits

An open road on which all feet must fare.

One only gate

Leads from the grave; one portal outward swings.

’Tis one alike for peasants and for kings.

Beside it lies a stone that’s rolled away;

And, soon or late,

God’s people shall fare forth into the day.

O, Mighty One,

We praise thee that when we have finished all

The day’s full hours will hold, and night shall fall

That we may see, although we die upon

A bed of stone,

One door that opens outward on the dawn.

Upon one battlefield is writ in blood

The story of more woe than all the years

Can wash away, e’en with the cleansing flood

Of centuries of peace. Blind, sickening tears

Are caused to flow that never mailed hand

Will seek to dry. There glassy grows the eye

Of him who looked with joy upon the land,

Rich now with death’s ripe harvest. One weak sigh,

Then fades the sky, the fields, and all—and then

The awful silence which alone will say

To those at home, he died, but how or when

Remains a secret of the bloody day.

What logic is there that can justify

The wasting harvest field, the empty home,

The blank despair that comes at last to lie

On faces left to fare their way alone,

Widowed and orphaned—and for naught but this—

To keep a royal throne from tottering down,

To hold a mile of boundary where it is,

To save a scepter, or preserve a crown?

The War Lord dwells within his palace walls

In all the bright insignia of power;

He gives the word by which a city falls,

Or ships go thundering through Death’s awful hour.

The Prince of Peace knew not an earthly throne,

Had not one resting place to call his own.

The War Lord in the pomp of place doth ride

Across the borders of the blood-drenched land.

On splendid charger, strong and fiery-eyed

In every place he keeps a presence grand.

The Prince of Peace knew but a humble seat

And walked the earth with weary, dusty feet.

The War Lord hears the plaudits of the crowd.

Unnumbered men would perish for his name.

To keep his royal robes they wear a shroud,

And bleed to save him from an hour of shame.

The Prince of Peace with thorns upon his head,

Unfriended, through the hard-eyed crowd was led.

The while the War Lord speaks the myriad waits,

And at his word it cannot choose but die.

His armored hand is laid upon the gates

Of life and death. What matter reasons why?

In one dark hour of loving agony

The Prince of Peace expired upon a tree.

A thousand voices speak of God.

The gayest flower, the meanest clod,

The highest hill, the deepest sea

Proclaim his messages to me.

I read his story in the Book.

I hear it in the babbling brook;

’Tis written all across the sky,

And in the silent majesty

Of mountains, lifting from the land.

A note of his undying word

Is in the song of every bird,

And but to-day my Saviour smiled

From out the features of a child.

What’s the use of weeping

When the day goes wrong?

Better to be keeping

Pace with mirth and song.

December is December,

But May is always May,

And shine and shade, remember,

Will each come in its day.

Gloom’s an old, old story,

As ancient as the earth.

And men with heads now hoary

Have measured out its worth.

They speak with one opinion

That, not in gloom and mists,

But in sunshine’s dominion

The wealth of men consists.

One day an angel came and asked a king,

Sated with power, with love of pomp and gold,

Four things that God must dearly love, to bring

And set them in his presence, so ’tis told.

The king went forth and came again ere night,

And set before the angel in that hour

A jewelled crown, a scepter gleaming bright,

A battle weapon, and a throne of power.

The angel’s face grew shaded as he gazed

Upon the king’s poor playthings gathered there.

At last again his countenance was raised.

He said: “These are the trappings pride may wear,

But God’s great kingdom knows a richer worth:

A truer value is its high concern.”

“Go”, pled the king, “and from the mighty earth

Bring me those things. I wait for thy return.”

“Nay, come with me”, the angel said, “and I,

Though I may lead a long and weary way,

Will show you what is best beneath the sky.”

These are the things he showed the king that day:

A kindly life that served unselfishly,

A flower that grew in sweetness undefiled,

A fireside where were love and purity,

The unspoiled spirit of a little child.

The days are pictures, and they pass

As comes and goes some mirage sheen,

As fireflies in the tangled grass,

Or shadows thrown upon the screen.

Pictures they are of love and care;

Pictures of toil and happiness;

Of mighty men, of ladies fair—

Incarnate strength and gentleness;

Pictures of battle and the night

That touches woe with cooling breath;

Of calm years following the fight,

When blossoms deck the fields of death;

Pictures of paths that wind, and meet

Where Fate’s decrees have willed it so,

Or where erstwhile companion feet

Are led in separate ways to go.

The days are pictures, and they run

Their hastening course of smiles and tears.

As shadows flit ’twixt sun and sun,

So pass the ever-dying years.

When the end is reached, and the curtain falls,

And the echoes die from the voiceless walls,

This is the thing that alone will tell:

The actor’s part—has he played it well?

A few swift scenes and the course is run;

A few brief facts and the play is done.

May it be well when the far voice calls,

And the lights go out, and the curtain falls.

The world’s a screen. Across it flit the shadows

Of all the multitudes that come and go.

They move in dusty lanes, o’er sunny meadows,

And where the hand of toil moves to and fro.

There is the mourner and the long procession;

There is the maid with joy of which to sing;

There is the warrior, with his blood-possession;

There is the shade of some forgotten king.

Soon is each gone. Soon yonder in the distance

Each comes amid the mists to disappear,

Where dying light falls on his face or glistens

For one brief moment on his helm or spear.

Yet as each goes another is approaching.

A multitude is shadowed on ahead;

So moves the line, forevermore encroaching

Upon the borders of the silent dead.

Thus goes the drama, each his fond part playing,

For what he plays to him is all in all—

Striving, pursuing, loving, toiling, praying,

Until the darkness overshadows all.

A chicken-hearted boy was Jim,

A lad with a gentle face and eye.

The boys all joined in a laugh at him

Whenever he chanced to be passing by.

He wouldn’t set foot on a helpless thing.

For a crawling worm he’d turn aside.

He was always making a splint or sling

For some wounded creature that else had died.

Well, Jim grew up, and the war came on.

Justice and right in the dust lay low.

One day they noticed that Jim was gone,

And wondered if he could face the foe.

It was said that no braver soldier fought

In all the marshaled ranks than Jim;

From many battles he finally brought

The name of a hero home with him.

We looked to see a steely eye

And a hardened face from his soldier ways,

But the same old lad came marching by

With the gentle eyes of his boyhood days.

He had heard the voices of battle ring;

He had faced the peril from death’s grim shore;

But to-day he treads on no helpless thing,

Though they call him chicken-heart no more.

Let us be right, though all the world may follow

The broken fabric of some failing dream.

As sounds upon our ears its outcry hollow,

And men lose all for some deceiving scheme,

Let us forsake the gold and tinsel masking,

And live for things enduring and secure.

Whate’er the prize the idle crowd is asking,

Let us be right. The path of truth is sure.

Let us be right, whatever seem our losing,

Some day the tide will turn, and men will know

The thing abiding. Then the common choosing

Will be the substance, not the empty show.

Let us be right. When self’s poor plans are shattered

And all the castles lifted mountain high

By evil hand, are broken down and shattered,

The right shall stand beneath the mighty sky.

ABIT of sunshine and a bit of shadow,

And each succeeds the other on the screen.

They chase each other over hill and meadow,

Alternate triumph through each act and scene.

The smile and tear has each in turn its season,

The right and wrong their coronation day,

And foolishness contends for place with reason

—such is a play.

A bit of gladness and a bit of sighing,

A warm sun’s beaming and the cloudland’s chill

Each comes and goes the while the day is dying

From western hill to farther western hill.

So runs the tale as passing years grow hoary;

So will it be forever and for aye.

A bit of sorrow and a touch of glory

—such is a day.

Put up your guns, ye nations, and lay your swords away.

Forget the roar of battle ye heard but yesterday.

Forget the vanished era of autocrats and kings

And turn to face a future of better, finer things.

We strung our rows of crosses on Flanders’ flow’ry plains.

We touched the fields of Europe with our hearts’ reddest stains.

We walked the shadowed valley: we felt its deadly chill.

Some lingered on its bosom with voice forever still.

Among the wreck of empires, the dreams of yesterday.

Built on self’s foundations (the dreamers: where are they?).

We face a dawning future upon a shattered earth.

’Twill be as we shall make it—a thing of threat or worth.

O ye returning manhood, baptized in battle flame,

Ye who have fought for honor and saved the world from shame,

Ye who have stood for justice beyond the mighty seas,

Come to the task awaiting on battlefields of peace.

Put up your guns, ye nations, and lay your swords away.

’Twas yours to live beholding the world’s redemption day.

Let now the earth, forgetting its reign of strife and blood,

Welcome the dawning era—the day of brotherhood.

Each New Year day Time cuts the thread

That binds us to the vanished past.

Its tears, and cares, and pangs are fled.

Its woes are gone, its troubles dead,

And we are free at last.

It is the road ahead we scan

Whene’er the year is new.

Again we gird our hearts, and plan

For better days. We hope again

In things secure and true.

Thanks for the hand that steals away

The cares of moments sped.

Thanks for the years we leave today,

But more for all that seems to say:

“’Tis better on ahead.”

There blooms a lovely garden

Beneath the smile of God,

Where fairest flow’rs are nodding

Above the smoothest sod.

From it has come the harvest

Of everlasting worth,

Enriching yonder heaven,

As well as hither earth.

Kind friendships are the breezes

That come with soothing breath;

Love is the life stream, springing

Where else had been but death;

A teacher is its gard’ner;

Its sunlight is the truth;

And in its soil doth blossom

The flower of lovely youth.

There is a way

That leads to some rich joy in every day,

To where through immemorial ages gone

Calm Peace has sat upon her regal throne.

There is a road to joy’s supremest goal,

But pilgrims say

It is discerned but by the open soul.

There is a song

That has the power to scatter courage strong

Through all the moments of the busy day,

And blunt the thorns along the weary way.

Its music always lessens sorrow’s toll,

Though suffered long.

It is no secret to the open soul.

There is a gleam

That lights with loveliness the hill and stream,

Blesses the days with hours supremely rare,

And threads a line of gladness through each care.

Before it all the shadows swiftly roll

From fettered beam.

It breaks like morning on the open soul.

Life’s always at its best upon the screen.

It is not perfect. Life is never so.

There runs a struggle thru each shifting scene,

And shadows often come, their pall to throw

Across the landscape. Things go wrong a while.

But always comes at last the shine’s glow,

And gloom is followed by the song and smile.

In every drama wrong must have its reign,

In every tale the villain has his day;

Gladness we see, contrasting it with pain,

And truth is valued but by error’s sway.

The right and wrong are alternate in power,

The scene is now in sun, now shadow cast,

But tho the wrong may triumph for an hour,

The right is seated on the throne at last.

Out of the silence often comes

A voice that breaks the stillness deep,

And with an eloquence unheard

Calls hidden mem’ries from their sleep.

It carries power unknown to speech;

It speaks directly to the heart,

Grown thoughtful in the silences.

Such is the screen’s appealing art.

It calls the strong to lost resolve.

It thrills the weak to better things,

It touches sleeping hopes to life

And in the songless heart it sings.

It opens scenes of loveliness

For eyes long used to barren spot,

This sacred silence that is heard

Where thought is all and voice is not.

There’s a word that keeps us from the best of things,

Making some men peasants, making others kings,

Making all to sorrow, forcing some to die,

For uncounted sorrows the one reason why.

There’s a word begetting bitterness and strife,

Evermore beclouding all the sky of life,

Driving men to battle when they ought to be

Linked in soul together by fraternity.

There’s a word that enters in the holy place,

Writes its tale of trouble on the fairest face;

Makes of life a struggle, fraught with grasping greed,

When its years were given for high thought and deed.

There’s a word that robs us of the happy song;

Makes the earth a treadmill, elevates the strong;

Drives the weak from justice; grinds the poor and worn;

Fills the years with hatred; seeds the world with scorn.

There’s a word absorbing manhood’s fruitful hour,

Careless of life’s meaning, prodigal of power,

Making regal spirits satisfied with pelf,

It is short but powerful, and its name is self.

Each stone that goes into the wall

And lifts it higher from the clay

Is but a life that heeds the call

To serve its God from day to day.

No hammers on their anvils beat,

Yet in some wondrous time to be

The finished work will stand complete—

The temple of humanity.

The patient builders—who are they,

Whose hands have toiled and oft alone,

Through many a hard, discouraged day

To set e’er night another stone?

They are the teachers who have brought

The word of righteousness and truth,

The great ideal, the noble thought,

And dropped them in the heart of youth.

WHEN two gray-haired old parents meet

In quiet home or busy street,

The talk will run in formal style

On formal things a little while.

Then, following a silent spell:

“The children, are they doing well?”

Then faded eyes grow quickly bright.

Worn features take a sudden light,

As they recount with pride and joy

The story of each girl and boy.

How these old parents love to tell

That every child is doing well!

The great All-Father up above,

I often think, in words of love

Recounts each vict’ry and success,

Joys in His children’s happiness.

I think He, too, delights to tell

That all His own are doing well.

One climax comes in every play,

And only one;

And after it has had its day

The struggle’s won.

Untangled is each vagrant thread;

Sad hearts to happiness are led;

And, with the days all fair ahead,

The play is done.

One climax comes in every life,

And only one—

The apex of our human strife,

The race we run.

Then woes are banished; tears are dried;

Our answered questions put aside;

Life’s dearest hope is satisfied;

Then life is done.

The joy that some hearts treasure, the hope that others prize;

The wistful wish that, buried deep, sometimes in others lies;

A word so dear that men will die with gladness for its sake;

The forge at which are welded strong the ties that naught can break;

A garden in the wildest waste of this world’s desert life;

A spot where dwell both peace and calm amid the fiercest strife;

A refuge from each storm that beats; the place in all the land

Where there are souls who sympathize and hearts that understand;

The rock whereon the anchors hold that keep us safe and fast

When else would perish all we are and have amid the blast;

The shrine before whose holy light does fondest worship come;

The choicest ideal of the heart—its sacred name is HOME.

I turned the cover of a book,

And found it was a gate

Into a field where one might look,

Unwearied, soon and late.

The dreams of every land and sea

Were all about me there.

Kind spirits came and talked with me,

And flowers bloomed everywhere.

I saw the years that long had sped,

The wondrous scenes of yore.

The mighty past gave up its dead,

They lived and spoke once more.

The greatest minds that ever thought,

And hearts that ever beat,

Came, and their richest treasures brought

To lay them at my feet.

We are moving shadows cast

On the world’s great picture screen;

Shadows in a drama vast,

Filled with varied act and scene.

Shadows flitting in the sun

Like the bees among the flowers;

Shadows hast’ning one by one

Down the course of passing hours.

Shadows in the sunny space;

Shadows on the tangled grass;

Shadows on the river’s face;

Shadows in the winds that pass.

Shadows playing in the lane;

Shadows fighting battles brave;

Shadows walking ways of pain;

Shadows falling in the grave.

Shadows moving in the grove,

Falling on the summer lawn.

On and off the screen they move,

But the play goes ever on.

The sunbeam and the shadow

Are met upon the screen.

Each mingles in the making

Of yonder lovely scene.

If all were only shadow,

A leaden cloud would pall.

If it were only sunshine,

’Twould be no scene at all.

In life are intermingled

The sunshine and the rain.

In each day strangely blended

Are happiness and pain.

Where’er is told life’s story,

However grave or fair,

The sunshine and the shadow

Succeed each other there.

WHO shapes a mind doth shape the years

That are to be, the joys and tears

Of those unborn. He lays his hand

Upon the future of the land

And turns by thought’s resistless force

The stream of hist’ry in its course.

Who shapes a life, its hopes, its worth,

Doth shape the future of the earth.

His is a sculptor hand, to mold

The periods as they unfold.

His hand is laid upon the rod

That speeds the purposes of God.

The lights go low, the organ swells,

And pours its rhythm everywhere—

Now thunder, now the ring of bells,

Sounding at twilight o’er the dells,

Now but a whisper in the air.

The whisper and the thunder loud

Are both reflected on the crowd.

The pictures come, and pass away,

As morn departs or evening stills.

Ambition fights its fevered fray.

The wrong and right have each their day.

Love walks with love upon the hills

Life’s long procession there appears.

And hurries onward thru the years.

The music dies. The crowds depart.

Each goes his way, pursues his aim;

But something in the thing of art

Has left a mark upon his heart.

Somehow the world is not the same.

The music and the scenes so fair

Have left their after-imagine there.

The fish we almost captured,

The race we almost won,

The task we almost finished

Before the day was done.

The plan almost accomplished,

The dream almost come true—

These bring but little comfort

Or help to me and you.

Near heroes win no laurels;

Near victories are cheap;

And near achievements bring us

No crowns we care to keep.

To come but near is failure.

A miss is like a mile.

The word “almost” can rob us

Of all that is worth while.

The folks we meet along the road,

They are a varied throng—

A pilgrim struggling with his load;

The singer of the song;

A youth with bright, expectant gaze,

His face with hope alight;

An old man bowed with many days,

And stumbling toward the night.

The rich, the poor, the high, the low;

The faithless and the true;

The face of joy, the form of woe,

All pass in grand review

We meet, and see their forms no more;

But when the eve is gray

The sweetest thought we ponder o’er

Is whom we’ve helped today.

There are substitutes for coffee; there are substitutes for tea;

But there’s none for right, or honor, love, or truth, or liberty.

There are substitutes for honey; there are substitutes for soap;

But there’s none for peace, or kindness, or the clinging ray of hope.

There are substitutes for paper; there are substitutes for wheat;

But there’s none for little children with their tiny, toddling feet.

There are substitutes for leather and materials of dress;

But there’s none for kindly service or a heart of happiness.

There are substitutes for butter; there are substitutes for cream;

But there’s none for aspiration or the wonder of a dream.

There are substitutes for beefsteak; there are substitutes for bread;

But none for the vanished sweetness of a moment that has fled.

There are substitutes for jewels; there are substitutes for gold;

But there’s none for honest thinking or for friendship tried and old.

There are substitutes for rubber and the shining of the sun;

But there’s none for love-lit firesides or the sense of duty done.

For everything that happens wrong

A dozen things go right.

For every tear a flood of song

Rings out across the night.

For every dark and stormy day

A week of days are fair.

However chill the clouds and gray,

’Tis always bright somewhere.

For every heart of bitterness

A host of hearts are light.

For every hour of deep distress

A whole long day is bright.

For every faithless friend we find

That many friends are true.

So, after all, God’s mighty kind

To such as me and you.

IDO believe

That, while in this old world few things are sure,

Right, truth, and love forevermore endure;

That these are ’mongst the things most worth our while

—A song, a smile,

The wiping of a tear from eyes that grieve.

I do believe

That in the day of famine or of feast

That one is richest who has sought the least;

That, spite of all earth’s woes, and tears, and pains,

Love is, and reigns;

And sunshine through the ages Time doth weave.

I do believe

God plants some seeds of gladness in each day,

And smiles on children happy at their play;

That living men, though paupers, churls, or slaves,

Are more than graves

To which the grass and mosses damply cleave.

IMUST not be a minute late,

Nor yet too hasty be.

I have a load of human freight

Depending upon me.

I know that loving eyes tonight

Are all along the line,

Waiting to see them each alight—

These passengers of mine.

When at the finish of my run

I reach the hour of rest

I want to think on what I’ve done,

And know it was my best.

Of hearts that never felt a fear

I want to dream tonight,

Hearts that were sure the engineer

Would bring them through all right.

Have you ever felt a craving

On the vastness of the sea,

To behold the silken waving

Of the banner of the free?

Have you searched with tired precision,

Far from where the land unbars,

For a passing moment’s vision

Of the flag of stripes and stars?

Does it thrill you to remember

When it stood against the sky,

How your heart was like an ember

And a tear was in your eye?

How the old flag thrilled your spirit,

How it made you feel at home,

When your ship that day sailed near it

On the wideness of the foam?

We thank you, old farm, forever

For the gift you have freely made

To the world and its hard endeavor,

Of the boys and the girls who played

On your beautiful hills and meadows,

Who digged in your kindly soil

And who learned in your sun and shadows

The lesson of honest toil.

We thank you for hands so ready

Their manifold tasks to do,

For minds that are keen and steady,

For hearts that are strong and true,

For people of lowly station,

For those who have won renown,

For the best who have served the nation

In the country and the town.

The dearest friends that life has known

In any time or place

Were made before the wondrous throne

Of mercy and of grace.

The bonds of brotherhood were wrought

In high communion there

Where we have walked with God in thought,

And bowed in common prayer.

The sweetest mem’ries of the years,

The joys most keen and true,

The kindest words that blessed our ears

The sanctuary knew.

The highest peaks our hearts have scaled,

The fairest roads we trod,

The hours by which all others paled

Were in the house of God.

OUR THANKS are thine,

O Mighty One, that thou has safely led

Our fathers through the grim and trying past

And made a way for us in days now dead.

Our gratitude before thy throne we cast,

That hands divine

Have kept our feet and ordered all our ways,

God of the yesterdays.

We thank thee, too,

For that blest hope we treasure fond and deep—

The hope our worn hearts lean so heavy on—

That somewhere in time’s mighty onward sweep

The day of God and righteousness shall dawn

Serene and true.

For all of this we bring our thanks to thee,

God of the years to be.

But most of all

We thank thee for the golden fruitfulness

Of fields now rich with grain or bright with flowers,

For grace and pardon, joy and blessedness,

And every good that even now is ours.

And so we call

In confidence that thou dost bless our way,

God of this present day.

THE HEART of a child is a scroll,

A page that is lovely and white;

And to it, as fleeting years roll,

Come hands with a story to write—

A story of laughter and mirth,

A story of sorrow and tears,

Of love that encircles the earth,

Or sin that embitters the years.

Be ever so careful, O hand;

Write thou with a sanctified pen.

Thy story shall live in the land

For years in the doings of men.

It shall echo in circles of light,

Or lead to the death of a soul.

Grave here but a message of right,

For the heart of a child is a scroll.

HE wasn’t rich; he wasn’t great,

His place was lowly and obscure.

His clothing was not up-to-date,

His house was tumble-down and poor.

No honor did he claim.

He never walked with lords and kings.

No glory has illumed his name,

But he was kind to helpless things.

He won no victories to boast.

He made no conquests, waged no strife.

He never led a conquering host;

He lived an unpretentious life.

But, when is writ the judgment scroll,

And Time its final verdict brings,

This will be said of him: his soul

Was rich in love for helpless things.

Here is a little piece of glass

Set in a tube of shining brass.

Through it had passed in grand review

All that the world’s heart ever knew

Of joy, hope, sorrow, love and fears,

The ceaseless struggle of the years,

The darkest schemes the evil know,

The noblest service men can show.

Through it the risen dead have walked,

The spectres of the past have stalked.

Hope realized has lingered there,

Likewise the shape of dark despair.

This bit of glass is seasoned well,

For human tongue could never tell

The half it knows of peace and strife,

And all that makes the old world’s life.

WE look down summer lanes on winter days,

We see the snow amid the summer’s heat.

Far lands are brought and laid before our gaze.

The woodland stream runs by the city street.

The light of noonday breaks the shades of night,

And then is softened to the starlight’s sheen.

The dawn and twilight mingle in our sight,

Such is the fairy magic of the screen.

THE heavy-hearted slip away from tears

And find the gladness of a fleeting hour

In fairer spaces and more peaceful years,

Where is no dearth of laughter, sun, and flower.

Youth sees the future. Age with faded eye

Looks back in joy on many a vanished scene,

And walks again among the days gone by.

Such is the fairy magic of the Screen.

GOD took the paths we longed in vain to go,

And built a golden street beside a river.

He took the gates Time closed to us below,

And built a portal that shall stand forever.

He took the longings that were vague and dim,

And hedged about by human limitation;

And built a world without a scar or rim

To be our everlasting habitation.

He took the bitter pangs that life has cost;

Transformed them into joy, and song, and wonder.

He took the treasured blessings we have lost,

And planted them beside the waters yonder.

He took our thoughts of hills, and woods, and streams;

And made them real, with added beauty given.

He took the shattered fragments of our dreams,

And built a city fair, and called it Heaven.

We owe our debt to the man who thinks,

For he leads our minds afar

Till they stand and tremble on the brinks

Of the strangest things that are.

We owe our debt to the man who hopes,

For he keeps our courage strong.

He speaks his cheer to the soul that gropes,

And it wakens into song.

And here’s to the man whose soul believes,

In whose heart convictions burn

Through the day of life, and who dying leaves

Them to others in their turn.

But the old world’s mighty tasks are planned

And done, as it onward goes,

By the balanced mind and the steady hand

That belong to the man who knows.

He has made a hundred harbors.

He has sailed the seven seas.

He has trod the Arctic ice fields.

He has felt the tropic breeze.

He has dwelt in peaceful cities.

He has taken shade and sun—

He has never hunted trouble

Nor from trouble ever run.

Grim and rugged are his features,

Brown his arms and hard his hands;

Yet his eyes are frank and winsome,

With a boyish air he stands.

Readiest of all our fighters,

True his aim, and dread his gun—

He has never hunted trouble

Nor from trouble ever run.

Not what I get, but what I give

As days go fleeting past.

Not how I feel, but how I live

Must tell the tale at last.

Not what I have, but what I do,

The loads I bear, the paths I hew

Through forests no man ever knew,

The highways that I cast.

Not the advantage that I take

But give amid the strife.

The service for some others’ sake

Where selfishness is rife.

The effort that I make to bless

My time and fellows with success,

And brotherhood, and happiness,

Measures this little life.

Sometimes the angels go searching

For the graves of the sons of God.

They traverse the reaching mountains,

The sea, and the rolling sod.

They never on earth would find them

By the marks we so long have known,

For they never stop to decipher

Our records in bronze and stone.

They find the graves of God’s children

By the monuments builded fair

Through years of struggle and toiling

By the hands that are buried there

Or words that were fitly spoken,

Of service devoted, true.

We mortals may never see them,

But God’s messengers always do.

In no triumphal line I ride,

No praise falls on my ears;

But I’ve a flag that waves in pride,

Above me through the years.

A flag whose folds are dear to me,

Whose glory I confess—

The symbol of my liberty,

And peace, and happiness.

Little of riches have I known,

Little perhaps deserve;

But I’ve a land to call my own,

A people I can serve.

A country that’s as broad and fair,

As any on the ball;

With happy people everywhere—

An equal chance for all.

God bless our little ones tonight,

Our little ones—and thine.

Protect their slumber by thy might.

Grant them thy peace divine.

Help us no duty to forget

We owe to them or thee,

And leave us nothing to regret

In years that are to be.

God, bless our little ones tonight,

Our little ones—and thine.

Help us to rear them true, and right,

And clean, and strong, and fine.

Lead them in ways more beautiful

Than we have ever seen,

And make them each more dutiful

Than we have ever been.

A bit of cloud and a bit of blue

Make the wide and mighty sky.

A touch of drought with the rain and dew

Make the seasons passing by.

A bit of black and a bit of white

On the canvas make the scene.

A bit of shade and a gleam of light

Make the drama on the screen.

A bit of toil and a bit of rest

Make our winding human way.

The rosy East and the flaming West

Make the glory of a day.

A bit of hope and a bit of fear

Make the heart’s eternal strife.

A song of joy and a falling tear

Make the daily round of life.

A perfect day is made of perfect hours,

And perfect hours of perfect moments run.

Of blessings realized and gathered flowers

Between the rising and the set of sun.

Soon they are gone. Swiftly the light that played

On crests of gladness all has passed away.

Dawn turns to Noon. Noon dies to Evening’s shade.

Each at its best helps make a perfect day.

A perfect day is in the reach of all

Who will but fill each moment to the full

With joy, and meaning, thought, and dream, and all

That makes life deep, and rich, and wonderful.

It is within the reach of all who hold

The will to serve, and laugh, and sing, an play

Until the sunset covers all with gold,

And darkness falls upon a perfect day.

THEY are long gone, those pleasant hours,

When we as girls and boys

Turned from our play among the flowers,

From all our painted toys,

To turn the leaves of picture books,

To live with lords, and kings,

Swineherds, and chimney sweeps, and cooks,

Soldiers, and such like things.

How still they stood! From day to day

No figure ever stirred.

The armies never marched away,

Nor ever spoke a word.

Now soldiers march with fife and drum.

Men move in every scene.

The picture books of old have come

To life upon the screen.

Of old our fathers wrote in pictures.

’Twas in an age of savage men.

The years have rolled a mighty cycle,

And we’ve got round to it again.

They carved their story on the mountain

Where it for ages might be seen.

We write ours on a filmy ribbon,

And throw it on a silver screen.

If they who carved on cliff and hillside

Might but return today and see

The picture writing of the present,

Big with surprise their eyes would be.

We learned their message from the pictures,

Tho tiresome was the task and slow;

But we shall pass along a story

That all the world may read and know.

While we are seated at our board

In comfort here today,

With happy face, and kindly word,

Let us not fail to pray

For all who do not have their share

Of comfort and of gain,

For troubled people everywhere

In hunger or in pain.

Where weary mothers toil unfed

In places foul and dim,

Where little children cry for bread

And none is given them,

Lord, let Thy mercy have its way.

Sow plenty in the land,

And teach us in our joy today

To lend a helping hand.

(With all due apologies.)

Tell me not in sturdy measure

What it says upon the screen.

It does damage to my pleasure,

And the words are plainly seen.

I am really in earnest,

As the titles onward roll;

And so, when to me thou turnest,

Do not read aloud their scroll.

Many peevish eyes remind us,

Tho each passage be sublime,

Folks before and folks behind us

All can read both prose and rhyme.

In the scene of love and battle,

As the swift film pictures life,

If you do not cease your prattle,

There most surely will be strife.

Let us watch and see what’s doing

Till the hast’ning drama ends,

And not work the play’s undoing,

Reading titles to our friends.

While we have struggled patiently

Toward the larger good,

Friendship on every land and sea,

A world-wide neighborhood,

Space set its limits everywhere,

Its hedging curtains swirled;

But now we speed o’er land, through air,

And talk around the world.

Who is our neighbor? Yesterday

It was the man whose home

Was down the road or o’er the way

Where we might often come.

Today the golden tie that binds

Men’s souls in joy or care,

The word uniting hearts and minds,

Is vibrant everywhere.

“I LIKE to have my section here

The cleanest on the line.

I tell the men to keep it clear

Of every weed and vine.

The ties are new. The rails are bright.

The ballast’s firm and strong.

The road’s a shining groove of light

The trains may slip along.”

“And on the road we all must take,

The journey all pursue,

Though ’tis not marked by line or stake,

I have a section, too.

’Twill be inspected some bright day

By the Great Judge divine,

And how I’d like to hear Him say:

‛The cleanest on the line’!”

There is a world of shadows;

We see it on the screen

—A world of grassy meadows,

With sunlit streams between,

Streams flowing to the ocean.

They come from everywhere.

Love, hope, despair, devotion,

Joy, sorrow—all are there.

This world of wondrous seeming

Is not a distant place.

’Tis a new way of dreaming

To walk in it a space,

To tread its flow’ring meadows,

To sit beside its streams.

It is a world of shadows,

And yet how real it seems!

I bare my head to banners

That others know and love,

But one I hold the fairest

That decks the blue above.

Whatever be their emblems,

Wherever they may be,

Stand, if you will, beneath them—

But the Stars and Stripes for me.

It stands for all I covet,

It leads in all I seek;

Its folds afford protection

And succor to the weak;

It stands for right and justice,

And peace and liberty.

To others you are welcome—

But the Stars and Stripes for me.

No flag shall wave above it

On any purpose bent,

Nor snatch its honor from it—

At least with my consent.

It speaks of proud traditions,

High hopes for years to be.

No other scheme or banner

But the Stars and Stripes for me.

THIS is a place of endings and of startings,

Of journeys finished, journeys just begun.

It is a place of meetings and of partings,

Of heart-ties welded and of struggles done.

It is a place of laughter and of sighing,

And both commingled in some heart that swells;

A place of whispered questions, low replying,

Lost in the clanging din of engine bells.

It is a place of partings and of meetings,

A place of hoping and a place of fear,

A place of farewells and a place of greetings.

The mountain crests of life are rounded here.

Here does the world pass by in long procession.

Here do the heart’s tides ebb, and flow, and surge.

Earth’s best and worst are mingled in the station.

Here do the paths of all the world converge.

The eyes of the ages are toward him.

The love of the race is his own.

The heart of the world will reward him

With a name that is more than a throne.

The life that he lives is unending,

For he is the servant of youth.

Earth is lit by the flame he is tending

—This priest at the altar of truth.

When each home is a temple,

Its every room a shrine,

Its hearth a sacred altar

Inscribed to things divine;

When each eye in the circle

Reflects that altar flame,

Each mealtime sacramental

Unto the Wondrous Name;

When each morn is a prayer-time

Each evening hour is blessed

With all the grace of kindness

And all the peace of rest;

When each task is a service,

Each word a psalm of praise,

The world will swing in sunshine

Through all the golden days.

Soft breaths of wind that gently pass,

Sigh in the branches of a tree,

And whisper in the tangled grass;

The early droning of a bee,

Shaking the dew from dripping wings

Among the blossoms on the lawn;

The sprightly chirp of waking things.

These are the voices of the dawn.

The falling of a loosened leaf,

That seems loud where all is so still;

A field-mouse rustling in a sheaf;

The low of kine around the hill;

A little tinkling waterfall,

Whose bubbles gurgle and are gone;

A skylark’s song; a robin’s call.

These are the voices of the dawn.

Her silent body, slim and gray,

Hangs grimly off the bar,

Then, like a wraith, she slips away,

Through mist to ports afar.

She tells not where her course may lie,

Nor cares what perils be,

She goes, nor ever questions why—

The watchdog of the sea.

She plows alike through light and dark,

She scents the far wind’s breath;

Only at foemen does she bark,

And then her bark is death.

She keeps our coasts from every threat,

Guards home and liberty;

Her courage has not failed us yet—

The watchdog of the sea.

WHO has not heaven in his soul

May seek o’er land and main,

From East to West, from Pole to Pole;

But he will seek in vain.

He may traverse the mighty sky,

Ascend through spaces dim;

But heaven with all its ecstacy

Will not exist for him.

Who carries heaven in his heart,

Its sunshine in his breast,

Need never seek a place apart,

For every place is blest

—The hill, the vale, the sea, the air,

The stream, the forest dim.

The light of God from portals fair

Shines everywhere for him.

We live thru drab, prosaic days

That slowly come and go;

We tread a thousand weary ways,

And heavy burdens know;

We toil in patience thru the years,

Alike in sun and shower,

Paying the price of blood and tears

For one climactic hour.

We tread the boards thru action long,

Face conflict grim and hard,

To gain one triumph over wrong,

One moment of reward.

We move upon the mighty screen

From dawn to set of sun

To make one little perfect scene

Before our part is done.

I looked in the face of a rose

As it nodded in springtime and smiled.

I saw where eternity glows

In the sweet, tender eyes of a child.

I looked in a sunbeam in air.

They each bore an image divine.

The Creator was everywhere.

I looked at the set of the sun,

And the crag that reflected its light.

I thought on the day that was done,

And I pondered the stars of the night.

And I looked in the eyes of a man

Who had stumbled through sinning to prayer.

God’s fingerprints there I could scan.

He awaited me everywhere.

Mankind’s great servant I,

A servant long unknown

And still unseen, save in the sky

When I illume its zone.

I sweep around the stars,

Ascend through spaces dim.

I light my lamps where night unbars

Above the mountains grim.

But still my chief delight

Is not to rock the deep,

And flash my fires across the night

Where angry tempests sweep.

It is to drive the keel,

Bear words from place to place,

To swing the beam, and turn the wheel,

And serve the human race.

A most electric gentleman

He was his whole life through.

Down busy ways his current ran,

As all his friends well knew.

He was live wire, so to say,

He liked to see things go,

Magnetic in most every way

—A human dynamo.

One day a blue coat collared him

When on some mischief bent,

And in a jail cell dark and dim

His next few days were spent.

What was the charge against him? Yes

’Twas natural, you see,

So much so you could really guess

—Assault and Battery.

I must travel the miles till the journey is done,

Whatsoever the turn of the way.

I shall bring up at last at the set of the sun,

And shall rest at the close of the day.

Let me deal as I journey with foeman and friends

In a way that no man can assail,

And find nothing but peace at the roadway’s last bend,

When I come to the end of the trail.

We are brothers who travel a great, common road,

And the journey is easy for none.

We must succor the weary and lift on the load

Of the pilgrim whose courage is done.

Let me deal with them each on my way to the West

With a mercy that never shall fail,

And lie down to my dreams with a conscience at rest

When I come to the end of the trail.

If Christ is not divine,

Then lay the Book away,

And every blessed faith resign

That has so long been yours and mine,

Through many a trying day;

Forget the place of bended knee;

And dream no more of worlds to be.

If Christ is not divine,

Go seal again the tomb;

Take down the Cross, Redemption’s sign;

Quench all the stars of hope that shine;

Forget the upper room;

And let us turn and travel on

Across the night that knows no dawn.

The cost of living hits us here.

Taxes are climbing out of sight.

This hasn’t been a good crop year.

The season didn’t turn out right.

We had a drouth and then a flood.

Spring was too hot and fall too chill.

But we have shelter, clothes and food,

And all our dear ones with us still.

We still have friends to share our way.

We have the glory of the day,

The freedom of the hill and plain.

We have the beauty of the sky,

God’s love through dawn and evenfall.

And so, though same things seem awry,

We’re pretty lucky after all.

God took a hearth-fire, warm and bright,

And planted love beside it;

Spun happy laughter through its light,

So gay no gloom could hide it.

He wove a golden thread of song

Among the flick’ring shadows,

Like that where days are bright and long

Upon the summer meadows.

He made a sanctuary fair

With His own presence gifted.

He built a holy altar there

Where hearts should oft be lifted.

With His watch-care perennial

He wrapped it ’round and framed it.

He flung a roof above it all,

And Home was what He named it.

The stars in the heavens were gleaming

On mountains, and meadows, and rills.

The song of the angels was streaming

While shepherds kept watch on the hills.

The wise men bent low by a manger,

Apart from Earth’s striving and din,

To welcome the Heavenly Stranger,

For there was no room in the inn.

The years have not halted their sweeping,

It is Christmas again on the earth.

Again the glad season we’re keeping,

Recounting the tale of His birth.

Let not our hearts be, as He sees us,

So crowded with pleasure and sin

They can offer no welcome to Jesus.

Lord, let there be room in the inn.

Our hearts forget,

Amid the daily round of toil and fret.

They are so weak, so prone to lose their hold

On dreams of yesterday, and treasures old.

The thoughts that thrilled them in a vanished day,

Forgotten now, are cold in ashes gray.

Life brings us wondrous days and hours, but yet

Our hearts forget.

Our hearts forget

The times of joy and vision we have met,

The binding vows we once so bravely made,

The fond petitions that we trembling laid

Before the Great, White, Shining Throne above,

The tender, wistful, clinging bonds of love,

Contrition’s anguished and tear-washed regret

Our hearts forget.

We thank Thee, Father, for the care

That did not come to try us,

The burden that we did not bear,

The trouble that passed by us,

The task we did not fail to do,

The hurt we did not cherish,

The friend who did not prove untrue,

The joy that did not perish.

We thank Thee for the blinding storm

That did not loose its swelling,

And for the sudden blight of harm

That came not nigh our dwelling.

We thank Thee for the dart unsped,

The bitter word unspoken,

The grave unmade, the tear unshed,

The heart-tie still unbroken.

When “Lizzie” starts to climb a hill

Too hard to make “on high,”

She goes it very well until

Her power begins to die.

Then, shifting to another gear,

She leaves the slope behind,

And hustles on without a fear

Upon her second wind.

I notice it is so with men.

They start out with a will,

They go it well awhile, and then,

Slow down midway the hill.

But, seeing that their strength is run,

They change their gear, and find

The world’s best work is often done

On people’s second wind.

The mighty giant of the air,

More ancient than the sun

Whose power is vibrant everywhere

That restless force may run

Shakes the foundation of the hill,

Or rends the ground in twain,

Or blasts the forest at his will

And levels all again.

And yet he stoops to hold the light

That aged eyes may see.

He warms the baby’s feet at night,

And cooks for company.

He does a thousand little things

To help the world along.

He who the most of service brings

Is strongest of the strong.

HE NEVER wandered far from his own town,

The little hamlet where he lived and died,

And yet his pupils traveled up and down

The whole wide world of town and countryside.

He sought no honor to adorn his name

Nor dreamed of crowns that tarnish and grow dim;

But those he taught achieved undying fame

And in their triumph hour remembered him.

He had no time to mold the wide world’s life

Or take a hand in the affairs of state;

But others did he send into the strife

And through them helped to shape his people’s fate.

He won no earthly riches for himself.

He had no time to waste in seeking gold

But every day bestowed on him a pelf

Of love whose value never could be told.

Love transforms all things.

Lone days are touched with light,

And trying moments lose their stings,

And vexing things come right.

Love’s ointment to our eyes applied,

We see with vision glorified.

Love transforms all things—

Worn faces, hardened hands.

To the poor hovel glory clings,

For Love’s heart understands.

Whatever it beholds is fair;

It sees each hidden beauty there.

There is a little window.

’Tis called, I think, a screen.

Thru it the strangest people

And fairest things are seen.

Calm valleys, silent woodlands,

Tall summits, shining streams,

Long roads and busy cities

Are in this world of dreams.

There weary hearts may travel,

Each to its wonted place;

And lonely ones may revel

In pictured act and face.

There to our hidden longings

The waiting answer gleams

The while our thoughts inhabit

This pictured world of dreams.

Let black be black and white be white,

As they were meant to be;

But let the hearts of men be right

On every land and sea.

Let brown and yellow boast their race,

Their blood no taint e’er tell;

But let them each possess the grace

To wish a neighbor well.

Let us forget our foolish strife,

And all our groundless hate.

We needs must live a common life,

And share a common fate.

Whatever troubles we must stem,

Whate’er our place or name,

Beneath the crust that covers them

Our hearts are all the same.

The builder of the future

Is not the trader keen,

The driver of the turbine,

Nor any swift machine;

Not he who rides in triumph

Through the admiring town,

Fawning for public praises

And seeking for renown.

The builder of the future

Sits not upon a throne.

He toils among the shadows,

His struggles oft unknown.

He is the one who kindles

And keeps the fires of truth,

The teacher who is molding

The plastic heart of youth.

In many a crowded city

Where moves the human tide,

Eyes look with eager longing

To some old countryside.

Hearts that have long been sated

With earth recall the charm

Of life’s morning splendor

In childhood on the farm.

From many a path of glory

And many a throne of power

Is still recalled the wonder

Of some dear, distant hour.

Men look through years of toiling,

Of sorrow, strife, and harm,

And treasures unforgotten

Their childhood on the farm.

WHAT is the matter with our clock

I cannot understand.

It sounds its steady old tick-tock

With mien and manner grand.

To look at its great open face

You’d think it truthful quite.

I’m sorry such is not the case.

It’s hardly ever right.

Just yesterday when I was blue

Because Tom didn’t call

To play with me when work was through,

Its hands scarce moved at all.

When I went to his house today

To spend an hour or so,

We’d scarce got started at our play

Till it was time to go.

I had a dream the other night,

Too sweet for word of tongue,

Of days when, beautiful and bright,

The children all were young.

I saw them playing on the floor

And ’mongst the dooryard flowers.

Soft baby voices came once more

From unforgotten hours.

I came from work when eve was late

And all the sky was gold.

They ran to meet me at the gate

With greetings as of old.

I helped to tuck them in at night

With prayers of happiness,

But my arms ached when dawn was bright

With a great emptiness.

Whene’er I hear the Easter Bells

Ring out their carols gay,

The graves from all the hills and dells

Dissolve from sight away.

I see the mighty planet left

Without a marble stone

To tell of death, or one bereft

Who comes to weep alone.

Dear hands, long folded to their rest,

Return to touch my own,

And voices memory has blessed

In each familiar tone

Speak as in other days to me;

While on the springtime’s breath

Is borne to every land and sea

The news: “There is no death.”

SEE this snappy little spark

Flashing pertly in the dark;

Coming with its sudden gleam

Out from nowhere, it would seem;

Glowing here against the shade,

Fire unkindled, light unmade,

Brother to the bolt’s fierce blow

And the driving dynamo.

Here is hid the mystery,

Mayhap, of the land and sea.

All creation’s story may

Hide within this flashing ray.

Light, and heat, and force it holds;

Boundless energy unfolds;

Tells the secret, if we find it,

Of the God who stands behind it.

Faces, like stars, rise on our little ken;

Shine on our souls with warm and cheering ray.

Then, like the stars, they pass from us again,

Leaving the dreary world of yesterday.

Friends slip into our little world awhile.

Joys come to thrill us with their rapture keen.

The friends go trudging on their winding mile

The joys fade as a picture on the screen.

Altho unseen, they are not wholly gone.

A friendship once established cannot die.

A joy once tasted sweetly lingers on,

A perfumed presence never seen but nigh.

In the great drama of the fleeting years

They come upon the stage and play their part.

Then, tho each wondrous vision disappears,

It leaves its deathless image on the heart.

The man who reads the titles,

The man who tramps our toes,

The man who holds the end seat

Whatever comes and goes,

The man who laughs so loudly

That all the house can hear,

The man who with his snoring

Outrages every ear.

All died, and took their journey

Where the unseen begins,

And stood before the judgment

To answer for their sins.

They got a common sentence.

Each one was ordered flat

To sit and fume forever

Behind a picture hat.

I found Him in the whisp’ring pines,

And in the beauty of the rose;

I found Him where the first star shines,

Above the Summer day’s soft close;

I found Him where the storms grew wild;

I found Him in the happy face

And manner of a little child,

Revealing loveliness and grace.

I found Him in the swinging suns

That wheel their way through endless space,

And in the humblest path that runs

To love’s sequestered dwelling place;

I found Him where the violets dwell,

And where the bluebirds wheel and dart;

But never really knew Him well

Until I found Him in my heart.

We’ve never gotten to it,

With all our learning keen.

We simply cannot do it

With any fine machine.

Old Nature’s lanterns greet us

When dusk succeeds the sun.

A thousand miles they beat us

On all we’ve ever done.

In spite of shining crescent

And starbeam’s boasted light,

The firefly’s incandescent

Most glorifies the night.

Across the meadows flying

Cold light it generates.

We, too, have long been trying,

But Time still stands and waits.

IN the beginning was God. Beyond Time’s threshold he hovered,

Back of the earliest dawn or the flush of the first fair spring.

Farther than eye has disclosed or the keenest thought has discovered,

Moved in the silences vast the Maker of everything.

Back of the first heart-ties and the first warm heart-fires lighted,

Back of gleaming sky, the sea, and the shining sod,

Back of the first fond dream that a hopeful heart e’er sighted,

Lingered the Soul Divine and brooded the Love of God.

IN the beginning was God. O’er struggle and strife diurnal,

The void, and the mist, and the darkness, the mire, and the slime, and the clay,

Through the long course of the ages has watched the Spirit Eternal

Seeking for men the dawn of a better and kindlier day.

Brooding, watching, and hoping—but, withal, ever beseeching,

Over the track of time a saving shade it has cast,

And into the distant future as far as the years are reaching.

In the beginning was God, and God shall be at the last.

The good old days have vanished,

And I suppose forever.

My thunderbolt once quivered

O’er mountain, plain and river.

But now they have it captured,

These humans so audacious.

They dole it out through cables,

To serve their plans rapacious.

They sell it through a meter,

Howe’er the gods may scoff it.

They send a monthly statement,

And make a profit off it.

Alas, my bolt of thunder

(And what worse could befall it?)

Is hopelessly commercialized.

“Juice” now I think they call it.

There is a land of wonder

With fields and towers agleam.

I often see it yonder

Beyond the Hills of Dream,

Touched by the glow of morning,

Lit by the sunset’s fire,

Or with starbeams adorning—

The Land of Heart’s Desire.

Along the road of duty

We daily struggle on;

But e’er we touch its beauty,

Eluding us, ’tis gone.

Yet through the clinging shadows,

The brambles, and the mire,

It lures us toward its meadows—

The Land of Heart’s Desire.

SOME minds are flaming rockets

That flit among the stars;

And some are gaily nickeled

And painted motor cars;

And some are lumbering wagons

That slowly make their way,

With nothing keen to offer

And nothing fine to say.

THE swiftly flaming rocket

Loses its brilliancy.

The fine car is supplanted

By one more fair to see.

But the slow-moving wagon

That lumbers down the road

Is certain of arrival

And bears the heavy load.

Whoever saw a garden grow,

Or watched a robin build her nest,

Or lingered in the flaming glow

Of sunset blazing in the West;

Whoever walked the fruitful plain,

And saw the green stalks reach, and swell,

And ripen to a field of grain

Knows earth is full of miracle.

Whoever wandered in the wood,

And rambled down its aisle of dreams,

Or sought the orchard path, or stood

Where falls the murmur of a stream;

Whoever watched a cloudland wild,

Or sensed the twilight’s gentle spell,

Or prattled with a little child

Knows life is full of miracle.

They take great liberties with me,

Nor ever ask me yea or nay.

I’m just as weary as can be

From prancing on a screen all day.

I’ve dug, and climbed, and laughed, and wept,

Loitered, and danced to make a show;

And not a moment have I slept.

They keep me always on the go.

No choice is mine. I needs must move,

Swiftly, obedient, silently.

No fields of freedom do I rove.

My course is parceled out for me.

But this I cannot quite forget

—If I can wake some old refrain

Or still a rush of wild regret,

I shall not then have toiled in vain.

For every poor, defective soul that wanders

In the dark shades of subjectivity,

For each deluded mind that glibly flounders

In the foul mire of abnormality,

Give us a host who cheerful laughter scatter,

Whose willing hands toil on in love’s sweet right,

Who plant the roses, guide the feet that patter

Around the hearth of happiness at night.

Give us, O God, a race of normal people

Who walk no paths of morbidness apart;

Who dwell not in the bog, nor yet the steeple,

But in the dusty way, the busy mart;

Who like their work, care for the folks about them,

And make each day a thing of joy and song.

This world of our’s could never do without them.

They are the men who make it move along.

WHERE do they go, these shining rails

That ramble so far away

That seem to reach where the twilight pales

At the beautiful gates of day?”

“They run to the wider world, my boy,

Of dreaming, and strife, and again,

With its mingling of weariness and joy,

To the city—and back again.

Out of the valley and o’er the hill

Where childhood has had its day,

Out of the hamlet so small and still

And into the far away,

On, on to the world of toil, my lad,

With its struggle of brawn and brain,

Some of it good and some of it bad,

To the city—and back again.

Coming, going, thru the play,

Flashing on the screen,

Do the actors take their way.

Briefly each is seen.

What are they—these shapes that move,

Forms that rise and fall,

Urged by hope, or fear, or love?

Shadows on the wall.

In the daily strain and strife

Shift and change appear.

On the larger stage of life

Mingle smile and tear.

Here our little race we run,

Then are vanished all.

What are we when all is done?

Shadows on the wall.

God sometimes drops the shadows o’er us,

And leaves them for a space,

That we may clearly see before us

The image of the love he bore us

Reflected on his face.

He sometimes sends us hours of grieving,

That we may slip away

From sounds and voices so deceiving,

And once again in faith believing

Kneel at his throne and pray.

He sometimes leaves us to our weeping,

Though bitter seem our tears,

That briny drops from we eyes creeping

May wake some happiness long sleeping

For gladder, sweeter years.

The things that I believe

—These things are life to me.

Some all the senses might deceive,

For some I cannot see;

But in the tempest fierce and old

I feel their strong truth grip and hold.

The things that I believe

—I cannot let them go;

And empty-hearted grope and grieve

In darkness and in woe.

So, God, I thank my every star

They are no fewer than they are.

Could something only make today

As lovely as tomorrow,

As free from care and shadows gray,

As void of tears and sorrow,

The world would be a perfect place,

Without a woe to blight it.

Earth would be rich in every grace,

With happiness to light it.

Yet day is day, and life is life.

Time e’er repeats its story.

Each morning brings its toil and strife,

Likewise its gleam of glory.

Each brings its mingled shine and shade,

Its mingled joy and sorrow,

For each today God ever made

Was wrought from a tomorrow.

It stood upon a meadow fair,

A green and leafy tree.

Gaily it met the breezes there,

Lovely it was to see.

One night a storm of wind and rain

Rent it from earth apart.

The reason then was very plain.

Decay was at its heart.

He was a youth of promise fine,

The strongest of the crowd.

His features wore the stamp divine,

His eye was clear and proud.

He could have lived to purpose high

And played a noble part.

But no, he fell. The reason why?

Decay was at his heart.

The guns are silent in the valley now.

The river creeps serenely on its way.

Still clings the ivy to the rugged brow;

Of yonder hill, and roses grace the day.

No grave was heaped. No word of prayer was said.

No stone was reared against the pitying sky.

None ever knew where rests the silent dead

As unrevealing years go drifting by.

And yet he is not lost. This quiet sod;

Can rest him quite as well as anywhere,

Beneath the gentle, sleepless eye of God,

Whose robins sing for him when Spring is fair.

His life is wrought into the victory.

Glory is his. He need not urge his claim.

He lives on in the better age to be,

Though sleeping in a grave without a name.

What does it matter if here or there

Is a strand of joy or a thread of care,

If when the web has been finished all

The final pattern is beautiful?

The One who weaves on the world’s great loom

Must make His fabric of shine and gloom.

It takes the gold and the somber hue

To make it lovely when He is through.

What does it matter if there or here

Is a song of joy or a falling tear,

If at the hour of the setting sun

A lovely product is held forth done?

The One who orders the passing hours

With ceaseless cycle of sun and showers

Fashions the color and rare design

Of a growing tapestry divine.

Our minds were made to search the deeps

Of Truth’s clear-flowing stream;

Our feet to scale the rugged steeps

Of faith and hope and dream;

Our hands to toil and serve and lift,

To help and heal and bless;

Our hearts to bring the priceless gift

Of love and tenderness.

Our lives were made to struggle on,

The upward path to plod;

Our souls to catch the glint of dawn

From the white throne of God;

Our lips the helpful word to speak,

The tender song to sing;

Our eyes to search the world and seek

The good in everything.

SO LONG as stars are bright and fair

And skies are blue and clear;

So long as joy is in the air

And Dreamland hovers near;

So long as roses blossom gay

And song is on the tongue—

Tho brow be lined and hair be gray

That long the heart is young.

But when the sky grows dull and sere

And roses fade and die;

When song no longer holds the ear

Nor Dreamland hovers nigh;

When passing days no wonder bring,

No great adventure hold—

In spite of time or anything

[Transcriber’s note: Last line is missing from source.]

Blossoms growing on the stem,

Blue and white and red and gold.

What a brush has painted them

With their colors manifold!

Planted by the garden way

Underneath a smiling sky,

Do they nod and smile all day

For the weary passer-by.

Blossoms growing by the gate,

Dear and quaint, old-fashioned flowers.

They reck not of time or fate,

Seek no kingdoms, thrones, or powers.

They are well content to bloom

Far from mad ambition’s stress

And to give of their perfume

For a stranger’s happiness.

The dear little children that climb on the knee,

The promise and hope of the morrows to be

—Their song is unfailing; their spirits are bright;

Their hearts are courageous from morning till night,

How helpless they are! On our mercy they wait.

The hands of their elders must fashion their fate.

They are frail little barks to be launched on the sea

—These dear little children that climb on the knee.

Oh guide them with hands that are tender and true.

The voyage is long and the lighthouses few.

What struggles await them! What conflicts and fears!

What dream castles shattered! What heartaches and tears!

Their skies will have clouds, and the clouds will bring rain.

Then all will give way to the sunshine again.

Bound upon their souls are the ages to be

—These dear little children that climb on the knee.

Lord, I believe

That thou hast made the earth, the sky, the sea,

And all the members of immensity,

The rose that blooms beside the traveled way;

That thou didst weave

The fabric of the dawn and close of day.

Lord, I believe

That thou hast fashioned me to be thine own,

Hast made my human heart to be thy throne,

Hast made this voice of mine that it should sing

From morn till eve,

These hands the precious gift of love to bring.

Lord, I believe

That yonder, past the valley’s shaded rim,

The lifting crest that seems so cold and dim

Is but the outlines of another shore

That doth receive

The loved and lost of earth forevermore.

She stood before the empty tomb,

Wond’ring and half afraid,

And peered into the clinging gloom

Where he was lately laid.

Only the linen cloths were there,

But something like a breath

Whispered across the morning air

And said: “There is no death.”

Across the troubled centuries

That word has made its way,

And like a fragrant summer breeze

It comes to us to-day.

Where’er our hands have reared a stone,

Now as of old it saith

To those who come to grieve alone:

“Take heart. There is no death.”

There rises in the distance

Across the Vale of Dreams

A fair and lovely city,

Built on get-rich-quick schemes.

Its towers are bright and shining.

Its streets are paved with gold,

Paid for by mine promotions

And stock sales bad and bold.

Wondrous that shining city

Before our vision stands,

But when we come to touch it

It crumbles ’neath our hands.

Ethereal its fabric,

Intangible its soil.

’Twas builded with the fortunes

We never made in oil.

Standing beside a quiet path they found it.

A humble little house it was, and low.

With patient hands they planted flowers around it,

And flung its windows to the sun’s warm glow.

They laid an open book upon the table,

And hung a simple picture on the wall.

They trained a vining rose around the gable.

They built a throne and crowned love Lord of all.

They kindled on the hearth a fair flame gleaming,

And set a row of chairs before its light

Where happy eyes should cast their cheerful beaming

With rest and song that come with falling night.

They reared with loving hands a fireside altar

Where hungry hearts in reverence might come,

Where trembling lips might their petitions falter

Before the Throne of Grace, and lo, ’twas HOME.

Adown the ringing street he came,

The Lord of all the years.

A thousand voices of acclaim

Were ringing in his ears.

Silent was he who knew his way

Of mingled joy and loss

Began where Bartimaeus lay,

And ended at a cross.

And ever it has been as then.

The path of triumph trod

Amid the loud acclaim of men,

Beneath the smile of God,

Begins where need holds forth its hands,

And pleads with weary eyes,

And ends where, grim and silent, stands

The Hill of Sacrifice.

There is a road to happiness;

There is a road to pain;

A road to failure and success;

A road to loss and gain;

A road to meadows gay with flowers;

A road to evenfall;

A road to bright and shadowed hours—

God lets me tread them all.

There is a quiet road that finds

The little singing streams;

A road that reaches till it winds

Along the Hills of Dreams;

A road to hope, to duty done,

And to that last clear call

Across the gates of setting sun—

God lets me tread them all.

Who dwells with everlasting truth

And lets that truth possess his soul;

Who has companionship with youth

To keep him young as swift years roll;

Who writes his story on the page

Of history by labor hard;

And builds his life into his age,

Has his reward.

Who opens eyes that else were blind

Till they behold the earth and sky;

Who wakens interest in the mind

That else were barren, dead, and dry;

Who gently takes a weary hand

And lays it in the Palm that’s scarred;

Though others own the gold and land,

Has his reward.

Out the Damascus Gate it ran,

A weary, cheerless road

Along which stumbled once a Man,

A cross-tree for His load.

The street was teeming with the throng.

The air was chill and gray,

The hour when Jesus passed along

That Dolorosa Way.

It wound a slope that flung its height

Against a sullen sky.

Upon a summit—tragic sight—

Three crosses lifted high.

But lo, beyond them, manifold

The lifting glow of day.

It ended at the gates of gold,

That Dolorosa Way.

Upon a green leaf he is green,

Upon a red one ruddy.

He suits his color to the scene—

Blue, brown, or grey, or muddy.

Wherever he may chance to go

He meets the crowd’s demanding.

In Rome he does as Romans do,

And so he keeps his standing.

I know not his philosophy—

Platonic or Aurelian.

No matter. Who would want to be

Reputed a chameleon?

Somewhere is closed a circuit,

And miles and miles away

A filament is lighted;

A wheel goes into play;

A thought is carried quickly,

In clearest tones expressed,

Because an impulse flashes

North, South, or East, or West.

And how? Beneath the pavement,

Away from human gaze,

Across the humid darkness

Wires run in countless ways.

In cables, ever-reaching

Through subterranean curves,

They carry thought and action.

They are the city’s nerves.

I saw him do his act before a large and motley throng

That sought relief and laughter in the house of dreams and song.

Just who he was or whence he came of course I cannot tell.

He only played a banjo, but he played the banjo well.

I saw her washing dishes in a simple little cot.

Her life was spent in toiling there upon the selfsame spot.

Her face was furrowed, and each line a story had to tell.

She only kept a household, but she kept the household well.

I saw him fire an engine in a vast and grimy room,

Though it was hard to see him in the still and dusty gloom.

He watched each motion keenly as the pistons rose and fell.

He only fired an engine, but he fired the engine well.

I saw him digging ditches with the mud upon his hands,

And with that steady motion that a digger understands.

He claimed no fame nor fortune; only brawn he had to sell.

He was but digging ditches, but he dug the ditches well.

It matters rather little what task one may choose to do,

So long as it is honest and his purposes are true.

The years will ring his story far upon their golden bell,

If he will only do the thing he may be doing well.

A nature worshipper, long dead,

Came back in ghostly form,

To visit where, in ages sped,

He bowed before the storm.

The city streets with radiance burned

Through every darkened hour,

And every busy wheel was turned

By harnessed lightning power.

“Ah me,” he said, “The times do change.

This is a different ball.

So altered everything, so strange,

I’m not at home at all.

These moderns have audacious wills;

The gods we served aright,

They’ve put to work to turn their mills

And light their streets at night.”

The flowers are the thoughts of God.

They bloom in sun and shadow,

By traveled path, or virgin sod,

In every lovely meadow;

In dooryards where the children play,

And hours are swiftly winging;

And Love comes at the close of day,

Its selfless tribute bringing.

Silent they grow, each in its place,

With cheer for all who love them,

Breathing their perfume in the face

Of all who bend above them.

They blossom where the weary plod

Their ways of toil and duty.

The flowers are the thoughts of God;

His love speaks in their beauty.

Thou who doest hold all things at Thy command

The blessing of the sunshine and the rain,

Thou never hast withheld Thy kindly hand

From giving us the fruitage of the plain.

Long hast Thou sheltered us from every storm.

Long hast Thou seen that we were duly fed.

Long hast Thou kept our fireside bright and warm.

And so we thank Thee for our daily bread.

As we assemble at our simple board

In all the gladness that is ours today,

We thank Thee for Thy presence with us, Lord,

And ask that Thou wilt be our guest alway.

May all Thy children, wheresoe’er they be,

Share in Thy bounty, by Thy hand be led,

And lift their hearts from every land and sea,

With us, to thank Thee for their daily bread.

From the silent Southern river,

From the reaching Western plain,

From the quaint New England hillside

Comes a host to march again.

From Manila and El Caney,

From the depths of many a sea,

From the flow’ring fields of Flanders,

Come the sons of Liberty.

Who are these that tread the silence?

They are our departed brave,

Who, despite their years of dreaming,

Still are troubled in the grave.

See, they bear a flaming banner,

These who died for us of yore.

This the message that it flashes:

“Brothers, dream of war no more.”

There is a wondrous country,

A city built foursquare.

And each and all are welcome

To find a dwelling there.

The nations gather homeward,

Peoples from far and wide.

Directions do not matter

With gates on every side.

And is not this the mission

That God to us has given—

To make the world we live in

Seem more and more like heaven?

Shall we not seek the friendship

Of peoples far and wide,

And let the heart’s fair city

Have gates on every side?

It has no boast to make at all.

Patient it holds unto its task

Summer and Winter, Spring and Fall,

With naught to tell and naught to ask.

Humble and steady, sure and true,

Seeking no change of work or place,

It has its given work to do,

And does it with a changeless grace.

In its deep channel underground

It serves its purpose day by day,

Without a stir, without a sound,

Though days be fair, though days be gray.

And yet what power is carried down

The conduit through which it runs

To turn the factories of the town,

And flood its streets with blazing suns.

I know some men who are the same.

They make no boast with foolish lips,

But all their spirits are aflame.

Power tingles to their finger tips.

“I am not eloquent,” he said.

“I cannot spin of thought’s fine gold

A sentence lovely to be read,

A story wondrous to be told.”

Thus did he answer God one day

Upon a new Tiberian shore.

And God said, “No, but you can say

The word of love. I ask no more.”

And so across the hurried years,

Across the mighty land and sea,

Through calm and tempest, joy and tears,

He bore the message faithfully.

He bore it till the set of sun,

Until his time and strength were spent.

Today the service he has done,

Beyond all speech, is eloquent.

THERE’S a sign that always thrills me

When its pounding threat I hear,

One that always rudely thrills me

With the clutching grip of fear.

Though the thought of it be shocking,

And the homeward journey long,

When I hear the engine knocking

I am certain something’s wrong.

I have known a lot of people,

High and low, and near and far,

On the street, beneath the steeple,

Who were like a motor car.

Though successes may come flocking,

And though he be going strong,

When I hear a person knocking

I am certain something’s wrong.

I said to God: “Life is a wine-cup,

A thing to be drained while we may;

And those who can drink it most deeply

And emptiest cast it away.

The ones who have claimed the full measure

Of all the joy it can give,

Are those who have learned most completely

What it means to be conscious and live.”

But God said: “No, life is a picture,

A thing you may paint as you will.

Your colors are of your own choosing,

And yours is the measure of skill.

You may paint, and the curse or the blessing

With all of their burden or worth,

When your brush has been dropped will be treasured

As your gift to the children of earth.”

THE women are cutting their tresses

To look just the same as the men.

They have thrown away skirts, and have taken to shirts,

And collars, and neckties; and then

The men have begun wearing knickers,

With hose of elaborate art.

They radiate bliss, but the problem is this:

How are we to tell them apart?

One day when I saw a young lady

Drop a handkerchief, quickly I ran

And returned it to her with my heart all astir,

But lo, when I spoke, ’twas a man.

Then I slapped a young man on the shoulder,

And he turned with a manner most tart.

’Twas a lady attired as the fashion required.

Say, how do you tell them apart?

HE RISES at the break of day,

Sometimes a little bit before it,

To tell us that the dawn is gray

And he is proudly gloating o’er it.

He makes his boast that nothing’s wrong

About him or his constitution.

His voice proclaims with accent strong

That he’s a going institution.

He has been whipped a hundred times,

A hundred times run helter-skelter,

But still his raucous challenge chimes

As though he’d never sought for shelter.

He has the courage to arise,

And sally forth, and be a booster,

Though gray or sunny be the skies.

Here’s to the spirit of the rooster.

Jim Jones with a will undivided

Toiled on with his reaper and plow.

He brought up his brood, and provided

For them by the sweat of his brow.

Whenever some plan was in question,

In kindly and old-fashioned way

He gave this unchanging suggestion:

“Whatever the women folks say.”

The world with its strife and its glory

Goes seeking for treasure and charm.

The tale of its years is the story

Of Jim Jones who toiled on the farm.

The men wield the shovel and hammer,

But if we should ask them the way

The world should be run, they would stammer:

“Whatever the women folks say.”

When the heart is weary

And the road is long;

When the day is dreary,

Sing a little song.

Sing it in the spirit;

Let joy linger near it;

And your heart will hear it,

Hear it and be strong.

When your hope is paling,

When your plans go wrong,

When your dreams are failing,

Sing a little song.

Send it thrilling, winging,

Sunshine with its bringing.

It will wake to singing

Others in the throng.

I take my horses out to plow,

Or sow, or run the mower.

One pulls away right down the row,

One goes a little slower.

They’ve often taught me in the past,

Pulling in double leather,

They only get along as fast

As both can go together.

In every human progress we

Together do the striving.

And toward the better day to be

Together we are driving.

By team-work we must win at last,

Whatever be the weather.

We only get along as fast

As all can go together.

The ham was cold. The milk was blue,

The biscuits all were hard.

The eggs and the potatoes, too,

Were strong with rancid lard.

Life leaned upon a slender staff

In that first offering,

But never banquet tasted half

So pleasant to a king.

The years went by. They played the game,

And soon amassed a hoard.

The richest dainties skill could frame

Were found upon their board.

With choicest viands did they greet

The great who chose to come,

But never did they taste so sweet

As that first meal at home.

“Have you any umbrellas to mend?”

He cries down the echoing street.

He travels the town to its end—

The city of hurrying feet.

Why so, when the broad heavens wear

No cloud and no shadow of gray?

Because, when the weather is fair,

We must think of the rainy day.

For the rainy season will come,

As it has since the world began.

And some will be ready, and some

Will have left it out of their plan.

When it comes, it is always too late

To appeal to our patient old friend.

We shall not hear his cry at the gate:

“Have you any umbrellas to mend?”

Luke 22:42. “Nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.”

Upon some fateful hour and day

Each comes to roads that cross.

Blossoms and sunshine seems one way,

The other care and loss.

The spirit will be willing there

To take the road that’s best.

The flesh will weaken, and despair,

And falter in the test.

Somewhere along the life we live

Each finds his Calvary.

There with himself each one must strive,

And win his victory.

How blessed is the pathway trod

When flesh ’neath spirit fails;

When cross the ways of self and God,

And God’s good way prevails.

The coal oil lamp is now no more,

With flame to dimness fingered.

A gleaming chandelier is o’er

The spot where lovers lingered.

Where all is bright they will not go.

No one can change or doubt it.

They want to sit where lights are low.

What can I do about it?

It was much easier for me

In days that now are olden,

When prying people could not see.

Then all love’s dreams were golden.

They sought a corner that the night

Had curtained—you have seen them;

But now the dusk-destroying light,

Alas, has come between them.

A day at a time the world moves on;

A day at a time is our toiling done;

A day at a time do we have the dawn,

And come to the setting of the sun;

A day at a time our fate appears;

A day at a time do we build the years.

A day at a time is the only way;

Whatever we do must be done to-day.

A day at a time is lifetime sent;

A day at a time we must be content.

However distant our dream may glow,

A day at a time is all we go.

A day at a time the stones are brought,

And life’s great mosaic grandly wrought.

A day at a time—but when all are past

We shall reach the goal of our dreams at last.

A tyrant called, as tyrants used to do,

An artist, skilled in form, and tint, and line.

He bade him: “Paint for me a picture true

Of the tomorrow of this calm of mine.

Unfold for me the future’s portals wide.

Unlock the gateway of the years to be.

Whatever weal or woe they may betide

Return again and prophesy to me.”

The painter went and sought the open street.

He lingered there through many a watchful day

Where sons of wealth and ragged urchins meet

To talk, and laugh, and sing, and dream, and play.

Then once again the tyrant’s room he sought,

Unveiled for him the finished task, and smiled.

Lo, on the canvas he had deftly wrought

The pictured features of a little child.

If you would learn God’s manners,

Fare forth some summer morn,

And see the roses cover

The sharpness of the thorn.

See the sun shining brightly,

Chasing the clouds away,

And hear the words of gladness

The little people say.

Look at the green crops growing

Up through the dewy air,

And see the love and beauty

Around you everywhere.

No ugliness or evil

Appears in sky or clod.

Ask any summer morning,

If you would learn of God.

The great adventure is not death,

’Tis life.

It is to feel the pulsing round of breath,

To take a place and hold it in the strife.

To hope, and plan, and feel, and love, and dream,

To look and climb

To the far, rugged heights where visions gleam

Of things sublime.

Let us not live because we must,

But live

To feel the mighty challenge of a trust,

To have a work to do, a gift to give.

The pay may not be great in shining gold,

But may be had

Enough of satisfactions manifold

To make us glad.

Whatever you write on the heart of a child,

No waters can wash it away.

The sands may be shifted when billows are wild

And the efforts of time may decay.

Some stories may perish, some songs be forgot;

But this ingraven record, Time changes it not.

Whatever you write on the heart of a child,

A story of gladness or care

That Heaven has blessed, or that Earth has defiled,

Will linger unchangeably there.

Who writes it has sealed it forever and aye.

He must answer to God on the Great Judgement Day.

WHEN Thales of Miletus

Went to the store one day

And bought a bit of amber,

In a real human way

He got a piece of woolen

To rub it up a bit,

And lo, the lint and dust grains

Were drawn at once to it.

“Ha,” said old Thales, “’tis certain,

A man half blind could see,

This friction has begotten

Some unseen energy.”

To-day that power is doing

The labor of the earth.

How much were Thales’s amber

And piece of woolen worth?

JOHN JONES was head executive of a big city firm,

And countless times had set his heel on some poor human worm.

His office force was duly trained. Each knew just what to do

To turn the nonelect away, and let the chosen through.

People with honest errands there, tired women, busy men,

Were told he was in conference, and couldn’t see them then.

“Come back a little later on,” the office girl would call,

And John would manage not to see the most of them at all.

He passed away in course of time, as even rich men do,

And came up to the pearly gates as though to hurry through.

But lo, the way was firmly barred, and, sitting in a chair,

He saw a white-robed office girl who asked his errand there.

“I hoped,” said he, “Saint Peter would be here and let me by.”

In standard office language she delivered this reply:

“Saint Peter is in conference. How long? I do not know.

Come back a little later—say a million years or so.”

I’VE listed the inventions

Since ages far away,

And noted the discoveries

Down to the present day.

One little thing I’ve noticed,

Thus far, of every one.

It’s really very simple

—When you see how it is done.

Somebody finds a secret

That no one else has seen,

Harnesses laws familiar,

And makes a new machine.

There’s not a task among them

Requiring so much wit,

But that I could have done it

—Had I but thought of it.

Father, grant to keep and guide me

Through the moments of the day.

Let me know Thou art beside me,

That no evil can betide me

In my work or play.

Teach my hands some good endeavor

While the golden hours shall run,

Something that will last forever

Let me bring to Thee, the Giver,

E’er the day is done.

When at last the sun is wending

Down the sloping West,

And the evening shades descending

Tell the world the day is ending,

Watch above my rest.

The old plush-covered album

Upon the parlor stand

Is but a distant country,

A half-forgotten land

Inhabited by people

Strong as the sturdy oaks,

Firm as the hills they conquered,

—The dear old-fashioned folks.

Look at the honest faces,

The quaint and homely dress,

The strained and studied postures

That once spelled loveliness.

Look at the solemn features.

They put away their jokes

To have their pictures taken

—The dear old-fashioned folks.

They carved trails through the forests.

They seeded down the soil.

They built the busy cities

By unremitting toil.

They laid the firm foundations,

By honest, manly strokes,

On which we build the future.

—The dear old-fashioned folks.

THOU God of little children,

And Parent of us all,

Who knowest all our struggles,

And hearest every call,

Disclose to us the secret,

And tell us what to do

To keep our children little

And have them grow up, too.

We treasure the devotion,

The little velvet hands,

The tender little greetings

Love always understands;

And yet we want them coming

To strength and prospects new.

How can we keep them little

And have them grow up, too?

A father’s highest vision,

A mother’s fondest prayer

Are centered in the future

Of that wee fellow there.

They roused him from his slumber,

And dressed him in his best.

They sent him out, and trusted

That you would do the rest.

The weary planet needs him,

And patiently will wait

For him to bring his service

Down to the future’s gate.

He is the hope it treasures.

It wants him strong and true.

It sends him to your classroom,

And leaves the rest to you.

Give me a quiet road to take

Where roses deign to grow.

Where sunbeams fall, and robins wake,

And trees their shadows throw.

Give me a little place to try

To do my human part,

And make my work as days go by

A picture of my heart.

Give me a hearth where I may be

When twilight shrouds the West,

With dear ones there to sit with me,

And you may have the rest.

GOD has a place, and it is never far,

Where reach vast arches over golden gates,

Where quiet aisles and vaulted ceilings are,

And where a spacious altar always waits;

A place where weary souls may freely come,

Hearts torn by earth’s sharp thorns a refuge find,

Sad, lonely spirits feel again at home,

And all find rest and balm for heart and mind.

It is a house of walls not made with hands.

None sees it save the broken child of care.

In every place of woe and need it stands,

Wherever sorrow dares to breathe a prayer.

The weakest, poorest, farthest spirit, tried

By grim pursuers of defeat and pain,

May claim its shelter. Then when tears are dried

It waits in silence till they fall again.

OLD Uncle John is a success,

And all his efforts have not hit it.

One day we asked him to confess,

To all of us just how he did it.

“I hardly know, myself,” said he,

“But my conviction still is growing,

That there’s no fancy recipe.

You just begin—and keep on going.”

“Don’t wait for things to come just right,

For very seldom do they do it.

Select a road, then day and night,

Through storm and sunshine, still pursue it.

Don’t stand debating what is best.

The sands of life are swiftly flowing.

Most any worthy course is blest,

If you begin—and keep on going.”

I walked by sight along the sunlit way,

Through pleasant fields and where the flow’rs were fair.

By quiet streams, through restful vales it lay,

And loveliness and joy were everywhere.

I walked by sight, so confident my soul,

Nor dreamed that it would ever diff’rent be,

As I moved onward to the shining goal

That through the distance seemed so clear to me.

But lo, there came the hour when dusk increased,

And sunset slowly faded into night,

As hour by hour the strength of vision ceased,

And I no more could make my way by sight.

But when the day had failed to shadows dim,

Without a star to lend a flickering ray,

I took God’s hand and travelled on with Him,

And sudden glory flooded all my way.

THE ghost of Father Gutenberg

Came back upon a visit.

He saw a modern printing press,

And cried, “Good sakes, what is it?”

He saw a linotype at work

On endless composition,

And said, “It must be that my mind

Is not in good condition.”

He heard the newsboys hawk their wares,

And saw the bookstores busy,

Found magazines on every stand

Until it made him dizzy.

He said, “Whoever could have thought

All this I was imparting?

One never guesses, after all,

How much he may be starting.”

SUCCESS is not the garnering of gold

Wrung from the failing grasp of nerveless hands,

Nor grim advantage where are bought and sold

The cargoes of the fleets from distant lands.

It is not deafness to the anguished cry

Of blighting poverty or bitter need,

Nor a triumphal march to victory

Over pale lips and human hearts that bleed.

Success is living to the full each hour,

Finding the richness of the joy it brings,

Leaving unheard no song, unseen no flower,

Unfelt no throbbing loveliness of things.

Success is soothing human hearts that ache

Breathing new hope into despairing ears,

Serving with willing hands for love’s dear sake,

And sowing happiness across the years.

In all the pleasure, care, and stress

Of daily human living,

Preserve us from forgetfulness,

Blindness to heaven’s faithfulness,

And failure in thanksgiving;

Deliver us from every mood

That savors of ingratitude.

It is so easy to forget

The tempests that have swept us,

The barriers that we have met,

How much we are in heaven’s debt,

The goodness that has kept us.

However far we be from good,

Preserve us from ingratitude.

We have got a bantam rooster with a funny little face,

And he tells us by his swagger that he thinks he owns the place.

He will lord it o’er the chickens with a mien and manner high,

And the strangest thing about it is he generally gets by.

We have Brahams, Rocks, and Cochins—big and strong and robust, all;

But they let this bantam run the place because he has the gall.

Big and lazy and good-natured, they seek out a shady spot,

Nor dispute the bold assumption of his right to rule the lot.

And sometimes I think the whole world is a barnyard, wide and vast.

With the selfsame situation, as the ages hurry past.

People big and strong and able take the smooth and easy way,

While the fussy little fellows feather in and win the day.

Singular, at least, I call it that so oft the crown is worn.

By some self-elected demagogue, so oft the scepter borne,

Not by some one with the vision a commanding swath to cut,

But some cocky little bantam who was born to preen and strut.

YOU may think you are getting by. You may get by awhile.

But do not snap your fingers in the face of Fate and smile.

Although she may not now demand of you the full amount,

Some day you will discover that she keeps a charge account.

She never quarrels with us nor bestows unseemly looks,

But no one ever yet has found an error in her books.

She writes down every item very quietly, but still

There certainly will come a day when she presents her bill.

She asks no more than is her due, for Fate is always square.

No tradesman yet in all the world has ever been more fair.

Good business methods, that is all. There is no other way.

You may get by awhile, my friend, but some day you will pay.

There are many angel faces,

Viewed from places far away,

Which, upon a near vision,

Very quickly turn to clay.

There are many matchless heroes

Who can hold us in their spell,

But who fade away to weakness

When we really know them well.

There are many hissing villians

Who, on closer view, are found

To possess a kindly spirit

And an honor quite profound.

So it runs throughout the picture,

As it probably is best,

That the close-up tells the story

Whether one can meet the test.

I GO down when the train comes in,

No matter what the day,

Where some arrive amid the din,

And others go away.

I see glad faces looking down

The track that rambles on

Far from the quiet little town,

Impatient to be gone.

But oh, the eyes most full of mirth

I see upon the train

Have seen the wonders of the earth

And then come home again.

Blest is the road that leads away

Where restless ones may roam;

But each loves best of all, one day,

The road that leads back home.

Ambition makes us all to dare

The far, intriguing track;

But when we’ve had enough of care

The heart will bring us back.

When sunset falls upon your day

And fades from out the West.

When business cares are put away

And you lie down to rest,

The measures of the day’s success

Or failure will be told

In terms of human happiness

And not in terms of gold.

Is there beside some hearth tonight

More joy because you wrought?

Does someone face the bitter strife

With courage you have taught?

Is something added to the store

Of human happiness?

If so, the day that now is o’er

Has been a real success.

From ages immemorial they’ve scratched my patient face

With plow, and pick, and shovel, in all confidence and grace.

They’ve dug their springs, and sunk their wells, and made their post holes, too,

Wherever it has pleased their passing fancy so to do.

But here of late they seem to feel that more is wrong with me

Than to the specialists who came at first there seemed to be.

They’ve stopped the minor surgery—it seemed to be too light

—And started on a major scale to set my system right.

They sink a shaft a solid mile through rock, and sand, and clay.

They go right into it with drills and bore the livelong day.

They cut a tunnel through a hill, and make the two ends fit.

They chop away as though they thought it didn’t hurt a bit.

They change the course of rivers and the shape of waterfalls.

They dig deep excavations for their bridges and their walls.

A major operation of some kind has come to be

A kind of daily diet, in these latter days, with me.

A shining automobile

Was standing at the curb.

A glib and crafty salesman

Was handing out his blurb.

A bicycle was leaning

Its well-worn handle bar

Against a post—the early

Ancestor of the car.

Then, snorting down the pavement,

A motorcycle flew,

Pausing between the cycle

And car so bright and new.

“Aha,” the auto whispered,

“I have evolved, I think,

From that bicycle yonder,

And here’s the missing link.”

If you cast out

Into the outer darkness of your mind

All about which you can conceive a doubt,

Or find some strange and vain excuse to flout,

Or charge to ages credulous and blind,

All about which the whole world is not sure,

My friend, you will be pitifully poor.

If your faith clings

To all the good, and beautiful, and right,

That the experience of ages brings,

And offers as the necessary things

That stand forever by truth’s simple might,

Believing each till it is found untrue,

The heart’s unmeasured riches are for you.

Freedom to make the sturdy climb

From sodden depths to heights sublime;

Freedom to seek Truth’s ready aid

In mastering a chosen trade;

Freedom to play an honest part,

And make some worthy work an art;

Freedom to struggle with a smile—

That is the freedom worth the while.

Freedom to keep a heart that sings

Amid the fret and drive of things;

Freedom to serve with heart, and mind,

And hand, the races of mankind;

Freedom to meet the fiercest test

Knowing that one has done his best;

Freedom to trudge the upward mile—

That is the freedom worth the while.

“What means all this mass of wiring?”

Asked the visitor from Mars.

“We have nothing that is like it

In our section of the stars.

All these conduits and cables,

This machinery that sings

With its whirring wheels and motors

—What have they to do with things?”

“Very much,” the earth-child answered.

“We’ve a giant, all unseen,

Who serves every little household,

Every factory and machine,

Does our work, transports our people,

Friendship’s kindly message bears.

All this wiring you have noted

Is the harness that he wears.”

He headed the procession

On many a parade.

He heard the ringing echoes

Where loud applause was made.

But naught has ever equalled

The time in early youth

When first his folks discovered

That he had cut a tooth.

He published learned volumes

And speeches made galore.

He traveled and was feted

The land and ocean o’er.

But never was the hero

So praised and sung, forsooth,

As on that vanished midnight

When first he cut a tooth.

I held a sea shell to my ears

A little while today,

And heard the echo of the years

Sounding from far away.

I heard ten thousand soft good-byes

To hearts that needs must roam,

Ten thousand weekly muffled cries

For ships that came not home.

I heard the story of the dreams

Of those who journeyed far,

But brought not back Wealth’s shining gleams

To the home harbor bar.

I heard the story of the brave

Who Freedom’s burdens bore,

Who fought their battles on the wave

But struggle now no more.

Like to the circuit of a bright day’s glory,

Like to a shadow moving on the grass,

Like to the telling of an evening story,

God’s purposes all shortly come to pass.

Like to the nearness of a dewdrop’s brushing,

Like to the nearness of a breath of May,

Like to the nearness of a wind uprushing,

God’s promised kingdom is not far away.

Like to the vastness of the stars’ swift motion,

Like to the vastness of the course they swing,

Like to the vastness of a shoreless ocean,

God’s love is here enfolding everything.

A piece of iron was refined

By highest skill of hand and mind,

To steel that formed the keenest blade,

Or instruments of wonder made,

Or strings awaking symphonies

From far across the centuries.

Another piece lay dull and dead

As days of hope and wonder sped.

It felt no prompting of desire

For the refiner’s purging fire.

Passive it lay, nor ever wist

The thrill and gladness it had missed.

I speak no word of praise or blame.

I only say it is a shame

That metal, made for wondrous things,

Keen instruments, responsive strings,

Should be, its aspiration spent,

Arrested in development.

IWANT a deep mine where the gold knows no measure,

A house with the widest and rarest of rooms,

Replete with the objects of beauty and pleasure,

With tapestries done on the finest of looms.

I want a great fleet that will compass the ocean,

And bring me the choicest of all the world’s store.

I want a cortege, with the deepest devotion

Performing my bidding, my wishes—and more.

I want a position of pow’r and of splendor,

An empire to rule with the will of a king.

I want the rich tribute that vassals can render,

The praise that the lips of the loyal can bring.

I want earth’s delights without limit or curbing,

The richest that skill can conceive or design.

One question alone is a little disturbing—

Just what shall I do with them when they are mine?

He struggled on and upward,

Impelled by high ambition.

He bent his strongest efforts

To better his condition.

He paid the price of labor,

As others had before him.

A rich and bounteous harvest

His earnest efforts bore him.

Two loafers were exchanging

Their shallow talk one morning,

Their conversation ranging

From filthiness to scorning.

He passed. One said: “There’s Sweezy.

My way was always rocky.

But some folks have it easy.

That fellow sure is lucky.”

HE marked a trail across the plains

In days now long ago.

He spared no labor and no pains,

Although the work was slow.

Today a highway broad is laid

To places far and near

Along the path he slowly made

—Thanks to the pioneer.

HE found a green and smiling plot,

And built a cabin there.

He reared a family on that spot

Hallowed by toil and care.

Today a broad, smooth roadway lies

Where, in a vanished year,

He wrought an empire with his hands

—Thanks to the pioneer.

Well, Bill has joined the navy,

His vessel sailed today.

He heard a ship’s band playing

One night across the bay.

He hurried to the office

And entered the command.

He had to take the navy,

You see, to get the band.

He was that way in childhood.

When the town band would play,

Bill would just start out with it

And follow it all day.

He’ll have to peel potatoes

And scrub the decks by hand;

But he will think it’s worth it

If he can hear the band.

Whoever builds a mighty name

And fills the country with his fame,

Who seeks and uses earthly power

To make a stately triumph hour,

Who rears a mansion rich and high

To frown against the kindly sky,

If he has not found happiness

Is still a failure none the less.

Whoever dwells in humble walls

Where only toilsome care befalls,

Who plans when dear ones are in bed

Where shall be found to-morrow’s bread,

To cheer whose heart Life only brings

The humble joy of simple things,

If happiness has crowned his name,

He is successful just the same.

The rarest picture Art has ever given,

On which the studied light has ever played,

Is made of these two simple gifts from heaven

A little sunshine and a little shade.

The grandest day that ever lent its story

To the long scroll the hand of Time has made;

What is the fair effulgence of its glory?

A little sunshine and a little shade.

The greatest life the world has ever cherished,

The memory that lives while others fade,

Is only this when its brief day has perished

A little sunshine and a little shade!

The trouble with the movies,

As it appears to me,

Is not what the wise people

About me seem to see.

But I do raise objection

In accents bold and high

To one outstanding evil

The waste of custard pie.

If all that precious pastry

Thrown with such ready grace,

Such technique and precision,

At some poor fellow’s face,

Were gathered all together

For my convenience, I

Would just retire from labor

And live on custard pie.

WHO walks with God must take his way

Across far distances and gray

To goals that others do not see,

Where others do not care to be.

Who walks with God must have no fear

When danger and defeat appear,

Nor stop when every hope seems gone,

For God, our God, moves ever on.

Who walks with God must press ahead

When sun or cloud is overhead,

When all the waiting thousands cheer,

Or when they only stop to sneer;

When all the challenge leaves the hours

And naught is left but jaded powers.

But he will some day reach the dawn,

For God, our God, moves ever on.

“I want to go away somewhere,”

Cries every human heart of care.

“I want to go across the sea,

And find a place where hearts are free.

I want to look at bluer skies,

And stand where higher mountains rise.

To tropic scene, to arctic snow,

I want to go, I want to go.”

And so we take our varied ways

Across the miles and through the days.

We see the wonders of the earth.

We share its sorrow and its mirth.

Time sends its snows upon our hair.

We stumble with our loads of care.

Then one day sounds a broken cry:

“Please, won’t you take me home to die?”

Something within me makes me love the roses;

Something within me makes me search the sky;

Something within me makes me roam the meadows;

The woodlands where the trees are still and high.

Something within me makes me sit at twilight

Enraptured with the starlight on the sod;

Something within me thrills at lovely music,

That something in me makes me kin to God.

Something within me makes me like the brothers

Who share with me the path that I must tread;

Something within me wakens hope and longing

To struggle on to summits far ahead.

Something within me keeps me ever dreaming

Of heavenly things amid the thorn and clod;

Something within me speaks of light and beauty,

That something in me makes me kin to God.

Simple his habit, plain his wonted ration,

Humble the roof that sheltered him at night.

He sought no preferment of rank or station,

Save but to be a bearer of the light.

He dreamed out futures for the boys before him,

And led them ever onward toward the goal.

The heights they won the choicest gladness bore him

Whose faces were enshrined within his soul.

In many a countryside and distant city

Were lived strong lives to which the light he gave.

Strong hearts beat and strong hands were reached in pity

He taught to bless, to brighten, and to save.

Upon a quiet hillside he is sleeping,

Content to rest, the final school day o’er,

But everywhere his boys the faith are keeping.

They hold his torch aloft forevermore.

ILIKE to read a stirring tale of peril and of action.

I follow every character with heartfelt satisfaction.

If, truth and error, right and wrong, defeat and triumph blending,

The story rambles steadily toward a happy ending.

No matter what vicissitudes the hero strong engages,

No matter how the conflict runs across the crowded pages,

If at the close all comes out right, with every wrong defeated,

Each happy dream at last come true, each worthy task completed.

They tell me it is not the style in these days so to write it.

The proper thing, they say, is with a smirch of wrong to blight it,

To leave the tears unwiped, the wrong unrighted, and the error

Unbanished in the general reign of trouble and of terror.

But I still have the faith to cling to childhood’s deep conviction

That somehow justice does get done in life as well as fiction,

That there is more of right than wrong, of pleasure than of weeping,

And that a kindly Providence still has us in its keeping.

I think when all the years are through the world’s heart will be singing,

That bells of bounding happiness will everywhere be ringing,

And the great Author of the tale of life, His mercy lending,

Will bring the story of the world down to a happy ending.

Are you sure you cannot do it?

Are you really satisfied

That you never can go through it?

Have you tried?

Do a thousand doubts assail you

With their darts from every side

Till your hope and courage fail you?

Have you tried?

Have you ceased to dream of winning?

Have your expectations died?

Have you really had your inning?

Have you tried?

Exodus 12:14. “And this day shall be unto you for a memorial.”

Their drums are still. Their banners all are furled.

They feel no more the battle’s fiery breath.

Theirs is the vastest army in the world,

Encamped upon the silent fields of death.

Of peace and happiness they paid the price.

Their Via Dolorosa did they tread.

They climbed the Calvary of sacrifice,

And found a place among the mighty dead.

The years roll on, but as they pass away

Let not this tender memory grow old.

By the sweet, smiling blossoms of the May

Let their fair story be forever told.

I’ve had a new school teacher

Now for a week or two.

She seems to be quite clever,

And knows her subject, too.

She’s pleasant and attractive,

As far as I can tell.

There’s just one trouble with her.

She doesn’t mind me well.

In fact, she has a notion,

Saved from a former day,

That things about the schoolroom

Should go the other way.

And so the one objection

That any one could find

Is insubordination.

I cannot make her mind.

My little fire is cheerful,

Unchanging in its grace.

Whatever be the weather,

It keeps a shining face.

It always has a welcome

For such as seek its hearth,

Afar from all the struggles

And strivings of the earth.

It seems so understanding.

When ill has gone the day

And I recount my troubles,

It laughs them all away.

So I forget the fever

Of false and vain desire,

And find that life is blessed

Beside my little fire.

I heard a redbird singing

Beside my door to-day.

Bright his coat of scarlet,

And happy was his lay.

He trilled and chirped and twittered

In varied note and key.

It was a great example

Of birdland minstrelsy.

Then I beheld before me

That vast, unnumbered throng

Whose weary, sodden voices

Have never learned a song;

And while I heard the redbird

Stand forth and greet the spring,

I wished that all earth’s children

Were glad enough to sing.

THERE is a road that stretches

Through sunny yesterdays,

Adown remembered vistas,

And over long lost ways.

My feet would tread it always,

If they could have their will,

But Wonder comes to call me

Across the future’s hill.

THE road to the tomorrows

—Its challenge is supreme.

I do not know its windings,

Its hidden wood and stream,

Its distances alluring,

Its vales of mystery.

But I shall drive and find them.

It is the road for me.

I HEARD a tiny sound to-day.

The flowers all had stopped to pray.

Lily, and rose, and goldenrod

And violet were thanking God.

For what? The sun, and rain, and dew,

That had not failed the season through,

The soil, the winds with their caress;

And simple daily happiness.

I blushed, whose thought had found no wings

To thank God for the simple things.

No sudden fortune had bestowed

On me a rich and golden load.

But I had known the rain, the sun,

Shelter and rest when day was done,

Raiment, and food, and happy hours.

I was less thankful than the flowers.

Whatever he may wish or plan,

Three things will make or break a man:

The work to which he gives his hand,

To make a living in the land.

The friends to whom his heart gives toll,

Whose shadows fall across his soul.

The goal by which through toil and strife

He gives direction to his life.

Though there were no hint of glory

In a pebble or in clod,

Though the circling of the planets

Gave no evidence of God,

Though the wisdom of the ages

Not a word of faith could bring,

How could one be unbelieving

Who had ever seen the Spring?

In the Spring God spreads the verdure

On a thousand hills and leas.

In the Spring he paints the roses,

Hangs the clouds, and builds the trees.

In the Spring he weaves the wonder

Of a flitting redbird’s wing.

How could one be unbelieving

Who had ever seen the Spring?

Whatever foe may meet me,

Whatever game I play,

I’d rather he’d defeat me

Than win a walkaway.

I do not want an inning

With never a mishap.

No game is worth the winning

Without a handicap.

So in the mighty contest

That runs across the years,

I’d rather wage my conquest

In toil and sweat and tears,

Than have success’s measure

Tossed lightly in my lap,

And win life’s golden treasure

Without a handicap.

A little bit of Saxon

And a little bit of Gaul,

A little bit of Latin

And a touch of Celtic small;

A little bit of Norman

And a dash of Scottish clan,

Mixed with a bit of Teuton,

Makes a good American.

The best of all the races—

Let us hope, without the worst—

Is mingled in his making

By the whole earth he was nursed.

So who is there beneath us?

Who is there we should ban,

When all the world is living

In a good American?

I heard a man in Paradise

Say this to God: “Let’s advertise!

You’ve got a proposition here

On which you’d make a billion clear

If I could manage things my way.

My plan is this: Make earth-folks pay

For what you give them, night and day.

For instance, take the Milky Way;

To see that glittering display

I’d charge them fifty cents a night;

To purchase tickets folks would fight.

We’ll charge for flowers, and song of bird—

Why give them free? Why, it’s absurd!

One dollar for each sunset view,

The same for every sunrise, too.

Fall landscapes will be costly sights,

We’ll reap a sum from mountain heights.

Green curving breakers will come high,

And men will pay to hear winds sigh.”

Then God replied, when he had done,

“I charge for all these things, my son.

And costly—costly is my fee:

A heart of childlike purity!”

I thank Thee, Lord of earth and heaven,

For all the blessings Thou hast given.

Some marched in such a shining line

I knew their banner and their sign.

Some came to my bewildered eyes

Dressed in a fanciful disguise.

Some came attired as Bitterness,

But stayed to strengthen and to bless.

Some nameless came, and passed away,

Unknown till after many a day.

Some came so silently that I

Did not suspect that they were nigh.

Some were the blessings, strong and sure,

Of things that I did not endure.

And so, however they befall,

Dear Lord, I thank Thee for them all.

One peddled facts with learned air,

Intoned with most impressive sound,

His pupils timidly would bear

Witness to scholarship most profound.

In him. Time passed. They older grew.

Still passed, and one day he was not.

Then what became of all he knew

So glibly once? It was forgot.

Another dreamed of life supreme,

Sun-crowned and strong, for those he taught.

The larger manhood was his scheme,

Armed with the power of honest thought.

He builded souls for service true,

Wrought them of fabric real and sure.

He also passed, as teachers do.

But through the years his works endure.

One said, “Youth cometh but once to me,

So I shall play, and laugh, and sing;

I own no chains. I will be free,

None shall deny me anything.”

He had his fling, then worn and gray,

With weary soul and eyelids wet,

He tried to wash the tears away,

And stem the tide of vain regret.

One said, “My youth comes not again,

I must not spoil it as it goes.

I must not live a day in vain,

Nor stain a page, nor mar a rose.”

The future found him glad and strong,

Unbound by weariness and fears,

Treading his journey with a song,

Heir to the gladness of the years.

I DO not care a single wink

To hear, my friend, what you may think.

I’ve heard opinion till I’m sore

Please do not give me any more.

Your syllogisms all are weak.

You slip the track whene’er you speak.

Too many people think, of late,

And not enough of them think straight.

What do you know? I wait to hear

A tale of knowledge ringing clear.

If you have anything to say

That puts a new light in the day,

That makes me feel because of it

The world is changed a little bit,

Then speak. I hark with eyes aglow,

If you will tell me what you know.

---

APPENDIX 1: BYLINES, BIBLIOGRAPHY, NOTES

APPENDIX 2: INDEX

accountability

Charge Account [fate]

The Section Foreman [train]

ancestors

The Flag at Sea [patriotism; immigration; ship]

Old-Fashioned Pictures

attitude

A Perfect Day

Sing a Little Song

The Wealth of Cheer

behavior

The Fabulous City [speculation]

Film Judgment [humor; theater]

Knocking [humor; car]

The Modern Pupil [humor; insubordination]

A Psalm of the Movies [humor; theater]

The Umbrella Mender [procrastination]

character

Almost

The Bantams [humor; fauna; confidence]

The Chameleon [fauna; integrity]

The Close-Up [duplicity]

The End of the Trail [service]

The Handicap [adversity]

His Epitaph [compassion]

In Conference [humor; haughtiness]

Iron [potential]

I Want [greed]

Jim [honor]

Prayer for Normal Men

The Tree [corruption, flora]

A Trouble Making World [self]

Two Princes [self; sacrifice]

community

Along the Road [service]

Magi and Shepherd [equality]

The Radio Neighborhood [connection]

Team-work [farm, teamwork]

consolation

It Might Be Worse

My Little Fire

duty

Doing It Well

The Engineer [train]

The Lucky Man

electricity

The City’s Nerves

Cupid’s Lament [humor]

Electricity [lightning; anthropomorphic]

An Electric Personality [humor; pun]

Enslaved Lightning [humor]

The Harness [humor]

The High Tension Line [anthropomorphic; miracle]

Jove’s Plaint [humor; anthropomorphic]

The Serving Giant

entertainment

After-Images [theater]

The Magic of the Screen [theater]

Picture Books [theater]

The Picture’s Lament [humor; theater; anthropomorphic]

The Shadow World [theater]

The Trouble with the Movies [humor; theater]

The Window of Dreams [theater]

evolution

The Electric Spark [creation]

Evolution [humor; technology]

The Firefly [fauna]

Picture Writing [theater]

faith

Credo

Faith v1928

The Gateway of the Kingdom

The Happy Ending

The Man Who Knows

Sight and Faith

The Things That I Believe

fashion

The Question v1926 [humor]

fellowship

Brotherhood [equality]

Fade-Outs [memory]

The Gifts of the Church

Heart Gates

The Mixture [diversity]

fortitude

Climaxes v1923

The Cross v1927

Have You Tried?

The Rooster [humor; fauna]

The Second Wind [car]

Walking with God

God

The Creator [omnipresence]

Flowers Are Thoughts of God [flora]

The God of the Beginning [Providence]

God’s Garden

Imminence

The Voices of God

What Does It Matter? [Providence]

grace

The Divine Image

Freedom v1928

The Open Soul

gratitude

Childhood on the Farm

Compensation

The Cry of a Human

The Gift of the Farm

God of To-Day

A Grace for Meals

A Prayer

Thankfulness [flora]

Thanksgiving v1927

Thanksgiving v1930

heart

The Age of a Heart

Finding God [nature]

The King [Jesus Christ]

No Room in the Inn

Our Hearts Forget

Sunsets For Sale [humor]

heaven

The Land of Heart’s Desire

The Making of Heaven

My Father’s House

Where Is Heaven?

home

Coming and Going [train]

Home v1921

Home v1925

The Making of Home

The Temple [reverence]

Their First Meal

Wander Lust

hope

Climaxes v1921 [theater]

A Day at a Time

The Easter Message [resurrection]

An Easter Vision [resurrection]

Hope

The New Year

The Open Tomb [resurrection]

The Outcome [theater]

Roads v1925

The Unknown Soldier [war]

Via Dolorosa

legacy

Domsie

Life

Monuments [angel]

The Pioneer v1928

life

The Great Adventure

The Lens [theater]

Light and Shadow [theater]

Patchwork

Pictures

The Railroad [train]

Shadows v1921 [theater]

Shadows on the Wall [theater]

The Station [train]

The Sunbeam and the Shadow [theater]

Sunshine and Shade

Today and Tomorrow

Why We Are Here

love

Palm Sunday v1925

Transforming Love

military

The Marine

The Recruit [humor; navy]

The Watchdog of the Sea [navy; ship]

mortality

When the Curtain Falls [theater]

The World’s Drama [theater]

nature

Blossoms [flora]

The Earth’s Plaint [anthropomorphic; technology]

God and Spring

God’s Manners

Miracle

Song of the Dove [fauna]

Sunsets For Sale [humor]

Voices of the Dawn

parenting

The Children v1921

The Children v1925

The Heart of a Child

The Heart of a Child Is a Scroll

His Great Hour

A Parents’ Prayer v1922

The Problem

patriotism

The Flag at Sea [ancestors; immigration; ship]

My Riches

The Stars and Stripes for Me

people

Gutenberg, Johannes

Starting Things [humor]

Jesus Christ

The Easter Message [hope]

An Easter Vision [hope]

If Christ Is Not Divine

The King [heart]

Magi and Shepherd [community]

No Room in the Inn [heart]

The Open Tomb [hope]

The Outcome [hope]

Palm Sunday v1925 [love]

Two Princes [character]

Via Dolorosa

Moses

“I am not eloquent” [talent]

Thales of Miletus

How It Started [thought]

prayer

Child’s Prayer [nighttime]

Credo [faith]

God of To-Day [gratitude]

A Grace for Meals [gratitude]

Hagar’s Song [trust]

Morning Prayer [petition]

A Parents’ Prayer v1922 [parenting; nighttime]

A Prayer [gratitude]

Prayer for Normal Men [character]

A Prayer for Thanksgiving [mercy]

The Problem [parenting]

Sanctuary

sorrow

The Dream

“I held a sea shell to my ears”

The Red Bird [fauna]

Sorrow

special occasions

birth of a child

The Children v1925 [parenting]

The Future [time]

The Heart of a Child [parenting]

The Heart of a Child Is a Scroll [parenting]

Christmas

No Room in the Inn [heart]

Earth Day

The Earth’s Plaint [nature]

The Firefly [evolution]

God and Spring [nature]

God’s Manners [nature]

Miracle [nature]

Song of the Dove [nature]

Voices of the Dawn [nature]

Easter (see Hope)

Flag Day (see Patriotism)

funeral

The Making of Heaven [heaven]

Monuments [legacy]

Roads v1925 [hope]

Sorrow

When the Curtain Falls [mortality]

Independence Day (see Patriotism)

Labor Day (see Duty)

Martin Luther King Day

Team-work [teamwork]

Memorial Day

The Grey Host [war]

Memorial Day v1929

The Unknown Soldier [hope]

National Inventors’ Day (Feb 11)

Inventive Genius [thought]

Starting Things [thought]

National Static Electricity Day (Jan 9)

How It Started [thought]

Naturalization

The Flag at Sea [ancestors; patriotism]

The Mixture [fellowship]

New Year’s Day

The New Year [hope]

Thanksgiving (see Gratitude)

Valentine’s Day

Cupid’s Lament [electricity]

Veterans Day (see also Military)

Jim [character]

The New Day [war]

success

The Day’s Success [positive impact]

The Secret [initiative and perseverance]

Success [joy and love]

Success and Failure [happiness]

talent

“I am not eloquent”

The Rulers of the Earth [women; farm]

teaching

The Builder v1924

The Builders

The Pupil

The Teacher v1921

The Teacher v1922

The Teacher v1923

The Teacher’s Reward

Two Teachers

thought

How It Started [discovery]

Inventive Genius [humor]

The Magic Gateway [books]

Minds

Si Gidders [humor]

The Silent Drama [theater]

Starting Things [humor]

What Do You Know? [humor]

time

The Clock [humor]

A Day at a Time [hope]

The Future [children]

The Road to Tomorrow

values

A Call for Substitutes

A Creed

Let Us Be Right

The Measure of Life

Requisition

True Values

Two Youths

“Whatever he may wish or plan”

war

Battle Hymn

The Grey Host [peace]

The New Day [peace]

A Price Unpaid