Tolive a hero, then to standIn bronze serene above the city’s throng;Hero at sea, and now on landRevered by thousands as they rush along;If these were all the gifts of fame—To be a shade amid alert reality,And win a statue and a name—How cold and cheerless immortality!But when the sun shines in the Square,And multitudes are swarming in the street,Children are always gathered there,Laughing and playing round the hero’s feet.And in the crisis of the game—With boyish grit and ardor it is played—You’ll hear some youngster call his name:“The Admiral—he never was afraid!”And so the hero daily lives,And boys grow braver as the Man they see!The inspiration that he givesStill helps to make them loyal, strong, and free!
Tolive a hero, then to standIn bronze serene above the city’s throng;Hero at sea, and now on landRevered by thousands as they rush along;If these were all the gifts of fame—To be a shade amid alert reality,And win a statue and a name—How cold and cheerless immortality!But when the sun shines in the Square,And multitudes are swarming in the street,Children are always gathered there,Laughing and playing round the hero’s feet.And in the crisis of the game—With boyish grit and ardor it is played—You’ll hear some youngster call his name:“The Admiral—he never was afraid!”And so the hero daily lives,And boys grow braver as the Man they see!The inspiration that he givesStill helps to make them loyal, strong, and free!
Tolive a hero, then to standIn bronze serene above the city’s throng;Hero at sea, and now on landRevered by thousands as they rush along;
If these were all the gifts of fame—To be a shade amid alert reality,And win a statue and a name—How cold and cheerless immortality!
But when the sun shines in the Square,And multitudes are swarming in the street,Children are always gathered there,Laughing and playing round the hero’s feet.
And in the crisis of the game—With boyish grit and ardor it is played—You’ll hear some youngster call his name:“The Admiral—he never was afraid!”
And so the hero daily lives,And boys grow braver as the Man they see!The inspiration that he givesStill helps to make them loyal, strong, and free!
Crawlingback to port again, half her cargo shifted,Just enough of fuel left to steam her to the pier;Plunging through an icy gale when the fog has lifted,Battered by the breakers, but her lights a-burning clear!Hope almost abandoned, days and nights she floundered—Nights when not a star was out and no sea-lights were near;All the world believed her lost; men despaired, but wonderedHow the liner could be wrecked and Kipling there to steer!Now she makes her harbor-lights, glides through seas enchanted—Whistles shrieking gayly and thousands at the pier;On the bridge the Captain, pale and worn—undaunted!“Welcome back to life again!” Hear the people cheer!
Crawlingback to port again, half her cargo shifted,Just enough of fuel left to steam her to the pier;Plunging through an icy gale when the fog has lifted,Battered by the breakers, but her lights a-burning clear!Hope almost abandoned, days and nights she floundered—Nights when not a star was out and no sea-lights were near;All the world believed her lost; men despaired, but wonderedHow the liner could be wrecked and Kipling there to steer!Now she makes her harbor-lights, glides through seas enchanted—Whistles shrieking gayly and thousands at the pier;On the bridge the Captain, pale and worn—undaunted!“Welcome back to life again!” Hear the people cheer!
Crawlingback to port again, half her cargo shifted,Just enough of fuel left to steam her to the pier;Plunging through an icy gale when the fog has lifted,Battered by the breakers, but her lights a-burning clear!
Hope almost abandoned, days and nights she floundered—Nights when not a star was out and no sea-lights were near;All the world believed her lost; men despaired, but wonderedHow the liner could be wrecked and Kipling there to steer!
Now she makes her harbor-lights, glides through seas enchanted—Whistles shrieking gayly and thousands at the pier;On the bridge the Captain, pale and worn—undaunted!“Welcome back to life again!” Hear the people cheer!
Hisvoice was gentle and his eyes were kind;No one among us but did call him friend;Fond woman’s heart and student’s thoughtful mindTogether in him did with fitness blend:And now he is no more!We blindly murmur at the bitter FateThat summoned him in other lands to roam;And when upon him Sickness wrought its hateHalf round the world, it brought him almost home,To die when near our shore.We blindly murmur—but we only knowCalm rests his body in old Ocean’s deeps;While we are groping in the mists below,Serene his soul on other, cloudless steeps—Forever—evermore.
Hisvoice was gentle and his eyes were kind;No one among us but did call him friend;Fond woman’s heart and student’s thoughtful mindTogether in him did with fitness blend:And now he is no more!We blindly murmur at the bitter FateThat summoned him in other lands to roam;And when upon him Sickness wrought its hateHalf round the world, it brought him almost home,To die when near our shore.We blindly murmur—but we only knowCalm rests his body in old Ocean’s deeps;While we are groping in the mists below,Serene his soul on other, cloudless steeps—Forever—evermore.
Hisvoice was gentle and his eyes were kind;No one among us but did call him friend;Fond woman’s heart and student’s thoughtful mindTogether in him did with fitness blend:And now he is no more!
We blindly murmur at the bitter FateThat summoned him in other lands to roam;And when upon him Sickness wrought its hateHalf round the world, it brought him almost home,To die when near our shore.
We blindly murmur—but we only knowCalm rests his body in old Ocean’s deeps;While we are groping in the mists below,Serene his soul on other, cloudless steeps—Forever—evermore.
Hugeand alert, irascible yet strong,We make our fitful way ’mid right and wrong.One time we pour out millions to be free,Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.Often we rudely break restraining bars,And confidently reach out toward the stars.Yet under all there flows a hidden streamSprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dreamOf Washington and Franklin, men of oldWho knew that freedom is not bought with gold.This is the Land we love, our heritage,Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sageAnd full of promise—destined to be great.Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!
Hugeand alert, irascible yet strong,We make our fitful way ’mid right and wrong.One time we pour out millions to be free,Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.Often we rudely break restraining bars,And confidently reach out toward the stars.Yet under all there flows a hidden streamSprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dreamOf Washington and Franklin, men of oldWho knew that freedom is not bought with gold.This is the Land we love, our heritage,Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sageAnd full of promise—destined to be great.Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!
Hugeand alert, irascible yet strong,We make our fitful way ’mid right and wrong.One time we pour out millions to be free,Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.Often we rudely break restraining bars,And confidently reach out toward the stars.
Yet under all there flows a hidden streamSprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dreamOf Washington and Franklin, men of oldWho knew that freedom is not bought with gold.This is the Land we love, our heritage,Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sageAnd full of promise—destined to be great.Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!
Therethey are! above the green trees shining—Old towers that top the castles of our dreams,Their turrets bright with rays of sun declining—A painted glory on the window gleams.But, oh, the messages to travellers wearyThey signal through the ether in the dark!The years are long, the path is steep and dreary,But there’s a bell that struck in boyhood—hark!The note is faint—but ghosts are gayly troopingFrom ivied halls and swarming ’neath the trees.Old friends, you bring new life to spirits drooping—Your laughter and your joy are in the breeze!They’re gone in dusk,—the towers and dreams are faded,—But something lingers of eternal Youth;We’re strong again, though doubting, worn, and jaded;We pledge anew to friends and love and truth!
Therethey are! above the green trees shining—Old towers that top the castles of our dreams,Their turrets bright with rays of sun declining—A painted glory on the window gleams.But, oh, the messages to travellers wearyThey signal through the ether in the dark!The years are long, the path is steep and dreary,But there’s a bell that struck in boyhood—hark!The note is faint—but ghosts are gayly troopingFrom ivied halls and swarming ’neath the trees.Old friends, you bring new life to spirits drooping—Your laughter and your joy are in the breeze!They’re gone in dusk,—the towers and dreams are faded,—But something lingers of eternal Youth;We’re strong again, though doubting, worn, and jaded;We pledge anew to friends and love and truth!
Therethey are! above the green trees shining—Old towers that top the castles of our dreams,Their turrets bright with rays of sun declining—A painted glory on the window gleams.
But, oh, the messages to travellers wearyThey signal through the ether in the dark!The years are long, the path is steep and dreary,But there’s a bell that struck in boyhood—hark!
The note is faint—but ghosts are gayly troopingFrom ivied halls and swarming ’neath the trees.Old friends, you bring new life to spirits drooping—Your laughter and your joy are in the breeze!
They’re gone in dusk,—the towers and dreams are faded,—But something lingers of eternal Youth;We’re strong again, though doubting, worn, and jaded;We pledge anew to friends and love and truth!
Doyou know Yancey’s? Where the winding trailFrom Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage road,And wagons from Cooke City and the mailUnhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load?A handy bunch of men are round the stoveAt Yancey’s—hunters back from Jackson’s Hole,And Ed Hough telling of a mighty droveOf elk that he ran down to Teton Bowl.And Yancey he says: “Mr. Woody, there,Can tell a hunting yarn or two—beside,He guided Roosevelt when he shot a bearAnd six bull elk with antlers spreading wide.”But Woody is a guide who doesn’t brag;He puffed his pipe awhile, then gravely said:“I knew he’d put the Spaniards in a bag,For Mister Roosevelt always picked a head.“That man won’t slosh around in politicsAnd waste his time a-killing little game;He studies elk, and men, and knows their tricks,And when he picks a head he hits the same.”Now, down at Yancey’s every man’s a sport,And free to back his knowledge up with lead;And each believes that Roosevelt is the sortTo run the State, because he “picks a head.”
Doyou know Yancey’s? Where the winding trailFrom Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage road,And wagons from Cooke City and the mailUnhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load?A handy bunch of men are round the stoveAt Yancey’s—hunters back from Jackson’s Hole,And Ed Hough telling of a mighty droveOf elk that he ran down to Teton Bowl.And Yancey he says: “Mr. Woody, there,Can tell a hunting yarn or two—beside,He guided Roosevelt when he shot a bearAnd six bull elk with antlers spreading wide.”But Woody is a guide who doesn’t brag;He puffed his pipe awhile, then gravely said:“I knew he’d put the Spaniards in a bag,For Mister Roosevelt always picked a head.“That man won’t slosh around in politicsAnd waste his time a-killing little game;He studies elk, and men, and knows their tricks,And when he picks a head he hits the same.”Now, down at Yancey’s every man’s a sport,And free to back his knowledge up with lead;And each believes that Roosevelt is the sortTo run the State, because he “picks a head.”
Doyou know Yancey’s? Where the winding trailFrom Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage road,And wagons from Cooke City and the mailUnhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load?
A handy bunch of men are round the stoveAt Yancey’s—hunters back from Jackson’s Hole,And Ed Hough telling of a mighty droveOf elk that he ran down to Teton Bowl.
And Yancey he says: “Mr. Woody, there,Can tell a hunting yarn or two—beside,He guided Roosevelt when he shot a bearAnd six bull elk with antlers spreading wide.”
But Woody is a guide who doesn’t brag;He puffed his pipe awhile, then gravely said:“I knew he’d put the Spaniards in a bag,For Mister Roosevelt always picked a head.
“That man won’t slosh around in politicsAnd waste his time a-killing little game;He studies elk, and men, and knows their tricks,And when he picks a head he hits the same.”
Now, down at Yancey’s every man’s a sport,And free to back his knowledge up with lead;And each believes that Roosevelt is the sortTo run the State, because he “picks a head.”
[1]Tall, silent old Woody, a fine type of the fast-vanishing race of game-hunters and Indian-fighters.Roosevelt’sThe Wilderness Hunter.
[1]Tall, silent old Woody, a fine type of the fast-vanishing race of game-hunters and Indian-fighters.
Roosevelt’sThe Wilderness Hunter.
Takeup the White Man’s burden!Have done with childish days.R. K.
Takeup the White Man’s burden!Have done with childish days.R. K.
Takeup the White Man’s burden!Have done with childish days.R. K.
Oh, thank you, Mr. Kipling,For showing us the wayTo buckle down to businessAnd end our “childish day.”We know we’re young and friskyAnd haven’t too much sense—At least, not in the measureWe’ll have a few years hence.Now, this same “White Man’s burden”You’re asking us to toteIs not so unfamiliarAs you’re inclined to note.We freed three million negroes,Their babies and their wives;It cost a billion dollarsAnd near a million lives!And while we were a-fightingIn all those “thankless years”We did not get much helping—Well, not from English “peers.”And so—with best intentions—We’re not exactly wildTo free the Filipino,“Half devil and half child.”Then, thank you, Mr. Kipling;Though not disposed to groanAbout the “White Man’s burden,”We’ve troubles of our own;Enough to keep us busyWhen English friends inquire,“Why don’t you use your talons?There are chestnuts in the fire!”
Oh, thank you, Mr. Kipling,For showing us the wayTo buckle down to businessAnd end our “childish day.”We know we’re young and friskyAnd haven’t too much sense—At least, not in the measureWe’ll have a few years hence.Now, this same “White Man’s burden”You’re asking us to toteIs not so unfamiliarAs you’re inclined to note.We freed three million negroes,Their babies and their wives;It cost a billion dollarsAnd near a million lives!And while we were a-fightingIn all those “thankless years”We did not get much helping—Well, not from English “peers.”And so—with best intentions—We’re not exactly wildTo free the Filipino,“Half devil and half child.”Then, thank you, Mr. Kipling;Though not disposed to groanAbout the “White Man’s burden,”We’ve troubles of our own;Enough to keep us busyWhen English friends inquire,“Why don’t you use your talons?There are chestnuts in the fire!”
Oh, thank you, Mr. Kipling,For showing us the wayTo buckle down to businessAnd end our “childish day.”We know we’re young and friskyAnd haven’t too much sense—At least, not in the measureWe’ll have a few years hence.
Now, this same “White Man’s burden”You’re asking us to toteIs not so unfamiliarAs you’re inclined to note.We freed three million negroes,Their babies and their wives;It cost a billion dollarsAnd near a million lives!
And while we were a-fightingIn all those “thankless years”We did not get much helping—Well, not from English “peers.”And so—with best intentions—We’re not exactly wildTo free the Filipino,“Half devil and half child.”
Then, thank you, Mr. Kipling;Though not disposed to groanAbout the “White Man’s burden,”We’ve troubles of our own;Enough to keep us busyWhen English friends inquire,“Why don’t you use your talons?There are chestnuts in the fire!”
Inthis time of joy and cheerWhen we greet the buoyant year,Now, old friends, we cherish you,Bless the dreams you’ve brought to view—Kindly fancy, happy thought,Visions from the fairies caught,Rhyme and story, song and play,Fantasy for holiday—All the treasures of your mindSpent to make the world more kind.While we grope in dark and fog,Flounder onward through the bog,You, serene upon the height,Gambol in the cheery light—Toss your laughter from the steep,Bringing hope to those who weep.What fair visions brightly gleamThrough cloud-rifts! Your dearest dreamClothed in beauty on the peak,Waiting for the Muse to speak.Here’s our wish at New Year’s time,Faint-expressed in halting rhyme:For the men who dream and writeMake the future clear and bright;Thaw the cynic from their heart—Love and faith are highest Art.Let them picture with their penNot ourmannersbut ourmen.Bless them all at New Year’s tide!May their skill and fame abide!And all women—charming, bright—Grant that they may never write!
Inthis time of joy and cheerWhen we greet the buoyant year,Now, old friends, we cherish you,Bless the dreams you’ve brought to view—Kindly fancy, happy thought,Visions from the fairies caught,Rhyme and story, song and play,Fantasy for holiday—All the treasures of your mindSpent to make the world more kind.While we grope in dark and fog,Flounder onward through the bog,You, serene upon the height,Gambol in the cheery light—Toss your laughter from the steep,Bringing hope to those who weep.What fair visions brightly gleamThrough cloud-rifts! Your dearest dreamClothed in beauty on the peak,Waiting for the Muse to speak.Here’s our wish at New Year’s time,Faint-expressed in halting rhyme:For the men who dream and writeMake the future clear and bright;Thaw the cynic from their heart—Love and faith are highest Art.Let them picture with their penNot ourmannersbut ourmen.Bless them all at New Year’s tide!May their skill and fame abide!And all women—charming, bright—Grant that they may never write!
Inthis time of joy and cheerWhen we greet the buoyant year,Now, old friends, we cherish you,Bless the dreams you’ve brought to view—Kindly fancy, happy thought,Visions from the fairies caught,Rhyme and story, song and play,Fantasy for holiday—All the treasures of your mindSpent to make the world more kind.
While we grope in dark and fog,Flounder onward through the bog,You, serene upon the height,Gambol in the cheery light—Toss your laughter from the steep,Bringing hope to those who weep.What fair visions brightly gleamThrough cloud-rifts! Your dearest dreamClothed in beauty on the peak,Waiting for the Muse to speak.
Here’s our wish at New Year’s time,Faint-expressed in halting rhyme:For the men who dream and writeMake the future clear and bright;Thaw the cynic from their heart—Love and faith are highest Art.Let them picture with their penNot ourmannersbut ourmen.Bless them all at New Year’s tide!May their skill and fame abide!And all women—charming, bright—Grant that they may never write!
FairChloe looked upon the old torn glove,Then touched its ragged edges with her fingers,And lo! the rent was closed—as if for loveSweet healing follows where her touch but lingers.If all the rents that follow Chloe’s eyes,And all the hearts despairingly defended,Were healed so soon—we’d straightway realizeThat love and life are good as new when mended.
FairChloe looked upon the old torn glove,Then touched its ragged edges with her fingers,And lo! the rent was closed—as if for loveSweet healing follows where her touch but lingers.If all the rents that follow Chloe’s eyes,And all the hearts despairingly defended,Were healed so soon—we’d straightway realizeThat love and life are good as new when mended.
FairChloe looked upon the old torn glove,Then touched its ragged edges with her fingers,And lo! the rent was closed—as if for loveSweet healing follows where her touch but lingers.
If all the rents that follow Chloe’s eyes,And all the hearts despairingly defended,Were healed so soon—we’d straightway realizeThat love and life are good as new when mended.
SweetElf, you’ll pipe a merry tune,Make days and months all gladness;The clear, bright note you sound in JuneWill cheer December’s sadness.You’ll never pout on rainy days,Nor when it’s cold will shiver,But sit serene and sing your lays.May Old Time bless the giver!
SweetElf, you’ll pipe a merry tune,Make days and months all gladness;The clear, bright note you sound in JuneWill cheer December’s sadness.You’ll never pout on rainy days,Nor when it’s cold will shiver,But sit serene and sing your lays.May Old Time bless the giver!
SweetElf, you’ll pipe a merry tune,Make days and months all gladness;The clear, bright note you sound in JuneWill cheer December’s sadness.
You’ll never pout on rainy days,Nor when it’s cold will shiver,But sit serene and sing your lays.May Old Time bless the giver!
Lovelaughed awhile,And ridiculed my daringTo rashly crave a smileFrom her, heart-whole, uncaring.Oh, how Love laughed!Love angry grewAnd spoiled her pretty features;I was—she vowed it true—The most despised of creatures.Oh, how Love frowned!Love dropped a tear,Her anger with it falling;I felt her blue eyes clear,My heart and hopes enthralling.Oh, how Love cried!Her tears Love dried,And then she looked up sweetly;No more her glance defied—I pressed my suit discreetly.Love kissed me then!
Lovelaughed awhile,And ridiculed my daringTo rashly crave a smileFrom her, heart-whole, uncaring.Oh, how Love laughed!Love angry grewAnd spoiled her pretty features;I was—she vowed it true—The most despised of creatures.Oh, how Love frowned!Love dropped a tear,Her anger with it falling;I felt her blue eyes clear,My heart and hopes enthralling.Oh, how Love cried!Her tears Love dried,And then she looked up sweetly;No more her glance defied—I pressed my suit discreetly.Love kissed me then!
Lovelaughed awhile,And ridiculed my daringTo rashly crave a smileFrom her, heart-whole, uncaring.Oh, how Love laughed!
Love angry grewAnd spoiled her pretty features;I was—she vowed it true—The most despised of creatures.Oh, how Love frowned!
Love dropped a tear,Her anger with it falling;I felt her blue eyes clear,My heart and hopes enthralling.Oh, how Love cried!
Her tears Love dried,And then she looked up sweetly;No more her glance defied—I pressed my suit discreetly.Love kissed me then!
Atevening, when the breeze dies down,And regal Nature doffs her crown,When brown-limbed pines, like minarets,Fringe all the hills, and tired day fretsTo rest awhile—ah, then, I know,Into a shadowed room you go,And softly touch the organ keys;While pale stars blink amid the treesYou sing a peaceful vesper hymnThat rises from your full heart’s brim;Your kindly eyes are dimmed with tears—You wander through remembered years;From gay to grave your fancies fly,And end the journey with the cry:My heart played truant from my will!I loved him then—I love him still.
Atevening, when the breeze dies down,And regal Nature doffs her crown,When brown-limbed pines, like minarets,Fringe all the hills, and tired day fretsTo rest awhile—ah, then, I know,Into a shadowed room you go,And softly touch the organ keys;While pale stars blink amid the treesYou sing a peaceful vesper hymnThat rises from your full heart’s brim;Your kindly eyes are dimmed with tears—You wander through remembered years;From gay to grave your fancies fly,And end the journey with the cry:My heart played truant from my will!I loved him then—I love him still.
Atevening, when the breeze dies down,And regal Nature doffs her crown,When brown-limbed pines, like minarets,Fringe all the hills, and tired day fretsTo rest awhile—ah, then, I know,Into a shadowed room you go,And softly touch the organ keys;While pale stars blink amid the treesYou sing a peaceful vesper hymnThat rises from your full heart’s brim;Your kindly eyes are dimmed with tears—You wander through remembered years;From gay to grave your fancies fly,And end the journey with the cry:My heart played truant from my will!I loved him then—I love him still.
Apairof brown eyes—no matter where,In quiet street or crowded thoroughfare—Call up the image of your face to me.All others vanish, only you I see;Above the din of trade your voice I hear,And merry laughter, ringing sweet and clear,That fades into a smile away:Thus are you with me everywhere and every day.
Apairof brown eyes—no matter where,In quiet street or crowded thoroughfare—Call up the image of your face to me.All others vanish, only you I see;Above the din of trade your voice I hear,And merry laughter, ringing sweet and clear,That fades into a smile away:Thus are you with me everywhere and every day.
Apairof brown eyes—no matter where,In quiet street or crowded thoroughfare—Call up the image of your face to me.All others vanish, only you I see;Above the din of trade your voice I hear,And merry laughter, ringing sweet and clear,That fades into a smile away:Thus are you with me everywhere and every day.
No, not despair of ever quite forgettingThe happy romance of those dreamy years,The painful weariness of vain regrettingThrough all life’s varied way of love and tearNot this the gladness of my heart represses,With shadow tinges still each sunny thoughtThe fancy that with poignant touch distressesIs that by thee I am perhaps forgot!
No, not despair of ever quite forgettingThe happy romance of those dreamy years,The painful weariness of vain regrettingThrough all life’s varied way of love and tearNot this the gladness of my heart represses,With shadow tinges still each sunny thoughtThe fancy that with poignant touch distressesIs that by thee I am perhaps forgot!
No, not despair of ever quite forgettingThe happy romance of those dreamy years,The painful weariness of vain regrettingThrough all life’s varied way of love and tearNot this the gladness of my heart represses,With shadow tinges still each sunny thoughtThe fancy that with poignant touch distressesIs that by thee I am perhaps forgot!
Embrasuredguns, like wearied hounds, all sleeping,Their muzzles resting on the cool, green turf;Along the Fort their peaceful watch now keepingAbove the mimic battle of the surf.And you, dear one, now that my suit is ended—Let passion slumber in your cool dark eyes;The wiles by which your heart was well defendedEmbrasured there look love on summer skies.
Embrasuredguns, like wearied hounds, all sleeping,Their muzzles resting on the cool, green turf;Along the Fort their peaceful watch now keepingAbove the mimic battle of the surf.And you, dear one, now that my suit is ended—Let passion slumber in your cool dark eyes;The wiles by which your heart was well defendedEmbrasured there look love on summer skies.
Embrasuredguns, like wearied hounds, all sleeping,Their muzzles resting on the cool, green turf;Along the Fort their peaceful watch now keepingAbove the mimic battle of the surf.
And you, dear one, now that my suit is ended—Let passion slumber in your cool dark eyes;The wiles by which your heart was well defendedEmbrasured there look love on summer skies.
Clang! Ting-a-ling!Then a scream of the whistle.Sob! Sob! Sob! Sob!Heaves slowly the breast of the iron-sinewed giant;And the swift paddles fling,Like the down of a thistle,White foam from their blades, while the waters defiantGroan under their merciless tread; and the throbOf the heart grows exultingly faster;Now a race with a tug, and then it is past her—Glides under the bow of a stately Cunarder—The steel-lungèd giant breathing harder and harderWhile nearing the wharves of the City of VanityTo roll from its shoulders the load of humanity.And up near the bow, with arms crossed on the railing,The bold wind with kisses her fair cheeks assailingAnd tossing her hair from her brow, stands sweet Jennie,Who hopes on the way to the school to meet Bennie.And what he will say she is anticipating—Her heart full of pleasure, her blue eyes dilating;And what will she say? Ah, now she is blushing.There he stands on the pier! How the people are crushing!While out from the dock the churned waters are rushing.But the song of the wheels is, “I love him—I love him!”Then the pilot aboveSignals “Clang! Ting-a-ling!”And the slowing wheels sing,“Oh, my love—love—love!”Clang!
Clang! Ting-a-ling!Then a scream of the whistle.Sob! Sob! Sob! Sob!Heaves slowly the breast of the iron-sinewed giant;And the swift paddles fling,Like the down of a thistle,White foam from their blades, while the waters defiantGroan under their merciless tread; and the throbOf the heart grows exultingly faster;Now a race with a tug, and then it is past her—Glides under the bow of a stately Cunarder—The steel-lungèd giant breathing harder and harderWhile nearing the wharves of the City of VanityTo roll from its shoulders the load of humanity.And up near the bow, with arms crossed on the railing,The bold wind with kisses her fair cheeks assailingAnd tossing her hair from her brow, stands sweet Jennie,Who hopes on the way to the school to meet Bennie.And what he will say she is anticipating—Her heart full of pleasure, her blue eyes dilating;And what will she say? Ah, now she is blushing.There he stands on the pier! How the people are crushing!While out from the dock the churned waters are rushing.But the song of the wheels is, “I love him—I love him!”Then the pilot aboveSignals “Clang! Ting-a-ling!”And the slowing wheels sing,“Oh, my love—love—love!”Clang!
Clang! Ting-a-ling!Then a scream of the whistle.Sob! Sob! Sob! Sob!Heaves slowly the breast of the iron-sinewed giant;And the swift paddles fling,Like the down of a thistle,White foam from their blades, while the waters defiantGroan under their merciless tread; and the throbOf the heart grows exultingly faster;Now a race with a tug, and then it is past her—Glides under the bow of a stately Cunarder—The steel-lungèd giant breathing harder and harderWhile nearing the wharves of the City of VanityTo roll from its shoulders the load of humanity.And up near the bow, with arms crossed on the railing,The bold wind with kisses her fair cheeks assailingAnd tossing her hair from her brow, stands sweet Jennie,Who hopes on the way to the school to meet Bennie.And what he will say she is anticipating—Her heart full of pleasure, her blue eyes dilating;And what will she say? Ah, now she is blushing.There he stands on the pier! How the people are crushing!While out from the dock the churned waters are rushing.But the song of the wheels is, “I love him—I love him!”Then the pilot aboveSignals “Clang! Ting-a-ling!”And the slowing wheels sing,“Oh, my love—love—love!”Clang!
Andnow the corn has ripened at Bramble Brae,And all the hosts are marshalled for Autumn’s fray;The quaint old farm is changing its green for brown,Save where the new wheat lifts itself to the lightAnd huddles in rows, like wrinkles in some old gown.Along the lane the quail are running in frightAt sound of guns on the upland—the cautious dogsAre coursing over the fields, and keen-eyed menWatch for the whir of wings; the hickory logsAre falling down in the clearing, while in their penThe big swine gloat on the heaped-up trough;In woods the dead leaves rustle, and red squirrels coughAnd chatter and screech—chasing each other from limbTo limb, and gather their stores at the roots of trees.And part of it all is a boy, and the heart of himGlows with the sumach, and sings with the Autumn breeze.Down in the valley the ancient village rests,Drowsing along the curbs of its quaint old street;High and peaked are the roofs, and antique crestsAre carved on the gables. Fair maids, discreet,Sit on the porches and talk with the passing youth;For Love goes by, sometimes in homespun clad,And sometimes rich in the wealth of truthThat speaks in the heart and the eyes of the lad.For none that pass are the eyes of the bonny girlExcept for him; she sits and waits by a climbing vine,Reading the verses of some old bard; the pearlShe seeks is love, and only love is the wineThat colors her cheeks and snaps in her sparkling eyesBut the lad is shy, and dreams the livelong dayThat love and his lady are proof against all surprise—So up on the hillside he longs for the village far away.. . . . . . . . . . . .Many Autumns have glowed on the hillside there;Slender saplings have sprung to giant trees;Gray is his head and furrowed his brow with care—The heart of the man cries out to the Autumn breeze.Dusk in the valley, and cold light on the hill—Brown is the sumach, the glory of youth has fled;Drowsing cattle shiver, the night is chill,Memory lives, but all of his hopes are dead.Years has he wandered over the land and sea;Friends he has cherished and lost, and women loved;Always that vision haunted his fancy free—The dreamer worshipped, but never the vision proved.Down in the valley the ancient houses sleep,Dotted with lights that break through the evening gloom;Dreams that stirred the face of the waters deepCover their eyes and flee to a welcoming tomb.
Andnow the corn has ripened at Bramble Brae,And all the hosts are marshalled for Autumn’s fray;The quaint old farm is changing its green for brown,Save where the new wheat lifts itself to the lightAnd huddles in rows, like wrinkles in some old gown.Along the lane the quail are running in frightAt sound of guns on the upland—the cautious dogsAre coursing over the fields, and keen-eyed menWatch for the whir of wings; the hickory logsAre falling down in the clearing, while in their penThe big swine gloat on the heaped-up trough;In woods the dead leaves rustle, and red squirrels coughAnd chatter and screech—chasing each other from limbTo limb, and gather their stores at the roots of trees.And part of it all is a boy, and the heart of himGlows with the sumach, and sings with the Autumn breeze.Down in the valley the ancient village rests,Drowsing along the curbs of its quaint old street;High and peaked are the roofs, and antique crestsAre carved on the gables. Fair maids, discreet,Sit on the porches and talk with the passing youth;For Love goes by, sometimes in homespun clad,And sometimes rich in the wealth of truthThat speaks in the heart and the eyes of the lad.For none that pass are the eyes of the bonny girlExcept for him; she sits and waits by a climbing vine,Reading the verses of some old bard; the pearlShe seeks is love, and only love is the wineThat colors her cheeks and snaps in her sparkling eyesBut the lad is shy, and dreams the livelong dayThat love and his lady are proof against all surprise—So up on the hillside he longs for the village far away.. . . . . . . . . . . .Many Autumns have glowed on the hillside there;Slender saplings have sprung to giant trees;Gray is his head and furrowed his brow with care—The heart of the man cries out to the Autumn breeze.Dusk in the valley, and cold light on the hill—Brown is the sumach, the glory of youth has fled;Drowsing cattle shiver, the night is chill,Memory lives, but all of his hopes are dead.Years has he wandered over the land and sea;Friends he has cherished and lost, and women loved;Always that vision haunted his fancy free—The dreamer worshipped, but never the vision proved.Down in the valley the ancient houses sleep,Dotted with lights that break through the evening gloom;Dreams that stirred the face of the waters deepCover their eyes and flee to a welcoming tomb.
Andnow the corn has ripened at Bramble Brae,And all the hosts are marshalled for Autumn’s fray;The quaint old farm is changing its green for brown,Save where the new wheat lifts itself to the lightAnd huddles in rows, like wrinkles in some old gown.Along the lane the quail are running in frightAt sound of guns on the upland—the cautious dogsAre coursing over the fields, and keen-eyed menWatch for the whir of wings; the hickory logsAre falling down in the clearing, while in their penThe big swine gloat on the heaped-up trough;In woods the dead leaves rustle, and red squirrels coughAnd chatter and screech—chasing each other from limbTo limb, and gather their stores at the roots of trees.And part of it all is a boy, and the heart of himGlows with the sumach, and sings with the Autumn breeze.Down in the valley the ancient village rests,Drowsing along the curbs of its quaint old street;High and peaked are the roofs, and antique crestsAre carved on the gables. Fair maids, discreet,Sit on the porches and talk with the passing youth;For Love goes by, sometimes in homespun clad,And sometimes rich in the wealth of truthThat speaks in the heart and the eyes of the lad.For none that pass are the eyes of the bonny girlExcept for him; she sits and waits by a climbing vine,Reading the verses of some old bard; the pearlShe seeks is love, and only love is the wineThat colors her cheeks and snaps in her sparkling eyesBut the lad is shy, and dreams the livelong dayThat love and his lady are proof against all surprise—So up on the hillside he longs for the village far away.. . . . . . . . . . . .Many Autumns have glowed on the hillside there;Slender saplings have sprung to giant trees;Gray is his head and furrowed his brow with care—The heart of the man cries out to the Autumn breeze.Dusk in the valley, and cold light on the hill—Brown is the sumach, the glory of youth has fled;Drowsing cattle shiver, the night is chill,Memory lives, but all of his hopes are dead.Years has he wandered over the land and sea;Friends he has cherished and lost, and women loved;Always that vision haunted his fancy free—The dreamer worshipped, but never the vision proved.Down in the valley the ancient houses sleep,Dotted with lights that break through the evening gloom;Dreams that stirred the face of the waters deepCover their eyes and flee to a welcoming tomb.
Farfrom its native moorlandOr crest of “wine-red” hill,At sight or scent of heatherThe hearts of Scotsmen thrill.Though crushed its purple blossoms,Its tender stems turned brown,It brings romantic HighlandsInto prosaic town.The clans are on the border,The chiefs are in the fray;We’re keen upon their footstepsWith Walter Scott to-day.Peat smoke from lowland cottageFloats curling up, and turnsOur dreams toward quiet hearthstonesAnd melodies of Burns.And last our fancy lingersWith fond regret and vainWhere sleeps our TusitalaBeneath the tropic rain—Far from the purple heatherOr gleaming rowan bough,Alone on mountain summit,“Our hearts remember how.”
Farfrom its native moorlandOr crest of “wine-red” hill,At sight or scent of heatherThe hearts of Scotsmen thrill.Though crushed its purple blossoms,Its tender stems turned brown,It brings romantic HighlandsInto prosaic town.The clans are on the border,The chiefs are in the fray;We’re keen upon their footstepsWith Walter Scott to-day.Peat smoke from lowland cottageFloats curling up, and turnsOur dreams toward quiet hearthstonesAnd melodies of Burns.And last our fancy lingersWith fond regret and vainWhere sleeps our TusitalaBeneath the tropic rain—Far from the purple heatherOr gleaming rowan bough,Alone on mountain summit,“Our hearts remember how.”
Farfrom its native moorlandOr crest of “wine-red” hill,At sight or scent of heatherThe hearts of Scotsmen thrill.Though crushed its purple blossoms,Its tender stems turned brown,It brings romantic HighlandsInto prosaic town.The clans are on the border,The chiefs are in the fray;We’re keen upon their footstepsWith Walter Scott to-day.Peat smoke from lowland cottageFloats curling up, and turnsOur dreams toward quiet hearthstonesAnd melodies of Burns.And last our fancy lingersWith fond regret and vainWhere sleeps our TusitalaBeneath the tropic rain—Far from the purple heatherOr gleaming rowan bough,Alone on mountain summit,“Our hearts remember how.”
St. Andrew’s Day.
I’vecalmly lived my sunny little lifeUnder the crinkling glass, and free from strife;The sky above and all around is blue,And from this haven now I come to you.Fair Lady, tell me have I heard arightThat other flowers do not live so bright?That in dark forests and by noisy streamsThe pale wood violet sheds its purple beams?While we are merry in this fireside glowMy humble cousin shivers in the snow;And yet a cricket whispered once to meThatIthe captive was—my cousin, free!Sometimes I’ve dreamed the cricket told me true;I’ve longed for freedom and the pleasing viewOf moss-grown hummocks and great whispering trees,With gold-winged songsters humming in the breeze.The dream is over—I have lived my dayNourished in sun with other violets gay;And now I’m borne afar to Paradise,To find my haven in your gentle eyes.If I may touch your lips I’ll die contentWithout one glimpse of freedom or days spentIn woodland dells; oh, murmur, while I fade,Your own sweet mem’ries of the forest glade!Come, tell me quickly, for my brief hours pass;What!You too captive in a house of glass?
I’vecalmly lived my sunny little lifeUnder the crinkling glass, and free from strife;The sky above and all around is blue,And from this haven now I come to you.Fair Lady, tell me have I heard arightThat other flowers do not live so bright?That in dark forests and by noisy streamsThe pale wood violet sheds its purple beams?While we are merry in this fireside glowMy humble cousin shivers in the snow;And yet a cricket whispered once to meThatIthe captive was—my cousin, free!Sometimes I’ve dreamed the cricket told me true;I’ve longed for freedom and the pleasing viewOf moss-grown hummocks and great whispering trees,With gold-winged songsters humming in the breeze.The dream is over—I have lived my dayNourished in sun with other violets gay;And now I’m borne afar to Paradise,To find my haven in your gentle eyes.If I may touch your lips I’ll die contentWithout one glimpse of freedom or days spentIn woodland dells; oh, murmur, while I fade,Your own sweet mem’ries of the forest glade!Come, tell me quickly, for my brief hours pass;What!You too captive in a house of glass?
I’vecalmly lived my sunny little lifeUnder the crinkling glass, and free from strife;The sky above and all around is blue,And from this haven now I come to you.
Fair Lady, tell me have I heard arightThat other flowers do not live so bright?That in dark forests and by noisy streamsThe pale wood violet sheds its purple beams?
While we are merry in this fireside glowMy humble cousin shivers in the snow;And yet a cricket whispered once to meThatIthe captive was—my cousin, free!
Sometimes I’ve dreamed the cricket told me true;I’ve longed for freedom and the pleasing viewOf moss-grown hummocks and great whispering trees,With gold-winged songsters humming in the breeze.
The dream is over—I have lived my dayNourished in sun with other violets gay;And now I’m borne afar to Paradise,To find my haven in your gentle eyes.
If I may touch your lips I’ll die contentWithout one glimpse of freedom or days spentIn woodland dells; oh, murmur, while I fade,Your own sweet mem’ries of the forest glade!
Come, tell me quickly, for my brief hours pass;What!You too captive in a house of glass?
What the Rose thought:Oh, to be one-and-twenty!But I am a rose that must bloom for a day;My life is like color and perfume in May;To-night I shall fade in her beautiful hair,And touch with my petals her proud neck and fair.Oh, to be one-and-twenty!What She sang, exultingly:Oh, to be one-and-twenty!To feel that the glorious days of my youthAre only the promise of hope, love, and truth—That all joyful things in my bright future gleam,And I am tolivethem and find out my dream.Oh, to be one-and-twenty!What He wrote, sadly:Oh, to be one-and-twenty!To dream that the great world is still all my own,And cherish again the ideals that have flown;To follow them, hiding with cunning and art,And find them all sleeping within her warm heart,Her heart that is one-and-twenty!
What the Rose thought:Oh, to be one-and-twenty!But I am a rose that must bloom for a day;My life is like color and perfume in May;To-night I shall fade in her beautiful hair,And touch with my petals her proud neck and fair.Oh, to be one-and-twenty!What She sang, exultingly:Oh, to be one-and-twenty!To feel that the glorious days of my youthAre only the promise of hope, love, and truth—That all joyful things in my bright future gleam,And I am tolivethem and find out my dream.Oh, to be one-and-twenty!What He wrote, sadly:Oh, to be one-and-twenty!To dream that the great world is still all my own,And cherish again the ideals that have flown;To follow them, hiding with cunning and art,And find them all sleeping within her warm heart,Her heart that is one-and-twenty!
What the Rose thought:Oh, to be one-and-twenty!But I am a rose that must bloom for a day;My life is like color and perfume in May;To-night I shall fade in her beautiful hair,And touch with my petals her proud neck and fair.Oh, to be one-and-twenty!
What She sang, exultingly:Oh, to be one-and-twenty!To feel that the glorious days of my youthAre only the promise of hope, love, and truth—That all joyful things in my bright future gleam,And I am tolivethem and find out my dream.Oh, to be one-and-twenty!
What He wrote, sadly:Oh, to be one-and-twenty!To dream that the great world is still all my own,And cherish again the ideals that have flown;To follow them, hiding with cunning and art,And find them all sleeping within her warm heart,Her heart that is one-and-twenty!
Hereare roses, red and white,Each to speak what I would write;For, when in your quiet roomYou may smell their sweet perfume,I shall whisper through these flowersFancy’s thoughts for evening hours.Then, when in the crowded streetYou and I may chance to meet,I’ll discover in your eyesWhat you’ve half expressed in sighs;For if in your dusky hairOne red rose you deign to wearI shall say, “I know that sheWears it for her love of me.”But if on your gentle breastOne white rose may dare to rest,Then in rapture I’ll declare,“That’s my heart a-resting there.”But if neither red nor whiteMay your hair or gown bedight,Still with confidence I’ll say,“That is lovely woman’s way—What of life is largest partHides she deepest in her heart!”
Hereare roses, red and white,Each to speak what I would write;For, when in your quiet roomYou may smell their sweet perfume,I shall whisper through these flowersFancy’s thoughts for evening hours.Then, when in the crowded streetYou and I may chance to meet,I’ll discover in your eyesWhat you’ve half expressed in sighs;For if in your dusky hairOne red rose you deign to wearI shall say, “I know that sheWears it for her love of me.”But if on your gentle breastOne white rose may dare to rest,Then in rapture I’ll declare,“That’s my heart a-resting there.”But if neither red nor whiteMay your hair or gown bedight,Still with confidence I’ll say,“That is lovely woman’s way—What of life is largest partHides she deepest in her heart!”
Hereare roses, red and white,Each to speak what I would write;For, when in your quiet roomYou may smell their sweet perfume,I shall whisper through these flowersFancy’s thoughts for evening hours.Then, when in the crowded streetYou and I may chance to meet,I’ll discover in your eyesWhat you’ve half expressed in sighs;For if in your dusky hairOne red rose you deign to wearI shall say, “I know that sheWears it for her love of me.”But if on your gentle breastOne white rose may dare to rest,Then in rapture I’ll declare,“That’s my heart a-resting there.”But if neither red nor whiteMay your hair or gown bedight,Still with confidence I’ll say,“That is lovely woman’s way—What of life is largest partHides she deepest in her heart!”
Good Saint Valentine, I pray,While around this town you stray,You will keep your eyes alertFor a maid who loves to flirt.If among the hurrying crowd—Beauties fair and beauties proud—You should see one like a queen,Eyes of blue, with golden sheenIn her hair that’s flecked with brown,And a grace about her gown,That’s Diana!Catch her eyeAs she’s gayly tripping by;Say you know a sorry wight,Slow of speech and slow to write,Who would tell her through these flowersThat her eyes are bright as starsIn the blue; that her speechHaunts his mem’ry (out of reachLike their perfume faint but fine);That her laugh is like rare wine.As you leave her touch her lips;Say that men are like old ships,Easy towed, but hard to steer;Then just whisper in her ear,“Lovers change, but friends are trueLike these violets.” Then, “Adieu.”This, Saint Valentine, I pray,On the morning of that dayWhen you keep your eyes alertFor all maids who love to flirt.
Good Saint Valentine, I pray,While around this town you stray,You will keep your eyes alertFor a maid who loves to flirt.If among the hurrying crowd—Beauties fair and beauties proud—You should see one like a queen,Eyes of blue, with golden sheenIn her hair that’s flecked with brown,And a grace about her gown,That’s Diana!Catch her eyeAs she’s gayly tripping by;Say you know a sorry wight,Slow of speech and slow to write,Who would tell her through these flowersThat her eyes are bright as starsIn the blue; that her speechHaunts his mem’ry (out of reachLike their perfume faint but fine);That her laugh is like rare wine.As you leave her touch her lips;Say that men are like old ships,Easy towed, but hard to steer;Then just whisper in her ear,“Lovers change, but friends are trueLike these violets.” Then, “Adieu.”This, Saint Valentine, I pray,On the morning of that dayWhen you keep your eyes alertFor all maids who love to flirt.
Good Saint Valentine, I pray,While around this town you stray,You will keep your eyes alertFor a maid who loves to flirt.
If among the hurrying crowd—Beauties fair and beauties proud—You should see one like a queen,Eyes of blue, with golden sheenIn her hair that’s flecked with brown,And a grace about her gown,That’s Diana!
Catch her eyeAs she’s gayly tripping by;Say you know a sorry wight,Slow of speech and slow to write,Who would tell her through these flowersThat her eyes are bright as starsIn the blue; that her speechHaunts his mem’ry (out of reachLike their perfume faint but fine);That her laugh is like rare wine.As you leave her touch her lips;Say that men are like old ships,Easy towed, but hard to steer;Then just whisper in her ear,“Lovers change, but friends are trueLike these violets.” Then, “Adieu.”
This, Saint Valentine, I pray,On the morning of that dayWhen you keep your eyes alertFor all maids who love to flirt.
Arcady, February fourteenth.
IfI were not a speechless flowerI’d like to talk with you an hourAnd whisper many pretty thingsThat thinking of your birthday brings.(For flowers can dream of happinessWhile you their velvet petals press!)But I can’t talk—I know a manWho often vainly thinks he can,And what he wanted me to doWas simply to look fair to youAnd wish you joy—and then surpriseThe gentle look in your dear eyes.
IfI were not a speechless flowerI’d like to talk with you an hourAnd whisper many pretty thingsThat thinking of your birthday brings.(For flowers can dream of happinessWhile you their velvet petals press!)But I can’t talk—I know a manWho often vainly thinks he can,And what he wanted me to doWas simply to look fair to youAnd wish you joy—and then surpriseThe gentle look in your dear eyes.
IfI were not a speechless flowerI’d like to talk with you an hourAnd whisper many pretty thingsThat thinking of your birthday brings.
(For flowers can dream of happinessWhile you their velvet petals press!)But I can’t talk—I know a manWho often vainly thinks he can,
And what he wanted me to doWas simply to look fair to youAnd wish you joy—and then surpriseThe gentle look in your dear eyes.
Dearold worldling gone astray,You would rather sing than pray;While you wore the preacher’s gownHow you longed for London Town!When your head ached, then, alack!You, repentant, gave up sack;Old and worn you ruthlesslyBade farewell to poesy;Full, you never cared for food,Sated, you were always good.Julia’s beauties you rehearse,Sing her charms in wanton verse,But to make poor Julia thineNot one pleasure you’d resign.Flattering, you tried to please;Generous, you loved your ease!Dear old Herrick, you’re a ManBuilt upon the human plan;To the world your fame belongsFor the beauty of your songs—Glorious poet—not a saint—Lyric splendor without taint!
Dearold worldling gone astray,You would rather sing than pray;While you wore the preacher’s gownHow you longed for London Town!When your head ached, then, alack!You, repentant, gave up sack;Old and worn you ruthlesslyBade farewell to poesy;Full, you never cared for food,Sated, you were always good.Julia’s beauties you rehearse,Sing her charms in wanton verse,But to make poor Julia thineNot one pleasure you’d resign.Flattering, you tried to please;Generous, you loved your ease!Dear old Herrick, you’re a ManBuilt upon the human plan;To the world your fame belongsFor the beauty of your songs—Glorious poet—not a saint—Lyric splendor without taint!
Dearold worldling gone astray,You would rather sing than pray;While you wore the preacher’s gownHow you longed for London Town!When your head ached, then, alack!You, repentant, gave up sack;Old and worn you ruthlesslyBade farewell to poesy;Full, you never cared for food,Sated, you were always good.Julia’s beauties you rehearse,Sing her charms in wanton verse,But to make poor Julia thineNot one pleasure you’d resign.Flattering, you tried to please;Generous, you loved your ease!Dear old Herrick, you’re a ManBuilt upon the human plan;To the world your fame belongsFor the beauty of your songs—Glorious poet—not a saint—Lyric splendor without taint!
TheSonnets—bound by RivièreAnd newly illustrated!As though the words that Shakespeare wroteBy outward dress are rated!The soul—the fine, immortal partThat lives without the binding,Is something from the poet’s heart;’Tis here—and worth the finding.
TheSonnets—bound by RivièreAnd newly illustrated!As though the words that Shakespeare wroteBy outward dress are rated!The soul—the fine, immortal partThat lives without the binding,Is something from the poet’s heart;’Tis here—and worth the finding.
TheSonnets—bound by RivièreAnd newly illustrated!As though the words that Shakespeare wroteBy outward dress are rated!
The soul—the fine, immortal partThat lives without the binding,Is something from the poet’s heart;’Tis here—and worth the finding.
Inthis book a woman wrote her heart—Etching there the image of a Man.Faithful woman! But the years depart,And love is dust, and life a broken span!
Inthis book a woman wrote her heart—Etching there the image of a Man.Faithful woman! But the years depart,And love is dust, and life a broken span!
Inthis book a woman wrote her heart—Etching there the image of a Man.Faithful woman! But the years depart,And love is dust, and life a broken span!
Here is a forest tangle—Rank weeds, luxuriant ferns, and giant trees,All in a hoarse-voiced wrangle,With creaking branches swaying in the breeze.But if you care to listen,Above the noise you’ll hear the piping of a bird,Gay feathers in the tree-tops glisten,And over all the sweetest music ever heard.
Here is a forest tangle—Rank weeds, luxuriant ferns, and giant trees,All in a hoarse-voiced wrangle,With creaking branches swaying in the breeze.But if you care to listen,Above the noise you’ll hear the piping of a bird,Gay feathers in the tree-tops glisten,And over all the sweetest music ever heard.
Here is a forest tangle—Rank weeds, luxuriant ferns, and giant trees,All in a hoarse-voiced wrangle,With creaking branches swaying in the breeze.But if you care to listen,Above the noise you’ll hear the piping of a bird,Gay feathers in the tree-tops glisten,And over all the sweetest music ever heard.
Behold“The Lyrics of the King”!As though a crown on those who singCould make their music sweeter!To-day we’ll choose the better part—The gentle music of the heartThat masters rhyme and metre.
Behold“The Lyrics of the King”!As though a crown on those who singCould make their music sweeter!To-day we’ll choose the better part—The gentle music of the heartThat masters rhyme and metre.
Behold“The Lyrics of the King”!As though a crown on those who singCould make their music sweeter!To-day we’ll choose the better part—The gentle music of the heartThat masters rhyme and metre.