GRATITUDE(To A. T.)

Texture of a butterfly’s wing,Colored like a dawned rose,Whose perfume is the breath of God.Such is the web wherein is heldThe treasure of the treasure chestThe priceless gift—the Child of Love.

The oleander blooms for me,In dawning splendrous beauty,I planted it so tenderly,And love has done its duty.All in a garden of the earth,All in a plot of ground,Wherein I found no bit of worth,The seed I planted in the ground.O Tiny seed almost unworthyTo be cherished for thy looks,But deep within the heart of youWas wisdom never found in books.You are the spirit of the good,The joy, the beauty of all things,You are the melody of life—the songThat Mother Nature sings.And so to that sweet lullabyYou, in your perfumed cradle, restSafe in the arms of Mother Earth,Held closely to her loving breast.Until one happy wondrous dayWhen love so tenderly drew nigh,Lifted your tiny hand of greenAnd turned your face toward the sky.The oleander blooms for me,In dawning splendrous beauty,I planted it so tenderlyAnd love has done its duty.

The oleander blooms for me,In dawning splendrous beauty,I planted it so tenderly,And love has done its duty.

All in a garden of the earth,All in a plot of ground,Wherein I found no bit of worth,The seed I planted in the ground.

O Tiny seed almost unworthyTo be cherished for thy looks,But deep within the heart of youWas wisdom never found in books.

You are the spirit of the good,The joy, the beauty of all things,You are the melody of life—the songThat Mother Nature sings.

And so to that sweet lullabyYou, in your perfumed cradle, restSafe in the arms of Mother Earth,Held closely to her loving breast.

Until one happy wondrous dayWhen love so tenderly drew nigh,Lifted your tiny hand of greenAnd turned your face toward the sky.

The oleander blooms for me,In dawning splendrous beauty,I planted it so tenderlyAnd love has done its duty.

Shadows—gray symbol of a broken faith.We cling to hope—in hope we findThe symbol of a broken heart.Shadows—gray bleak gossamer webOf what once was woven ’round my heart.We slink within thy domain—the land of shadows.For still we hope.But knowing always, that a broken faith can never be restoredTo more than it was—a Shadow.

Out of a shadowed cornerComes a phantom of the past,To confuse meAnd accuse meFor a vain iconoclast.To chide meAnd deride meIn a seething scornful blast.To cheat meAnd defeat me,Conscience, crucifies at last.

I sing a song to the sapphire skyThat curtains a sleeping earth.I sing a song to the stars on highThat mark a jewel’s worth.My feeble voice, so weak it sounds,A puny earthy cry,Yet when its echo comes to me,Angelic voice in harmony,I know it is not I.It was belief that gave it wing,That weakling voice of mine,And carried it where angels singGod’s Melody Divine.

I sing a song to the sapphire skyThat curtains a sleeping earth.I sing a song to the stars on highThat mark a jewel’s worth.

My feeble voice, so weak it sounds,A puny earthy cry,Yet when its echo comes to me,Angelic voice in harmony,I know it is not I.

It was belief that gave it wing,That weakling voice of mine,And carried it where angels singGod’s Melody Divine.

Little gypsies of the city,Little sparrows—more’s the pity,Homeless, heedless of the weather,Happy, banding all together,Never giving thought to trouble,Never seeing evil double,Would that we who proudly mentionEvery honorable intentionTo the world with trumpet blaring,Could, like sparrows, take uncaringAll the little earthly struggles,Cast them gypsy-like asideAnd fly happily, and gladlyAll about earth’s countryside.

Why do the birds chant the psalm of glory?

Only because they alone are free throated and unafraid. Do they realize the danger in the sling-shot of civilization? No—they are only conscious of the Joy within.

Why sing of Joy—If Joy is to be unheard.Why sing of Faith,If Faith is to be barred.For all that is goodIs forever alive,And all that is badIs dead before it be born.

A poor little messenger clad in gray,Sent as a go-between—they say.Took a betrayal under its wingAnd guarded and cherished the slimy thing.We speak of Glory, and Trust, and Men,But that is all forgotten whenWe send this softly feathered birdWith messages best left unheard.Oh! What a mockery ’cross the skyThe dove is sent to act as spy.

A poor little messenger clad in gray,Sent as a go-between—they say.Took a betrayal under its wingAnd guarded and cherished the slimy thing.

We speak of Glory, and Trust, and Men,But that is all forgotten whenWe send this softly feathered birdWith messages best left unheard.

Oh! What a mockery ’cross the skyThe dove is sent to act as spy.

Lives are classes—we are pupils with excellent teachers. Experience should tutor us, but we so often shirk school. School can be made happy and we delight in making a higher grade—but through not heeding Experience’s teaching we often are left back in the old class, and sometimes, sad to relate, are put several grades lower.

But, happily, there is always the opportunity of skipping many grades upward. It’s a poor rule that doesn’t work both ways.

The Mind is the Grade we work in. We can have majestic thoughts, living in a hermit’s hut, or we can think as a swine in a palace on a throne of gold—let us choose our station—kingly children, or swineherds. Eternity is the Empire.

To love, save that which mockery was,No heart, save that of stone.A multitude forever hers,Alas—not one—alone!Cradled in the arms of many,Not where to lay her weary head.Fortune smiled—held out her handAnd struck the wanton dead.

To love, save that which mockery was,No heart, save that of stone.A multitude forever hers,Alas—not one—alone!

Cradled in the arms of many,Not where to lay her weary head.Fortune smiled—held out her handAnd struck the wanton dead.

LoveI am a slave,Yet free as birds above,Sold into bondageBy the tender kiss of love.LustI am a slaveIn the rat trap of disgust,Sold into bondageBy the lurid kiss of lust.HateI am a slavePrisoned by the walls of fate,Sold into bondageBy the cruel kiss of hate.CrimeI am a slaveBehind the bars of time,Sold into bondageBy the leprous kiss of crime.DeathI am a slaveNo longer in my breath,Given sight of freedomThrough the graciousness of death.Still am I a slaveIn the hand of destiny,Thought alone enslaved meAnd thought alone can free.

LoveI am a slave,Yet free as birds above,Sold into bondageBy the tender kiss of love.

LustI am a slaveIn the rat trap of disgust,Sold into bondageBy the lurid kiss of lust.

HateI am a slavePrisoned by the walls of fate,Sold into bondageBy the cruel kiss of hate.

CrimeI am a slaveBehind the bars of time,Sold into bondageBy the leprous kiss of crime.

DeathI am a slaveNo longer in my breath,Given sight of freedomThrough the graciousness of death.

Still am I a slaveIn the hand of destiny,Thought alone enslaved meAnd thought alone can free.

Once in a time when skies were grayI chanced to walk in a cloistered way,I saw the ones who closed the doorOn all the world had spread before.Their eyes—that were closed to the joy of good,They thought the God’s law they understood.O Pity, Pity, for such as theyWho only look on skies of gray,From cloistered windows sad of eye,When all about is glorious sky.It was but the tiny patch of gray,The shadowed thing that happened to playBehind the back of the glorious earth.Alas, they thought it was all the worthOf the whole wide world, the glorious world.But the folded wings were not unfurledAnd closed to use they lost the call,And so they lost to them their all.

The chalice of a lily cupIs indeed the sacramentThat Mother Nature usesWhen she communes with God.

On the sands of a happy shore,Walked two lovers, hand in hand,Leaving all that’s gone before.They mark each footstep in the sand,Knowing well that every foot printWill be trod by their own blood,Therefore, let each couple ponderO’er their footstepsFor future good.

Man is the word of the story,Woman is the inspiration,God is the book that binds,None other can be what is now the finished book.

You are the History of Love and its Justification.The Symbol of Devotion.The Blessedness of Womanhood.The Incentive of Chivalry.The Reality of Ideals.The Verity of Joy.Idolatry’s Defense.The Proof of Goodness.The Power of Gentleness.Beauty’s Acknowledgment.Vanity’s Excuse.The Promise of Truth.The Melody of Life.The Caress of Romance.The Dream of Desire.The Sympathy of Understanding.My Heart’s Home.The Proof of Faith.Sanctuary of my Soul.My Belief of Heaven.Eternity of all Happiness.My Prayers.You.

O Love, when you leave me do not say:“Tomorrow we meet at twilight”For that is the time of the darkening hour,The ending of the day.All is glowing, gleaming in our love,All is pulsing, breathing in the lightOf understanding—it is not symbolic of twilight,Nor yet of dawning, for it has reached the zenith of love’s day.So when you leave me, dearest, do not say:“Tomorrow we meet at twilight.”Rather, beloved of my heart,“We meet at sunshine tomorrow.”

Possessing the jewels of the earth,Holding within my grasp the sceptre of the universe,All these would but make me more the pauper—Were I beggared of your love.

Just a packet of letters tied with a bit of blue,Just a packet of letters that once were sent by youTo one who proved unworthyOf the Love inscribed within.The tiny packet of letters, a witness of my sin.

Just a packet of letters, but they are not mine own.I dare not claim one thought in themNot even as a loan,For to the one you thought I wasIn all sincerityYou bared the secrets of your soul.Now I send them back to thee.

Just a packet of lettersA monument of love.You lie within the fireplace,In smoke you’ll rise aboveThe sordidness of all deceit,The grime of earthly thought,Yet, in this flash of living fire,The flame of love is caught.

Just a packet of letters a while ago you were,Now in vaprous symphony of grayI send you back to her,For the spirit of true love that’s penned,Must rise to meet her soulIn pearly glory ’round her head.Love’s halo—is its goal.

To rake over the dead ashes of a burnt out love one must use the pen point of poetry.

The lute, a barrier to song of soul.For none save GodCan music charmFrom out a thing man-made.A bowl of wood,A string or two to armThe troubadour with weapon strong.

When I see a look of sadness,In the eyes of You,Thoughts of grief akin to madnessSurge my being through.Am I then so weak and helpless,That I can not sendEven shadowings of sorrowsTo their deserved end.Garden of delight wherein the jewels of earth do lie!Tell me, in your vault of gold, will the flowers ever die?Nothing of so fair a mien could return to earthly dust.Even if the earth do say, “It is finished,” trust we mustIn the God who tells of light that will lift to Heaven aboveEvery perfumed flower that blows symphonies on wings of love.

When I see a look of sadness,In the eyes of You,Thoughts of grief akin to madnessSurge my being through.

Am I then so weak and helpless,That I can not sendEven shadowings of sorrowsTo their deserved end.

Garden of delight wherein the jewels of earth do lie!Tell me, in your vault of gold, will the flowers ever die?Nothing of so fair a mien could return to earthly dust.Even if the earth do say, “It is finished,” trust we mustIn the God who tells of light that will lift to Heaven aboveEvery perfumed flower that blows symphonies on wings of love.

In Life’s masquerade the disguises are many:Here’s a man masquerading as Wealth,Wears a million of gold,But a pauper, I’m told,He hasn’t a penny of health.Here comes a Beggar, in tatters and rags,Masking as Poverty old.He may look the part,But the wealth in his heart,Makes him richer than Croesus in gold.The costumes are varied disguises beguilingThat cover the true man beneathOne wears learned looks,That he’s borrowed from booksAnd a co-operative laurel wreath.And still another pretending a clown,In make-up the silliest Fool,But his knowledge of men,Is beyond the kenOf a sage of the orthodox school.There are millions of others in Life’s Motley MasqueWho follow the art of mime.They mimic and playAt mockery today,But they never fool Old Father Time.

In Life’s masquerade the disguises are many:Here’s a man masquerading as Wealth,Wears a million of gold,But a pauper, I’m told,He hasn’t a penny of health.

Here comes a Beggar, in tatters and rags,Masking as Poverty old.He may look the part,But the wealth in his heart,Makes him richer than Croesus in gold.

The costumes are varied disguises beguilingThat cover the true man beneathOne wears learned looks,That he’s borrowed from booksAnd a co-operative laurel wreath.

And still another pretending a clown,In make-up the silliest Fool,But his knowledge of men,Is beyond the kenOf a sage of the orthodox school.

There are millions of others in Life’s Motley MasqueWho follow the art of mime.They mimic and playAt mockery today,But they never fool Old Father Time.

A Patchwork Quilt,Industrious name.Once it was not quite the same.A different fame,A “Crazy Quilt,”Same foolish dameEntitled you.It was sorry fame.Life is like that,We do not seeHow little bitsMake harmony—It’s up to man to take each bitOf happiness and make it fit.But if he takes and doesn’t dwellUpon the pattern—Well, it’s Hell!A crazy quilt the name’s O. K.But start a patchwork quilt today.

The sky is the mirror that reflects all phases of Life. The clouds of Doubt bring showers, but there is always the “Silver Lining” promise.

Moral: If the sky is the limit better fix it clear in your mind to begin with.

I do not care for money made easily,It is not lasting—I know.I do not care for friends made easily,They are not lasting—I know.I do not care for anything that comes easily,It never lasts—I know.But I fell in love with you easily,But, not lastingly—I know.

The curtain is raised on the first act—the overture is over. We can play our parts. They say life’s a stage, but what a sad thing we have so few good stage managers. Our productions have more in the way of Costume and lack, so often, the right lines. Lines do count, not always words, but sympathy of thought is quite as necessary.

Sympathy is just as essential to the world as any other great attribute of good, but it must be sympathy in the right place.

Sympathy of thought has been the greatest lever in the machinery of mankind, but to sympathize with a weak nature sometimes breaks up his foundation. Know your subject.

Never withhold sympathy in loving one, but rather than sympathy, use encouragement as a tonic to tone up a weakling.

Kindly sympathetic interest is only another name for encouragement.

Never take away a prop without putting a stronger one in its place.

On a stretch of sandy beach I see naught of human presence, but upon looking closer, a remembrance of the past. I sit upon a rock and meditate upon what once was. I see myself in all the splendor of my youth. I see my boon companion—Hope, and one other one, whose name I’d best forget. We walked—Hope and I—but ever the unnamed one stalked by my side. I turned to gaze in fascination at my companion who speaks not, but forever stalks silently beside me. I finally forget my Hope to gaze in interest at the other. Hope, neglected, lags behind until we walk alone—myself and the unnamed one. We walk forever, but the walk brings us to the abyss of the world. What name has that one whose identity I fail to know? O, Eternity, thou art my sight and knowledge. It was Doubt, whose companion I became.

On whose shoulders are the crosses held,None can liken a laborer to him who bears the heavy-hearted thoughts.What can I say—it is more laborious than many tasks,Yet—’tis not task—For task is given to be doneAnd ye are the cross bearers if ye will.

Treasures in the lowly casket that we call a brain,Can jewels of the earth compareWith all that man finds hidden there?The wealth of knowledge, that will lead a willing soulInto a land of untold wonder,Where will be the lasting goalOf every seeking thought—

Treasures in the lowly casket that we call a brain,Can jewels of the earth compareWith all that man finds hidden there?

The wealth of knowledge, that will lead a willing soulInto a land of untold wonder,Where will be the lasting goalOf every seeking thought—

Maris of the golden eyes,You in all innocenceLooked upon a lovely worldIn wondering shyness.Beauty beckoned,Then turned the corner of another dayLeaving in her steadAn unknown one,The stranger to light.Maris of the saddened eyes,In your pity,Looking from another worldHave compassion on beautyWho thoughtlessly turned away,Leaving another in her placeThe stranger to light.

Maris of the saddened eyes,In your pity,Looking from another worldHave compassion on beautyWho thoughtlessly turned away,Leaving another in her placeThe stranger to light.

I have journeyed toward the cityOn the long, long road of Life,I have learned how little PityPlays a speaking part in life.I have learned that only MoneyIs the voice that’s heard today,Calling for God’s milk and honey,Even Hunger has no say.I have reached the city’s centerBy the crooked road of Hell,For Starvation’s been my mentorAnd has taught her lesson well.

I have journeyed toward the cityOn the long, long road of Life,I have learned how little PityPlays a speaking part in life.

I have learned that only MoneyIs the voice that’s heard today,Calling for God’s milk and honey,Even Hunger has no say.

I have reached the city’s centerBy the crooked road of Hell,For Starvation’s been my mentorAnd has taught her lesson well.

Money—you Harlequin of the great masquerade of life.You wear the dollar sign as your mask.It may hide you—yes, for a time,But when at last grim reality stalks into the midst of the festivities,The mask is ruthlessly torn away, and then—is seenThe true expression hidden behind it—the cruel visage of discordant greed.

Words are jewels rare—If need beWords are sometimes fairYou heed me,But our choosing makes them seemThe reflection of a dream.Let us, therefore,Choose in reason,Whereby all that good is ours,And by knowing rightful seasonPass forever—happy hours.

Words are jewels rare—If need beWords are sometimes fairYou heed me,But our choosing makes them seemThe reflection of a dream.

Let us, therefore,Choose in reason,Whereby all that good is ours,And by knowing rightful seasonPass forever—happy hours.

The earth is earth—that is its worth,To men who walk below.But to the soul that seeks its goal,Each land is all they know.One calls it Home, another Heart, another Property,But to the one who loves the sunHe calls it Italy.

The green sod is red now—RebellionThe green sod is white now—PurityThe green sod is blue now,With truthAnd the green sod is ever green,It is growth—none can stop natural growthErin—land of dreams—Awaken.

The air is alive with buzzing beesThe little workers of destinies.We grasp and strive to make our way,Each life a hive and so our dayIs fraught with honey sweet, if weKnow all is good in destiny.

A certain lad had a long way to go, so he sat still and waited until—well, another lad also had a long way to go—so he hurried along and before long he received several gifts not to be sneezed at. No, they were not to be sneezed at, though I must say they made his eyes water a bit. The gifts were lovely little blisters on his pedal extremities, so he had to sit down and take care of his poor feet and in pain tarried, looking at his poor feet. Ah, yes, our other little lad took it very slowly, almost like the proverbial snail, but kept on the lookout and pretty soon a nice, comfortable wagon came along, and took the slow little boy for a nice ride, and the good little slow boy rode merrily by the poor little fast boy, who still sat nursing his blisters. He had really gone stepping on some little brimstones,—though he said they were pebbles. The good little slow boy turned back and put his hand to the poor little fast boy, but I regret to say he raised his digits to his nose—O, world where is thy sting.

Note—This is not a moral, it is only something that happens every day on our best trafficked roads.

Oh, Mirror—most ungrateful rulerMan has ever had.We trembling bow to your decree,But oh! ’Tis very sadFor all our great devotionAnd concern in your behalf,No matter how we worship you,You just give us the laugh.Though we may claim democracy,You hold us like a slave.The tyrant ruler of the world,From cradle to the grave.Pa Adam’s prize ApollosLook to you (It is to laugh)Their reward for faithful service,Is Methuselah’s Epitaph.

Though we may claim democracy,You hold us like a slave.The tyrant ruler of the world,From cradle to the grave.Pa Adam’s prize ApollosLook to you (It is to laugh)Their reward for faithful service,Is Methuselah’s Epitaph.

Radio of romance,YouBroadcasting to the universeAll that is most blessedIn all things,But to me aloneThe melody of your LoveFlows throughThe arteryOf time and Space,For unity,Can never know Division.

A—Adoration—Anticipation—Affinity—Arguments.B—Beauty—Bliss—Bitterness—Bondage.C—Caresses—Circumstances—Confidences—Charm.D—Desire—Delusion—Dreams—Divorce.E—Ecstacy—Engagement—Ego—End.F—Fascination—Forgetfulness—Flattery—Faith.G—Gossip—Gratitude—Gift—Goodbye.H—Happiness—Honor—Heartache—Hell.I—Intuition—Irony—Idolatry—Integrity.J—Jealousy—Joy—Justice—June.K—Kisses—Keepsakes—Knowledge—Kismet.L—Lips—Loneliness—Logic—Longing.M—Marriage—Morality—Money—Man.N—No—Nearest—Novelty—Never.O—Opposition—Own—Offering—Opulence.P—Passion—Promise—Pride—Proposal.Q—Quality—Quest—Queries—Quarrels.R—Romance—Reveries—Realization—Remembrance.S—Sympathy—Sacrifice—Shame—Settlement.T—Thoughts—Truth—Temper—Tears.U—Unkindness—Understanding—Uncertainty—Unfaithfulness.V—Virtue—Vanity—Vows—Vengeance.W—Wisdom—Wishes—Wedlock—Woman.X—The Unknown—Love.Y—Youth—Yearning—Yes—Yawn.Z—Zenith—Zest—Zeal—Zero.

A Saint in a stained glass window,To the memory of oneWho “lived the life,”In sin and strife,Is the epitome of fun.A bit of colored crockery,A picture wrought in glass,His memory’s mockery’Tis best to let it pass.A Saint in a stained glass window,A blest memorial true,When it reflects the beauty ofThe memory of you.

A Saint in a stained glass window,To the memory of oneWho “lived the life,”In sin and strife,Is the epitome of fun.

A bit of colored crockery,A picture wrought in glass,His memory’s mockery’Tis best to let it pass.

A Saint in a stained glass window,A blest memorial true,When it reflects the beauty ofThe memory of you.

I take a bone—I gaze at it in wonder—You, O bit of strength that was. In you today I see the whited sepulchre of nothingness—but you were the shaft that held the wagon of Life. Your strength held together the vehicle of Man until God called and the Soul answered.

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