The impulse of all love is to create.God was so full of love, in his embraceHe clasped the empty nothingness of space,And low! the solar system! High in stateThe mighty sun sat, so supreme and greatWith this same essence, one smile of its faceBrought myriad forms of life forth; race on race,From insects up to men.Through love, not hate,All that is grand in nature or in artSprang into being. He who would build sublimeAnd lasting works, to stand the test of time,Must inspiration draw from his full heart.And he who loveth widely, well, and much,The secret holds of the true master touch.
The impulse of all love is to create.God was so full of love, in his embraceHe clasped the empty nothingness of space,And low! the solar system! High in stateThe mighty sun sat, so supreme and greatWith this same essence, one smile of its faceBrought myriad forms of life forth; race on race,From insects up to men.Through love, not hate,All that is grand in nature or in artSprang into being. He who would build sublimeAnd lasting works, to stand the test of time,Must inspiration draw from his full heart.And he who loveth widely, well, and much,The secret holds of the true master touch.
The impulse of all love is to create.God was so full of love, in his embraceHe clasped the empty nothingness of space,And low! the solar system! High in stateThe mighty sun sat, so supreme and greatWith this same essence, one smile of its faceBrought myriad forms of life forth; race on race,From insects up to men.
Through love, not hate,All that is grand in nature or in artSprang into being. He who would build sublimeAnd lasting works, to stand the test of time,Must inspiration draw from his full heart.And he who loveth widely, well, and much,The secret holds of the true master touch.
One time in Arcadie's fair bowersThere met a bright immortal band,To choose their emblems from the flowersThat made an Eden of that land.Sweet Constancy, with eyes of hope,Strayed down the garden path aloneAnd gathered sprays of heliotrope,To place in clusters at her zone.True Friendship plucked the ivy green,Forever fresh, forever fair.Inconstancy with flippant mienThe fading primrose chose to wear.One moment Love the rose paused by;But Beauty picked it for her hair.Love paced the garden with a sighHe found no fitting emblem there.Then suddenly he saw a flame,A conflagration turned to bloom;It even put the rose to shame,Both in its beauty and perfume.He watched it, and it did not fade;He plucked it, and it brighter grew.In cold or heat, all undismayed,It kept its fragrance and its hue."Here deathless love and passion sleep,"He cried, "embodied in this flower.This is the emblem I will keep."Love wore carnations from that hour.
One time in Arcadie's fair bowersThere met a bright immortal band,To choose their emblems from the flowersThat made an Eden of that land.Sweet Constancy, with eyes of hope,Strayed down the garden path aloneAnd gathered sprays of heliotrope,To place in clusters at her zone.True Friendship plucked the ivy green,Forever fresh, forever fair.Inconstancy with flippant mienThe fading primrose chose to wear.One moment Love the rose paused by;But Beauty picked it for her hair.Love paced the garden with a sighHe found no fitting emblem there.Then suddenly he saw a flame,A conflagration turned to bloom;It even put the rose to shame,Both in its beauty and perfume.He watched it, and it did not fade;He plucked it, and it brighter grew.In cold or heat, all undismayed,It kept its fragrance and its hue."Here deathless love and passion sleep,"He cried, "embodied in this flower.This is the emblem I will keep."Love wore carnations from that hour.
One time in Arcadie's fair bowersThere met a bright immortal band,To choose their emblems from the flowersThat made an Eden of that land.
Sweet Constancy, with eyes of hope,Strayed down the garden path aloneAnd gathered sprays of heliotrope,To place in clusters at her zone.
True Friendship plucked the ivy green,Forever fresh, forever fair.Inconstancy with flippant mienThe fading primrose chose to wear.
One moment Love the rose paused by;But Beauty picked it for her hair.Love paced the garden with a sighHe found no fitting emblem there.
Then suddenly he saw a flame,A conflagration turned to bloom;It even put the rose to shame,Both in its beauty and perfume.
He watched it, and it did not fade;He plucked it, and it brighter grew.In cold or heat, all undismayed,It kept its fragrance and its hue.
"Here deathless love and passion sleep,"He cried, "embodied in this flower.This is the emblem I will keep."Love wore carnations from that hour.
Life is too short for any vain regretting;Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,And let us go upon our way forgettingThe joys and sorrows of each yesterdayBetween the swift sun's rising and its settingWe have no time for useless tears or fretting:Life is too short.Life is too short for any bitter feeling;Time is the best avenger if we wait;The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing;We have no room for anything like hate.This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealingThat thick and fast about our feet are stealing:Life is too short.Life is too short for aught but high endeavor—Too short for spite, but long enough for love.And love lives on forever and forever;It links the worlds that circle on above:'Tis God's first law, the universe's lever.In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never"Life is too short."
Life is too short for any vain regretting;Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,And let us go upon our way forgettingThe joys and sorrows of each yesterdayBetween the swift sun's rising and its settingWe have no time for useless tears or fretting:Life is too short.Life is too short for any bitter feeling;Time is the best avenger if we wait;The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing;We have no room for anything like hate.This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealingThat thick and fast about our feet are stealing:Life is too short.Life is too short for aught but high endeavor—Too short for spite, but long enough for love.And love lives on forever and forever;It links the worlds that circle on above:'Tis God's first law, the universe's lever.In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never"Life is too short."
Life is too short for any vain regretting;Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,And let us go upon our way forgettingThe joys and sorrows of each yesterdayBetween the swift sun's rising and its settingWe have no time for useless tears or fretting:Life is too short.
Life is too short for any bitter feeling;Time is the best avenger if we wait;The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing;We have no room for anything like hate.This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealingThat thick and fast about our feet are stealing:Life is too short.
Life is too short for aught but high endeavor—Too short for spite, but long enough for love.And love lives on forever and forever;It links the worlds that circle on above:'Tis God's first law, the universe's lever.In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never"Life is too short."
As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, liftsChisel and hammer to the block at hand,Before my half-formed character I standAnd ply the shining tools of mental gifts.I'll cut away a huge, unsightly sideOf selfishness, and smooth to curves of graceThe angles of ill-temper.And no traceShall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,And the sharp corners of my discontentBe rounded into symmetry, and lentGreat harmony by faith that never tires.Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, "'Tis done."
As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, liftsChisel and hammer to the block at hand,Before my half-formed character I standAnd ply the shining tools of mental gifts.I'll cut away a huge, unsightly sideOf selfishness, and smooth to curves of graceThe angles of ill-temper.And no traceShall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,And the sharp corners of my discontentBe rounded into symmetry, and lentGreat harmony by faith that never tires.Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, "'Tis done."
As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, liftsChisel and hammer to the block at hand,Before my half-formed character I standAnd ply the shining tools of mental gifts.I'll cut away a huge, unsightly sideOf selfishness, and smooth to curves of graceThe angles of ill-temper.
And no traceShall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,And the sharp corners of my discontentBe rounded into symmetry, and lentGreat harmony by faith that never tires.Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, "'Tis done."
It seemeth such a little way to meAcross to that strange country—the Beyond;And yet, not strange, for it has grown to beThe home of those of whom I am so fond,They make it seem familiar and most dear,As journeying friends bring distant regions near.So close it lies that when my sight is clearI think I almost see the gleaming strand.I know I feel those who have gone from hereCome near enough sometimes to touch my hand.I often think, but for our veiled eyes,We should find Heaven right round about us lies.I cannot make it seem a day to dread,When from this dear earth I shall journey outTo that still dearer country of the dead,And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.I love this world, yet shall I love to goAnd meet the friends who wait for me, I know.I never stand above a bier and seeThe seal of death set on some well-loved faceBut that I think, "One more to welcome meWhen I shall cross the intervening spaceBetween this land and that one 'over there';One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair."And so for me there is no sting to death,And so the grave has lost its victory.It is but crossing—with a bated breathAnd white, set face—a little strip of seaTo find the loved ones waiting on the shore,More beautiful, more precious than before.
It seemeth such a little way to meAcross to that strange country—the Beyond;And yet, not strange, for it has grown to beThe home of those of whom I am so fond,They make it seem familiar and most dear,As journeying friends bring distant regions near.So close it lies that when my sight is clearI think I almost see the gleaming strand.I know I feel those who have gone from hereCome near enough sometimes to touch my hand.I often think, but for our veiled eyes,We should find Heaven right round about us lies.I cannot make it seem a day to dread,When from this dear earth I shall journey outTo that still dearer country of the dead,And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.I love this world, yet shall I love to goAnd meet the friends who wait for me, I know.I never stand above a bier and seeThe seal of death set on some well-loved faceBut that I think, "One more to welcome meWhen I shall cross the intervening spaceBetween this land and that one 'over there';One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair."And so for me there is no sting to death,And so the grave has lost its victory.It is but crossing—with a bated breathAnd white, set face—a little strip of seaTo find the loved ones waiting on the shore,More beautiful, more precious than before.
It seemeth such a little way to meAcross to that strange country—the Beyond;And yet, not strange, for it has grown to beThe home of those of whom I am so fond,They make it seem familiar and most dear,As journeying friends bring distant regions near.
So close it lies that when my sight is clearI think I almost see the gleaming strand.I know I feel those who have gone from hereCome near enough sometimes to touch my hand.I often think, but for our veiled eyes,We should find Heaven right round about us lies.
I cannot make it seem a day to dread,When from this dear earth I shall journey outTo that still dearer country of the dead,And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.I love this world, yet shall I love to goAnd meet the friends who wait for me, I know.
I never stand above a bier and seeThe seal of death set on some well-loved faceBut that I think, "One more to welcome meWhen I shall cross the intervening spaceBetween this land and that one 'over there';One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair."
And so for me there is no sting to death,And so the grave has lost its victory.It is but crossing—with a bated breathAnd white, set face—a little strip of seaTo find the loved ones waiting on the shore,More beautiful, more precious than before.
The saddest hour of anguish and of lossIs not that season of supreme despairWhen we can find no least light anywhereTo gild the dread, black shadow of the Cross;Not in that luxury of sorrow whenWe sup on salt of tears, and drink the gallOf memories of days beyond recall—Of lost delights that cannot come again.But when, with eyes that are no longer wet,We look out on the great, wide world of men,And, smiling, lean toward a bright to-morrow,Then backward shrink, with sudden keen regret,To find that we are learning to forget:Ah! then we face the saddest hour of sorrow.
The saddest hour of anguish and of lossIs not that season of supreme despairWhen we can find no least light anywhereTo gild the dread, black shadow of the Cross;Not in that luxury of sorrow whenWe sup on salt of tears, and drink the gallOf memories of days beyond recall—Of lost delights that cannot come again.But when, with eyes that are no longer wet,We look out on the great, wide world of men,And, smiling, lean toward a bright to-morrow,Then backward shrink, with sudden keen regret,To find that we are learning to forget:Ah! then we face the saddest hour of sorrow.
The saddest hour of anguish and of lossIs not that season of supreme despairWhen we can find no least light anywhereTo gild the dread, black shadow of the Cross;Not in that luxury of sorrow whenWe sup on salt of tears, and drink the gallOf memories of days beyond recall—Of lost delights that cannot come again.
But when, with eyes that are no longer wet,We look out on the great, wide world of men,And, smiling, lean toward a bright to-morrow,Then backward shrink, with sudden keen regret,To find that we are learning to forget:Ah! then we face the saddest hour of sorrow.
ACROSS THE SEA OF SILENCE
Show me the way that leads to the true life.I do not care what tempests may assail me,I shall be given courage for the strife;I know my strength will not desert or fail me;I know that I shall conquer in the fray:Show me the way.Show me the way up to a higher plane,Where body shall be servant to the soul.I do not care what tides of woe or painAcross my life their angry waves may roll,If I but reach the end I seek, some day:Show me the way.Show me the way, and let me bravely climbAbove vain grievings for unworthy treasures;Above all sorrow that finds balm in time;Above small triumphs or belittling pleasures;Up to those heights where these things seem child's-play:Show me the way.Show me the way to that calm, perfect peaceWhich springs from an inward consciousness of right;To where all conflicts with the flesh shall cease,And self shall radiate with the spirit's light.Though hard the journey and the strife, I pray,Show me the way.
Show me the way that leads to the true life.I do not care what tempests may assail me,I shall be given courage for the strife;I know my strength will not desert or fail me;I know that I shall conquer in the fray:Show me the way.Show me the way up to a higher plane,Where body shall be servant to the soul.I do not care what tides of woe or painAcross my life their angry waves may roll,If I but reach the end I seek, some day:Show me the way.Show me the way, and let me bravely climbAbove vain grievings for unworthy treasures;Above all sorrow that finds balm in time;Above small triumphs or belittling pleasures;Up to those heights where these things seem child's-play:Show me the way.Show me the way to that calm, perfect peaceWhich springs from an inward consciousness of right;To where all conflicts with the flesh shall cease,And self shall radiate with the spirit's light.Though hard the journey and the strife, I pray,Show me the way.
Show me the way that leads to the true life.I do not care what tempests may assail me,I shall be given courage for the strife;I know my strength will not desert or fail me;I know that I shall conquer in the fray:Show me the way.
Show me the way up to a higher plane,Where body shall be servant to the soul.I do not care what tides of woe or painAcross my life their angry waves may roll,If I but reach the end I seek, some day:Show me the way.
Show me the way, and let me bravely climbAbove vain grievings for unworthy treasures;Above all sorrow that finds balm in time;Above small triumphs or belittling pleasures;Up to those heights where these things seem child's-play:Show me the way.
Show me the way to that calm, perfect peaceWhich springs from an inward consciousness of right;To where all conflicts with the flesh shall cease,And self shall radiate with the spirit's light.Though hard the journey and the strife, I pray,Show me the way.
I into life so full of love was sentThat all the shadows which fall on the wayOf every human being could not stay,But fled before the light my spirit lent.I saw the world through gold and crimson dyes:Men sighed and said, "Those rosy hues will fadeAs you pass on into the glare and shade!"Still beautiful the way seems to mine eyes.They said, "You are too jubilant and glad;The world is full of sorrow and of wrong.Full soon your lips shall breathe forth sighs—not song."The day wears on, and yet I am not sad.They said, "You love too largely, and you must,Through wound on wound, grow bitter to your kind."They were false prophets; day by day I findMore cause for love, and less cause for distrust.They said, "Too free you give your soul's rare wine;The world will quaff, but it will not repay."Yet in the emptied flagons, day by day,True hearts pour back a nectar as divine.Thy heritage! Is it not love's estate?Look to it, then, and keep its soil well tilled.I hold that my best wishes are fulfilledBecause I love so much, and cannot hate.
I into life so full of love was sentThat all the shadows which fall on the wayOf every human being could not stay,But fled before the light my spirit lent.I saw the world through gold and crimson dyes:Men sighed and said, "Those rosy hues will fadeAs you pass on into the glare and shade!"Still beautiful the way seems to mine eyes.They said, "You are too jubilant and glad;The world is full of sorrow and of wrong.Full soon your lips shall breathe forth sighs—not song."The day wears on, and yet I am not sad.They said, "You love too largely, and you must,Through wound on wound, grow bitter to your kind."They were false prophets; day by day I findMore cause for love, and less cause for distrust.They said, "Too free you give your soul's rare wine;The world will quaff, but it will not repay."Yet in the emptied flagons, day by day,True hearts pour back a nectar as divine.Thy heritage! Is it not love's estate?Look to it, then, and keep its soil well tilled.I hold that my best wishes are fulfilledBecause I love so much, and cannot hate.
I into life so full of love was sentThat all the shadows which fall on the wayOf every human being could not stay,But fled before the light my spirit lent.
I saw the world through gold and crimson dyes:Men sighed and said, "Those rosy hues will fadeAs you pass on into the glare and shade!"Still beautiful the way seems to mine eyes.
They said, "You are too jubilant and glad;The world is full of sorrow and of wrong.Full soon your lips shall breathe forth sighs—not song."The day wears on, and yet I am not sad.
They said, "You love too largely, and you must,Through wound on wound, grow bitter to your kind."They were false prophets; day by day I findMore cause for love, and less cause for distrust.
They said, "Too free you give your soul's rare wine;The world will quaff, but it will not repay."Yet in the emptied flagons, day by day,True hearts pour back a nectar as divine.
Thy heritage! Is it not love's estate?Look to it, then, and keep its soil well tilled.I hold that my best wishes are fulfilledBecause I love so much, and cannot hate.
Build on resolve, and not upon regret,The structure of thy future. Do not gropeAmong the shadows of old sins, but letThine own soul's light shine on the path of hopeAnd dissipate the darkness. Waste no tearsUpon the blotted record of lost years,But turn the leaf and smile, oh, smile, to seeThe fair white pages that remain for thee.Prate not of thy repentance. But believeThe spark divine dwells in thee: let it grow.That which the upreaching spirit can achieveThe grand and all-creative forces know;They will assist and strengthen as the lightLifts up the acorn to the oak tree's height.Thou hast but to resolve, and lo! God's wholeGreat universe shall fortify thy soul.
Build on resolve, and not upon regret,The structure of thy future. Do not gropeAmong the shadows of old sins, but letThine own soul's light shine on the path of hopeAnd dissipate the darkness. Waste no tearsUpon the blotted record of lost years,But turn the leaf and smile, oh, smile, to seeThe fair white pages that remain for thee.Prate not of thy repentance. But believeThe spark divine dwells in thee: let it grow.That which the upreaching spirit can achieveThe grand and all-creative forces know;They will assist and strengthen as the lightLifts up the acorn to the oak tree's height.Thou hast but to resolve, and lo! God's wholeGreat universe shall fortify thy soul.
Build on resolve, and not upon regret,The structure of thy future. Do not gropeAmong the shadows of old sins, but letThine own soul's light shine on the path of hopeAnd dissipate the darkness. Waste no tearsUpon the blotted record of lost years,But turn the leaf and smile, oh, smile, to seeThe fair white pages that remain for thee.
Prate not of thy repentance. But believeThe spark divine dwells in thee: let it grow.That which the upreaching spirit can achieveThe grand and all-creative forces know;They will assist and strengthen as the lightLifts up the acorn to the oak tree's height.Thou hast but to resolve, and lo! God's wholeGreat universe shall fortify thy soul.
I, at Eleusis, saw the finest sight,When early morning's banners were unfurled.From high Olympus, gazing on the world,The ancient gods once saw it with delight.Sad Demeter had in a single nightRemoved her sombre garments! and mine eyesBeheld a 'broidered mantle in pale dyesThrown o'er her throbbing bosom. Sweet and clearThere fell the sound of music on mine ear.And from the South came Hermes, he whose lyreOne time appeased the great Apollo's ire.The rescued maid, Persephone, by the handHe led to waiting Demeter, and cheerAnd light and beauty once more blessed the land.
I, at Eleusis, saw the finest sight,When early morning's banners were unfurled.From high Olympus, gazing on the world,The ancient gods once saw it with delight.Sad Demeter had in a single nightRemoved her sombre garments! and mine eyesBeheld a 'broidered mantle in pale dyesThrown o'er her throbbing bosom. Sweet and clearThere fell the sound of music on mine ear.And from the South came Hermes, he whose lyreOne time appeased the great Apollo's ire.The rescued maid, Persephone, by the handHe led to waiting Demeter, and cheerAnd light and beauty once more blessed the land.
I, at Eleusis, saw the finest sight,When early morning's banners were unfurled.From high Olympus, gazing on the world,The ancient gods once saw it with delight.Sad Demeter had in a single nightRemoved her sombre garments! and mine eyesBeheld a 'broidered mantle in pale dyesThrown o'er her throbbing bosom. Sweet and clearThere fell the sound of music on mine ear.And from the South came Hermes, he whose lyreOne time appeased the great Apollo's ire.The rescued maid, Persephone, by the handHe led to waiting Demeter, and cheerAnd light and beauty once more blessed the land.
There is a courage, a majestic thingThat springs forth from the brow of pain, full-grown,Minerva-like, and dares all dangers known,And all the threatening future yet may bring;Crowned with the helmet of great suffering;Serene with that grand strength by martyrs shown,When at the stake they die and make no moan,And even as the flames leap up are heard to sing:A courage so sublime and unafraid,It wears its sorrows like a coat of mail;And Fate, the archer, passes by dismayed,Knowing his best barbed arrows needs must failTo pierce a soul so armored and arrayedThat Death himself might look on it and quail.
There is a courage, a majestic thingThat springs forth from the brow of pain, full-grown,Minerva-like, and dares all dangers known,And all the threatening future yet may bring;Crowned with the helmet of great suffering;Serene with that grand strength by martyrs shown,When at the stake they die and make no moan,And even as the flames leap up are heard to sing:A courage so sublime and unafraid,It wears its sorrows like a coat of mail;And Fate, the archer, passes by dismayed,Knowing his best barbed arrows needs must failTo pierce a soul so armored and arrayedThat Death himself might look on it and quail.
There is a courage, a majestic thingThat springs forth from the brow of pain, full-grown,Minerva-like, and dares all dangers known,And all the threatening future yet may bring;Crowned with the helmet of great suffering;Serene with that grand strength by martyrs shown,When at the stake they die and make no moan,And even as the flames leap up are heard to sing:
A courage so sublime and unafraid,It wears its sorrows like a coat of mail;And Fate, the archer, passes by dismayed,Knowing his best barbed arrows needs must failTo pierce a soul so armored and arrayedThat Death himself might look on it and quail.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;Weep, and you weep alone;For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,But has trouble enough of its own.Sing, and the hills will answer;Sigh, it is lost on the air;The echoes bound to a joyful sound,But shrink from voicing care.Rejoice, and men will seek you;Grieve, and they turn and go;They want full measure of all your pleasure,But they do not need your woe.Be glad, and your friends are many;Be sad, and you lose them all;There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,But alone you must drink life's gall.Feast, and your halls are crowded;Fast, and the world goes by.Succeed and give, and it helps you live,But no man can help you die.There is room in the halls of pleasureFor a large and lordly train,But one by one we must all file onThrough the narrow aisles of pain.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;Weep, and you weep alone;For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,But has trouble enough of its own.Sing, and the hills will answer;Sigh, it is lost on the air;The echoes bound to a joyful sound,But shrink from voicing care.Rejoice, and men will seek you;Grieve, and they turn and go;They want full measure of all your pleasure,But they do not need your woe.Be glad, and your friends are many;Be sad, and you lose them all;There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,But alone you must drink life's gall.Feast, and your halls are crowded;Fast, and the world goes by.Succeed and give, and it helps you live,But no man can help you die.There is room in the halls of pleasureFor a large and lordly train,But one by one we must all file onThrough the narrow aisles of pain.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;Weep, and you weep alone;For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,But has trouble enough of its own.Sing, and the hills will answer;Sigh, it is lost on the air;The echoes bound to a joyful sound,But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;Grieve, and they turn and go;They want full measure of all your pleasure,But they do not need your woe.Be glad, and your friends are many;Be sad, and you lose them all;There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,But alone you must drink life's gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;Fast, and the world goes by.Succeed and give, and it helps you live,But no man can help you die.There is room in the halls of pleasureFor a large and lordly train,But one by one we must all file onThrough the narrow aisles of pain.
The year outgrows the spring it thought so sweet,And clasps the summer with a new delight,Yet wearied, leaves her languors and her heatWhen cool-browed autumn dawns upon his sight.The tree outgrows the bud's suggestive grace,And feels new pride in blossoms fully blown.But even this to deeper joy gives placeWhen bending boughs 'neath blushing burdens groan.Life's rarest moments are derived from change.The heart outgrows old happiness, old grief,And suns itself in feelings new and strange;The most enduring pleasure is but brief.Our tastes, our needs, are never twice the same.Nothing contents us long, however dear.The spirit in us, like the grosser frame,Outgrows the garments which it wore last year.Change is the watchword of Progression. WhenWe tire of well-worn ways we seek for new.This restless craving in the souls of menSpurs them to climb, and seek the mountain view.So let who will erect an altar shrineTo meek-browed Constancy, and sing her praise.Unto enlivening Change I shall build mine,Who lends new zest and interest to my days.
The year outgrows the spring it thought so sweet,And clasps the summer with a new delight,Yet wearied, leaves her languors and her heatWhen cool-browed autumn dawns upon his sight.The tree outgrows the bud's suggestive grace,And feels new pride in blossoms fully blown.But even this to deeper joy gives placeWhen bending boughs 'neath blushing burdens groan.Life's rarest moments are derived from change.The heart outgrows old happiness, old grief,And suns itself in feelings new and strange;The most enduring pleasure is but brief.Our tastes, our needs, are never twice the same.Nothing contents us long, however dear.The spirit in us, like the grosser frame,Outgrows the garments which it wore last year.Change is the watchword of Progression. WhenWe tire of well-worn ways we seek for new.This restless craving in the souls of menSpurs them to climb, and seek the mountain view.So let who will erect an altar shrineTo meek-browed Constancy, and sing her praise.Unto enlivening Change I shall build mine,Who lends new zest and interest to my days.
The year outgrows the spring it thought so sweet,And clasps the summer with a new delight,Yet wearied, leaves her languors and her heatWhen cool-browed autumn dawns upon his sight.
The tree outgrows the bud's suggestive grace,And feels new pride in blossoms fully blown.But even this to deeper joy gives placeWhen bending boughs 'neath blushing burdens groan.
Life's rarest moments are derived from change.The heart outgrows old happiness, old grief,And suns itself in feelings new and strange;The most enduring pleasure is but brief.
Our tastes, our needs, are never twice the same.Nothing contents us long, however dear.The spirit in us, like the grosser frame,Outgrows the garments which it wore last year.
Change is the watchword of Progression. WhenWe tire of well-worn ways we seek for new.This restless craving in the souls of menSpurs them to climb, and seek the mountain view.
So let who will erect an altar shrineTo meek-browed Constancy, and sing her praise.Unto enlivening Change I shall build mine,Who lends new zest and interest to my days.
...AND LIGHT AND BEAUTY BLESSED THE LAND
Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,Your head like the golden-rod,And we will go sailing away from hereTo the beautiful Land of Nod.Away from life's hurry and flurry and worry,Away from earth's shadows and gloom,To a world of fair weather we'll float off together,Where roses are always in bloom.Just shut your eyes and fold your hands,Your hands like the leaves of a rose,And we will go sailing to those fair landsThat never an atlas shows.On the North and the West they are bounded by rest,On the South and the East, by dreams;'Tis the country ideal, where nothing is real,But everything only seems.Just drop down the curtains of your dear eyesThose eyes like a bright bluebell,And we will sail out under starlit skies,To the land where the fairies dwell.Down the river of sleep our barque shall sweep,Till it reaches that mystical IsleWhich no man hath seen, but where all have been,And there we will pause awhile.I will croon you a song as we float alongTo that shore that is blessed of God,Then, ho! for that fair land, we're off for that rare land,That beautiful Land of Nod.
Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,Your head like the golden-rod,And we will go sailing away from hereTo the beautiful Land of Nod.Away from life's hurry and flurry and worry,Away from earth's shadows and gloom,To a world of fair weather we'll float off together,Where roses are always in bloom.Just shut your eyes and fold your hands,Your hands like the leaves of a rose,And we will go sailing to those fair landsThat never an atlas shows.On the North and the West they are bounded by rest,On the South and the East, by dreams;'Tis the country ideal, where nothing is real,But everything only seems.Just drop down the curtains of your dear eyesThose eyes like a bright bluebell,And we will sail out under starlit skies,To the land where the fairies dwell.Down the river of sleep our barque shall sweep,Till it reaches that mystical IsleWhich no man hath seen, but where all have been,And there we will pause awhile.I will croon you a song as we float alongTo that shore that is blessed of God,Then, ho! for that fair land, we're off for that rare land,That beautiful Land of Nod.
Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,Your head like the golden-rod,And we will go sailing away from hereTo the beautiful Land of Nod.Away from life's hurry and flurry and worry,Away from earth's shadows and gloom,To a world of fair weather we'll float off together,Where roses are always in bloom.
Just shut your eyes and fold your hands,Your hands like the leaves of a rose,And we will go sailing to those fair landsThat never an atlas shows.On the North and the West they are bounded by rest,On the South and the East, by dreams;'Tis the country ideal, where nothing is real,But everything only seems.
Just drop down the curtains of your dear eyesThose eyes like a bright bluebell,And we will sail out under starlit skies,To the land where the fairies dwell.
Down the river of sleep our barque shall sweep,Till it reaches that mystical IsleWhich no man hath seen, but where all have been,And there we will pause awhile.I will croon you a song as we float alongTo that shore that is blessed of God,Then, ho! for that fair land, we're off for that rare land,That beautiful Land of Nod.
In the still jungle of the senses layA tiger soundly sleeping, till one dayA bold young hunter chanced to come that way."How calm," he said, "that splendid creature lies!I long to rouse him into swift surprise."The well aimed arrow shot from amorous eyes,And lo! the tiger rouses up and turns,A coal of fire his glowing eyeball burns,His mighty frame with savage hunger yearns.He crouches for a spring; his eyes dilate—Alas! bold hunter, what shall be thy fate?Thou canst not fly; it is too late, too late.Once having tasted human flesh, ah! then,Woe, woe unto the whole rash world of men.The wakened tiger will not sleep again.
In the still jungle of the senses layA tiger soundly sleeping, till one dayA bold young hunter chanced to come that way."How calm," he said, "that splendid creature lies!I long to rouse him into swift surprise."The well aimed arrow shot from amorous eyes,And lo! the tiger rouses up and turns,A coal of fire his glowing eyeball burns,His mighty frame with savage hunger yearns.He crouches for a spring; his eyes dilate—Alas! bold hunter, what shall be thy fate?Thou canst not fly; it is too late, too late.Once having tasted human flesh, ah! then,Woe, woe unto the whole rash world of men.The wakened tiger will not sleep again.
In the still jungle of the senses layA tiger soundly sleeping, till one dayA bold young hunter chanced to come that way.
"How calm," he said, "that splendid creature lies!I long to rouse him into swift surprise."The well aimed arrow shot from amorous eyes,
And lo! the tiger rouses up and turns,A coal of fire his glowing eyeball burns,His mighty frame with savage hunger yearns.
He crouches for a spring; his eyes dilate—Alas! bold hunter, what shall be thy fate?Thou canst not fly; it is too late, too late.
Once having tasted human flesh, ah! then,Woe, woe unto the whole rash world of men.The wakened tiger will not sleep again.
Only a simple rhyme of love and sorrow,Where "blisses" rhymed with "kisses," "heart," with "dart:"Yet, reading it, new strength I seemed to borrow,To live on bravely and to do my part.A little rhyme about a heart that's bleeding—Of lonely hours and sorrow's unrelief:I smiled at first; but there came with the readingA sense of sweet companionship in grief.The selfishness of my own woe forsaking,I thought about the singer of that song.Some other breast felt this same weary aching;Another found the summer days too long.The few sad lines, my sorrow so expressing,I read, and on the singer, all unknown,I breathed a fervent though a silent blessing,And seemed to clasp his hand within my own.And though fame pass him and he never know it,And though he never sings another strain,He has performed the mission of the poet,In helping some sad heart to bear its pain.
Only a simple rhyme of love and sorrow,Where "blisses" rhymed with "kisses," "heart," with "dart:"Yet, reading it, new strength I seemed to borrow,To live on bravely and to do my part.A little rhyme about a heart that's bleeding—Of lonely hours and sorrow's unrelief:I smiled at first; but there came with the readingA sense of sweet companionship in grief.The selfishness of my own woe forsaking,I thought about the singer of that song.Some other breast felt this same weary aching;Another found the summer days too long.The few sad lines, my sorrow so expressing,I read, and on the singer, all unknown,I breathed a fervent though a silent blessing,And seemed to clasp his hand within my own.And though fame pass him and he never know it,And though he never sings another strain,He has performed the mission of the poet,In helping some sad heart to bear its pain.
Only a simple rhyme of love and sorrow,Where "blisses" rhymed with "kisses," "heart," with "dart:"Yet, reading it, new strength I seemed to borrow,To live on bravely and to do my part.
A little rhyme about a heart that's bleeding—Of lonely hours and sorrow's unrelief:I smiled at first; but there came with the readingA sense of sweet companionship in grief.
The selfishness of my own woe forsaking,I thought about the singer of that song.Some other breast felt this same weary aching;Another found the summer days too long.
The few sad lines, my sorrow so expressing,I read, and on the singer, all unknown,I breathed a fervent though a silent blessing,And seemed to clasp his hand within my own.
And though fame pass him and he never know it,And though he never sings another strain,He has performed the mission of the poet,In helping some sad heart to bear its pain.
I may not reach the heights I seek,My untried strength may fail me,Or, half-way up the mountain peak,Fierce tempests may assail me.But though that place I never gain,Herein lies comfort for my pain—I will be worthy of it.I may not triumph in success,Despite my earnest labor;I may not grasp results that blessThe efforts of my neighbor;But though my goal I never see,This thought shall always dwell with me—I will be worthy of it.The golden glory of Love's lightMay never fall on my way;My path may always lead through night,Like some deserted by-way;But though life's dearest joy I missThere lies a nameless strength in this—I will be worthy of it.
I may not reach the heights I seek,My untried strength may fail me,Or, half-way up the mountain peak,Fierce tempests may assail me.But though that place I never gain,Herein lies comfort for my pain—I will be worthy of it.I may not triumph in success,Despite my earnest labor;I may not grasp results that blessThe efforts of my neighbor;But though my goal I never see,This thought shall always dwell with me—I will be worthy of it.The golden glory of Love's lightMay never fall on my way;My path may always lead through night,Like some deserted by-way;But though life's dearest joy I missThere lies a nameless strength in this—I will be worthy of it.
I may not reach the heights I seek,My untried strength may fail me,Or, half-way up the mountain peak,Fierce tempests may assail me.But though that place I never gain,Herein lies comfort for my pain—I will be worthy of it.
I may not triumph in success,Despite my earnest labor;I may not grasp results that blessThe efforts of my neighbor;But though my goal I never see,This thought shall always dwell with me—I will be worthy of it.
The golden glory of Love's lightMay never fall on my way;My path may always lead through night,Like some deserted by-way;But though life's dearest joy I missThere lies a nameless strength in this—I will be worthy of it.
Methinks ofttimes my heart is like some beeThat goes forth through the summer day and sings.And gathers honey from all growing thingsIn garden plot or on the clover lea.When the long afternoon grows late, and sheWould seek her hive, she cannot lift her wings.So heavily the too sweet bin den clings,From which she would not, and yet would, fly free.So with my full, fond heart; for when it triesTo lift itself to peace crowned heights, aboveThe common way where countless feet have trod,Lo! then, this burden of dear human ties,This growing weight of precious earthly love,Binds down the spirit that would soar to God.
Methinks ofttimes my heart is like some beeThat goes forth through the summer day and sings.And gathers honey from all growing thingsIn garden plot or on the clover lea.When the long afternoon grows late, and sheWould seek her hive, she cannot lift her wings.So heavily the too sweet bin den clings,From which she would not, and yet would, fly free.So with my full, fond heart; for when it triesTo lift itself to peace crowned heights, aboveThe common way where countless feet have trod,Lo! then, this burden of dear human ties,This growing weight of precious earthly love,Binds down the spirit that would soar to God.
Methinks ofttimes my heart is like some beeThat goes forth through the summer day and sings.And gathers honey from all growing thingsIn garden plot or on the clover lea.
When the long afternoon grows late, and sheWould seek her hive, she cannot lift her wings.So heavily the too sweet bin den clings,From which she would not, and yet would, fly free.
So with my full, fond heart; for when it triesTo lift itself to peace crowned heights, aboveThe common way where countless feet have trod,Lo! then, this burden of dear human ties,This growing weight of precious earthly love,Binds down the spirit that would soar to God.
There is a haunting phantom called Regret,A shadowy creature robed somewhat like Woe,But fairer in the face, whom all men knowBy her sad mien and eyes forever wet.No heart would seek her; but once having met,All take her by the hand, and to and froThey wander through those paths of long ago—Those hallowed ways 'twere wiser to forget.One day she led me to that lost land's gateAnd bade me enter; but I answered "No!I will pass on with my bold comrade, Fate;I have no tears to waste on thee—no time;My strength I hoard for heights I hope to climb:No friend art thou for souls that would be great."
There is a haunting phantom called Regret,A shadowy creature robed somewhat like Woe,But fairer in the face, whom all men knowBy her sad mien and eyes forever wet.No heart would seek her; but once having met,All take her by the hand, and to and froThey wander through those paths of long ago—Those hallowed ways 'twere wiser to forget.One day she led me to that lost land's gateAnd bade me enter; but I answered "No!I will pass on with my bold comrade, Fate;I have no tears to waste on thee—no time;My strength I hoard for heights I hope to climb:No friend art thou for souls that would be great."
There is a haunting phantom called Regret,A shadowy creature robed somewhat like Woe,But fairer in the face, whom all men knowBy her sad mien and eyes forever wet.No heart would seek her; but once having met,All take her by the hand, and to and froThey wander through those paths of long ago—Those hallowed ways 'twere wiser to forget.
One day she led me to that lost land's gateAnd bade me enter; but I answered "No!I will pass on with my bold comrade, Fate;I have no tears to waste on thee—no time;My strength I hoard for heights I hope to climb:No friend art thou for souls that would be great."
...THE STRIFE THAT IS WEARYING ME
Let me lean hard upon the Eternal Breast:In all earth's devious ways I sought for restAnd found it not. I will be strong, said I,And lean upon myself. I will not cryAnd importune all heaven with my complaint.But now my strength fails, and I fall, I faint:Let me lean hard.Let me lean hard upon the unfailing Arm.I said I will walk on, I fear no harm,The spark divine within my soul will showThe upward pathway where my feet should go.But now the heights to which I most aspireAre lost in clouds. I stumble and I tire:Let me lean hard.Let me lean harder yet. That swerveless forceWhich speeds the solar systems on their courseCan take, unfelt, the burden of my woe,Which bears me to the dust and hurts me so.I thought my strength enough for any fate,But lo! I sink beneath my sorrow's weight:Let me lean hard.
Let me lean hard upon the Eternal Breast:In all earth's devious ways I sought for restAnd found it not. I will be strong, said I,And lean upon myself. I will not cryAnd importune all heaven with my complaint.But now my strength fails, and I fall, I faint:Let me lean hard.Let me lean hard upon the unfailing Arm.I said I will walk on, I fear no harm,The spark divine within my soul will showThe upward pathway where my feet should go.But now the heights to which I most aspireAre lost in clouds. I stumble and I tire:Let me lean hard.Let me lean harder yet. That swerveless forceWhich speeds the solar systems on their courseCan take, unfelt, the burden of my woe,Which bears me to the dust and hurts me so.I thought my strength enough for any fate,But lo! I sink beneath my sorrow's weight:Let me lean hard.
Let me lean hard upon the Eternal Breast:In all earth's devious ways I sought for restAnd found it not. I will be strong, said I,And lean upon myself. I will not cryAnd importune all heaven with my complaint.But now my strength fails, and I fall, I faint:Let me lean hard.
Let me lean hard upon the unfailing Arm.I said I will walk on, I fear no harm,The spark divine within my soul will showThe upward pathway where my feet should go.But now the heights to which I most aspireAre lost in clouds. I stumble and I tire:Let me lean hard.
Let me lean harder yet. That swerveless forceWhich speeds the solar systems on their courseCan take, unfelt, the burden of my woe,Which bears me to the dust and hurts me so.I thought my strength enough for any fate,But lo! I sink beneath my sorrow's weight:Let me lean hard.
Because of the fullness of what I hadAll that I have seems void and vain.If I had not been happy I were not sad;Though my salt is savorless, why complain?From the ripe perfection of what was mine,All that is mine seems worse than naught;Yet I know as I sit in the dark and pine,No cup could be drained which had not been fraught.From the throb and thrill of a day that was,The day that now is seems dull with gloom;Yet I bear its dullness and darkness because'Tis but the reaction of glow and bloom.From the royal feast which of old was spreadI am starved on the diet which now is mine;Yet I could not turn hungry from water and bread,If I had not been sated on fruit and wine.
Because of the fullness of what I hadAll that I have seems void and vain.If I had not been happy I were not sad;Though my salt is savorless, why complain?From the ripe perfection of what was mine,All that is mine seems worse than naught;Yet I know as I sit in the dark and pine,No cup could be drained which had not been fraught.From the throb and thrill of a day that was,The day that now is seems dull with gloom;Yet I bear its dullness and darkness because'Tis but the reaction of glow and bloom.From the royal feast which of old was spreadI am starved on the diet which now is mine;Yet I could not turn hungry from water and bread,If I had not been sated on fruit and wine.
Because of the fullness of what I hadAll that I have seems void and vain.If I had not been happy I were not sad;Though my salt is savorless, why complain?
From the ripe perfection of what was mine,All that is mine seems worse than naught;Yet I know as I sit in the dark and pine,No cup could be drained which had not been fraught.
From the throb and thrill of a day that was,The day that now is seems dull with gloom;Yet I bear its dullness and darkness because'Tis but the reaction of glow and bloom.
From the royal feast which of old was spreadI am starved on the diet which now is mine;Yet I could not turn hungry from water and bread,If I had not been sated on fruit and wine.
I saw the day lean o'er the world's sharp edgeAnd peer into night's chasm, dark and damp;High in his hand he held a blazing lamp,Then dropped it and plunged headlong down the ledge.With lurid splendor that swift paled to gray,I saw the dim skies suddenly flush bright.'Twas but the expiring glory of the lightFlung from the hand of the adventurous day.
I saw the day lean o'er the world's sharp edgeAnd peer into night's chasm, dark and damp;High in his hand he held a blazing lamp,Then dropped it and plunged headlong down the ledge.With lurid splendor that swift paled to gray,I saw the dim skies suddenly flush bright.'Twas but the expiring glory of the lightFlung from the hand of the adventurous day.
I saw the day lean o'er the world's sharp edgeAnd peer into night's chasm, dark and damp;High in his hand he held a blazing lamp,Then dropped it and plunged headlong down the ledge.
With lurid splendor that swift paled to gray,I saw the dim skies suddenly flush bright.'Twas but the expiring glory of the lightFlung from the hand of the adventurous day.
Through rivers of veins on the nameless questThe tide of my life goes hurriedly sweeping,Till it reaches that curious wheel o' the breast,The human heart, which is never at rest.Faster, faster, it cries, and leaping,Plunging, dashing, speeding away,The wheel and the river work night and day.I know not wherefore, I know not whither,This strange tide rushes with such mad force:It glides on hither, it slides on thither,Over and over the selfsame course,With never an outlet and never a source;And it lashes itself to the heat of passionAnd whirls the heart in a mill-wheel fashion.I can hear in the hush of the still, still night,The ceaseless sound of that mighty river;I can hear it gushing, gurgling, rushing,With a wild, delirious, strange delight,And a conscious pride in its sense of might,As it hurries and worries my heart forever.And I wonder oft as I lie awake,And list to the river that seethes and surgesOver the wheel that it chides and urges—I wonder oft if that wheel will breakWith the mighty pressure it bears, some day,Or slowly and wearily wear away.For little by little the heart is wearing,Like the wheel of the mill, as the tide goes tearingAnd plunging hurriedly through my breast,In a network of veins on a nameless quest,From and forth, unto unknown oceans,Bringing its cargoes of fierce emotions,With never a pause or an hour for rest.
Through rivers of veins on the nameless questThe tide of my life goes hurriedly sweeping,Till it reaches that curious wheel o' the breast,The human heart, which is never at rest.Faster, faster, it cries, and leaping,Plunging, dashing, speeding away,The wheel and the river work night and day.I know not wherefore, I know not whither,This strange tide rushes with such mad force:It glides on hither, it slides on thither,Over and over the selfsame course,With never an outlet and never a source;And it lashes itself to the heat of passionAnd whirls the heart in a mill-wheel fashion.I can hear in the hush of the still, still night,The ceaseless sound of that mighty river;I can hear it gushing, gurgling, rushing,With a wild, delirious, strange delight,And a conscious pride in its sense of might,As it hurries and worries my heart forever.And I wonder oft as I lie awake,And list to the river that seethes and surgesOver the wheel that it chides and urges—I wonder oft if that wheel will breakWith the mighty pressure it bears, some day,Or slowly and wearily wear away.For little by little the heart is wearing,Like the wheel of the mill, as the tide goes tearingAnd plunging hurriedly through my breast,In a network of veins on a nameless quest,From and forth, unto unknown oceans,Bringing its cargoes of fierce emotions,With never a pause or an hour for rest.
Through rivers of veins on the nameless questThe tide of my life goes hurriedly sweeping,Till it reaches that curious wheel o' the breast,The human heart, which is never at rest.Faster, faster, it cries, and leaping,Plunging, dashing, speeding away,The wheel and the river work night and day.
I know not wherefore, I know not whither,This strange tide rushes with such mad force:It glides on hither, it slides on thither,Over and over the selfsame course,With never an outlet and never a source;And it lashes itself to the heat of passionAnd whirls the heart in a mill-wheel fashion.
I can hear in the hush of the still, still night,The ceaseless sound of that mighty river;I can hear it gushing, gurgling, rushing,With a wild, delirious, strange delight,And a conscious pride in its sense of might,As it hurries and worries my heart forever.
And I wonder oft as I lie awake,And list to the river that seethes and surgesOver the wheel that it chides and urges—I wonder oft if that wheel will breakWith the mighty pressure it bears, some day,Or slowly and wearily wear away.
For little by little the heart is wearing,Like the wheel of the mill, as the tide goes tearingAnd plunging hurriedly through my breast,In a network of veins on a nameless quest,From and forth, unto unknown oceans,Bringing its cargoes of fierce emotions,With never a pause or an hour for rest.
Quite carelessly I turned the newsy sheet;A song I sang, full many a year ago,Smiled up at me, as in a busy streetOne meets an old-time friend he used to know.So full it was, that simple little song,Of all the hope, the transport, and the truth,Which to the impetuous morn of life belong,That once again I seemed to grasp my youth.So full it was of that sweet, fancied painWe woo and cherish ere we meet with woe,I felt as one who hears a plaintive strainHis mother sang him in the long ago.Up from the grave the years that lay betweenThat song's birthday and my stern present cameLike phantom forms and swept across the scene,Bearing their broken dreams of love and fame.Fair hopes and bright ambitions that I knewIn that old time, with their ideal grace,Shone for a moment, then were lost to viewBehind the dull clouds of the commonplace.With trembling hands I put the sheet away;Ah, little song! the sad and bitter truthStruck like an arrow when we met that day!My life has missed the promise of its youth.
Quite carelessly I turned the newsy sheet;A song I sang, full many a year ago,Smiled up at me, as in a busy streetOne meets an old-time friend he used to know.So full it was, that simple little song,Of all the hope, the transport, and the truth,Which to the impetuous morn of life belong,That once again I seemed to grasp my youth.So full it was of that sweet, fancied painWe woo and cherish ere we meet with woe,I felt as one who hears a plaintive strainHis mother sang him in the long ago.Up from the grave the years that lay betweenThat song's birthday and my stern present cameLike phantom forms and swept across the scene,Bearing their broken dreams of love and fame.Fair hopes and bright ambitions that I knewIn that old time, with their ideal grace,Shone for a moment, then were lost to viewBehind the dull clouds of the commonplace.With trembling hands I put the sheet away;Ah, little song! the sad and bitter truthStruck like an arrow when we met that day!My life has missed the promise of its youth.
Quite carelessly I turned the newsy sheet;A song I sang, full many a year ago,Smiled up at me, as in a busy streetOne meets an old-time friend he used to know.
So full it was, that simple little song,Of all the hope, the transport, and the truth,Which to the impetuous morn of life belong,That once again I seemed to grasp my youth.
So full it was of that sweet, fancied painWe woo and cherish ere we meet with woe,I felt as one who hears a plaintive strainHis mother sang him in the long ago.
Up from the grave the years that lay betweenThat song's birthday and my stern present cameLike phantom forms and swept across the scene,Bearing their broken dreams of love and fame.
Fair hopes and bright ambitions that I knewIn that old time, with their ideal grace,Shone for a moment, then were lost to viewBehind the dull clouds of the commonplace.
With trembling hands I put the sheet away;Ah, little song! the sad and bitter truthStruck like an arrow when we met that day!My life has missed the promise of its youth.
The hurry of the times affects us soIn this swift rushing hour, we crowd and pressAnd thrust each other backward as we go,And do not pause to lay sufficient stressUpon that good, strong, true word, Earnestness.In our impetuous haste, could we but knowIts full, deep meaning, its vast import, oh,Then might we grasp the secret of success!In that receding age when men were great,The bone and sinew of their purpose layIn this one word. God likes an earnest soul—Too earnest to be eager. Soon or lateIt leaves the spent horde breathless by the way,And stands serene, triumphant at the goal.
The hurry of the times affects us soIn this swift rushing hour, we crowd and pressAnd thrust each other backward as we go,And do not pause to lay sufficient stressUpon that good, strong, true word, Earnestness.In our impetuous haste, could we but knowIts full, deep meaning, its vast import, oh,Then might we grasp the secret of success!In that receding age when men were great,The bone and sinew of their purpose layIn this one word. God likes an earnest soul—Too earnest to be eager. Soon or lateIt leaves the spent horde breathless by the way,And stands serene, triumphant at the goal.
The hurry of the times affects us soIn this swift rushing hour, we crowd and pressAnd thrust each other backward as we go,And do not pause to lay sufficient stressUpon that good, strong, true word, Earnestness.In our impetuous haste, could we but knowIts full, deep meaning, its vast import, oh,Then might we grasp the secret of success!In that receding age when men were great,The bone and sinew of their purpose layIn this one word. God likes an earnest soul—Too earnest to be eager. Soon or lateIt leaves the spent horde breathless by the way,And stands serene, triumphant at the goal.
I strolled last eve across the lonely down;One solitary picture struck my eye:A distant ploughboy stood against the sky—How far he seemed above the noisy town!Upon the bosom of a cloud the sodLaid its bruised cheek as he moved slowly by,And, watching him, I asked myself if IIn very truth stood half as near to God.
I strolled last eve across the lonely down;One solitary picture struck my eye:A distant ploughboy stood against the sky—How far he seemed above the noisy town!Upon the bosom of a cloud the sodLaid its bruised cheek as he moved slowly by,And, watching him, I asked myself if IIn very truth stood half as near to God.
I strolled last eve across the lonely down;One solitary picture struck my eye:A distant ploughboy stood against the sky—How far he seemed above the noisy town!
Upon the bosom of a cloud the sodLaid its bruised cheek as he moved slowly by,And, watching him, I asked myself if IIn very truth stood half as near to God.
He who possesses virtue at its best,Or greatness in the true sense of the word,Has one day started even with that herdWhose swift feet now speed but at sin's behest.It is the same force in the human breastWhich makes men gods or demons. If we girdThose strong emotions by which we are stirredWith might of will and purpose, heights unguessedShall dawn for us; or if we give them swayWe can sink down and consort with the lost.All virtue is worth just the price it cost.Black sin is oft white truth that missed its wayAnd wandered off in paths not understood.Twin-born I hold great evil and great good.
He who possesses virtue at its best,Or greatness in the true sense of the word,Has one day started even with that herdWhose swift feet now speed but at sin's behest.It is the same force in the human breastWhich makes men gods or demons. If we girdThose strong emotions by which we are stirredWith might of will and purpose, heights unguessedShall dawn for us; or if we give them swayWe can sink down and consort with the lost.All virtue is worth just the price it cost.Black sin is oft white truth that missed its wayAnd wandered off in paths not understood.Twin-born I hold great evil and great good.
He who possesses virtue at its best,Or greatness in the true sense of the word,Has one day started even with that herdWhose swift feet now speed but at sin's behest.It is the same force in the human breastWhich makes men gods or demons. If we girdThose strong emotions by which we are stirredWith might of will and purpose, heights unguessedShall dawn for us; or if we give them swayWe can sink down and consort with the lost.All virtue is worth just the price it cost.Black sin is oft white truth that missed its wayAnd wandered off in paths not understood.Twin-born I hold great evil and great good.
In the dark night, from sweet refreshing sleepI wake to hear outside my window-paneThe uncurbed fury of the wild spring rain,And weird winds lashing the defiant deep,And roar of floods that gather strength and leapDown dizzy, wreck-strewn channels to the main.I turn upon my pillow and againCompose myself for slumber.Let them sweep;I once survived great floods, and do not fear,Though ominous planets congregate, and seemTo foretell strange disasters.From a dream—Ah! dear God! such a dream!—I woke to hear,Through the dense shadows lit by no star's gleam,The rush of mighty waters on my ear.Helpless, afraid, and all alone, I lay;The floods had come upon me unaware.I heard the crash of structures that were fair;The bridges of fond hopes were swept awayBy great salt waves of sorrow. In dismayI saw by the red lightning's lurid glareThat on the rock-bound island of despairI had been cast. Till the dim dawn of dayI heard my castles falling, and the rollOf angry billows bearing to the seaThe broken timbers of my very soul.Were all the pent-up waters from the wholeStupendous solar system to break free,There are no floods that now can frighten me.
In the dark night, from sweet refreshing sleepI wake to hear outside my window-paneThe uncurbed fury of the wild spring rain,And weird winds lashing the defiant deep,And roar of floods that gather strength and leapDown dizzy, wreck-strewn channels to the main.I turn upon my pillow and againCompose myself for slumber.Let them sweep;I once survived great floods, and do not fear,Though ominous planets congregate, and seemTo foretell strange disasters.From a dream—Ah! dear God! such a dream!—I woke to hear,Through the dense shadows lit by no star's gleam,The rush of mighty waters on my ear.Helpless, afraid, and all alone, I lay;The floods had come upon me unaware.I heard the crash of structures that were fair;The bridges of fond hopes were swept awayBy great salt waves of sorrow. In dismayI saw by the red lightning's lurid glareThat on the rock-bound island of despairI had been cast. Till the dim dawn of dayI heard my castles falling, and the rollOf angry billows bearing to the seaThe broken timbers of my very soul.Were all the pent-up waters from the wholeStupendous solar system to break free,There are no floods that now can frighten me.
In the dark night, from sweet refreshing sleepI wake to hear outside my window-paneThe uncurbed fury of the wild spring rain,And weird winds lashing the defiant deep,And roar of floods that gather strength and leapDown dizzy, wreck-strewn channels to the main.I turn upon my pillow and againCompose myself for slumber.Let them sweep;I once survived great floods, and do not fear,Though ominous planets congregate, and seemTo foretell strange disasters.From a dream—Ah! dear God! such a dream!—I woke to hear,Through the dense shadows lit by no star's gleam,The rush of mighty waters on my ear.Helpless, afraid, and all alone, I lay;The floods had come upon me unaware.I heard the crash of structures that were fair;The bridges of fond hopes were swept awayBy great salt waves of sorrow. In dismayI saw by the red lightning's lurid glareThat on the rock-bound island of despairI had been cast. Till the dim dawn of dayI heard my castles falling, and the rollOf angry billows bearing to the seaThe broken timbers of my very soul.Were all the pent-up waters from the wholeStupendous solar system to break free,There are no floods that now can frighten me.
Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl,A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl,One day all meet togetherTo hold a caucus and settle the fateOf a certain bird (without a mate),A bird of another feather."My friends," said the Owl, with a look most wise,"The Eagle is soaring too near the skies,In a way that is quite improper;Yet the world is praising her, so I'm told,And I think her actions have grown so boldThat some of us ought to stop her.""I have heard it said," quoth Hawk, with a sigh,"That young lambs died at the glance of her eye,And I wholly scorn and despise her.This, and more, I am told they say,And I think that the only proper wayIs never to recognize her.""I am quite convinced," said Crow, with a caw,"That the Eagle minds no moral law,She's a most unruly creature.""She's an ugly thing," piped Canary Bird;"Some call her handsome—it's so absurd—She hasn't a decent feature."Then the old Marsh-Hen went hopping about,She said she was sure—shehadn't a doubt—Of the truth of each bird's story:And she thought it a duty to stop her flight,To pull her down from her lofty height,And take the gilt from her glory.But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grandThat looks out over the smiling landAnd over the mighty ocean,The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings—She rises, rises, and upward swings,With a slow, majestic motion.Up in the blue of God's own skies,With a cry of rapture, away she flies,Close to the Great Eternal:She sweeps the world with her piercing sight;Her soul is filled with the infiniteAnd the joy of things supernal.Thus rise forever the chosen of God,The genius-crowned or the power-shod,Over the dust-world sailing;And back, like splinters blown by the winds,Must fall the missiles of silly minds,Useless and unavailing.
Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl,A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl,One day all meet togetherTo hold a caucus and settle the fateOf a certain bird (without a mate),A bird of another feather."My friends," said the Owl, with a look most wise,"The Eagle is soaring too near the skies,In a way that is quite improper;Yet the world is praising her, so I'm told,And I think her actions have grown so boldThat some of us ought to stop her.""I have heard it said," quoth Hawk, with a sigh,"That young lambs died at the glance of her eye,And I wholly scorn and despise her.This, and more, I am told they say,And I think that the only proper wayIs never to recognize her.""I am quite convinced," said Crow, with a caw,"That the Eagle minds no moral law,She's a most unruly creature.""She's an ugly thing," piped Canary Bird;"Some call her handsome—it's so absurd—She hasn't a decent feature."Then the old Marsh-Hen went hopping about,She said she was sure—shehadn't a doubt—Of the truth of each bird's story:And she thought it a duty to stop her flight,To pull her down from her lofty height,And take the gilt from her glory.But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grandThat looks out over the smiling landAnd over the mighty ocean,The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings—She rises, rises, and upward swings,With a slow, majestic motion.Up in the blue of God's own skies,With a cry of rapture, away she flies,Close to the Great Eternal:She sweeps the world with her piercing sight;Her soul is filled with the infiniteAnd the joy of things supernal.Thus rise forever the chosen of God,The genius-crowned or the power-shod,Over the dust-world sailing;And back, like splinters blown by the winds,Must fall the missiles of silly minds,Useless and unavailing.
Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl,A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl,One day all meet togetherTo hold a caucus and settle the fateOf a certain bird (without a mate),A bird of another feather.
"My friends," said the Owl, with a look most wise,"The Eagle is soaring too near the skies,In a way that is quite improper;Yet the world is praising her, so I'm told,And I think her actions have grown so boldThat some of us ought to stop her."
"I have heard it said," quoth Hawk, with a sigh,"That young lambs died at the glance of her eye,And I wholly scorn and despise her.This, and more, I am told they say,And I think that the only proper wayIs never to recognize her."
"I am quite convinced," said Crow, with a caw,"That the Eagle minds no moral law,She's a most unruly creature.""She's an ugly thing," piped Canary Bird;"Some call her handsome—it's so absurd—She hasn't a decent feature."
Then the old Marsh-Hen went hopping about,She said she was sure—shehadn't a doubt—Of the truth of each bird's story:And she thought it a duty to stop her flight,To pull her down from her lofty height,And take the gilt from her glory.
But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grandThat looks out over the smiling landAnd over the mighty ocean,The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings—She rises, rises, and upward swings,With a slow, majestic motion.
Up in the blue of God's own skies,With a cry of rapture, away she flies,Close to the Great Eternal:She sweeps the world with her piercing sight;Her soul is filled with the infiniteAnd the joy of things supernal.
Thus rise forever the chosen of God,The genius-crowned or the power-shod,Over the dust-world sailing;And back, like splinters blown by the winds,Must fall the missiles of silly minds,Useless and unavailing.