HAVE you heard of the Valley of Babyland,The realm where the dear little darlings stay,Till the kind storks go, as all men know,And, oh, so tenderly bring them away?The paths are winding and past all finding,By all save the storks who understandThe gates and the highways and the intricate bywaysThat lead to Babyland.All over the Valley of BabylandSweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss;And under the ferns fair, and under the plants there,Lie little heads like spools of floss.With a soothing number the river of slumberFlows o’er a bedway of silver sand;And angels are keeping watch o’er the sleepingBabes of Babyland.The path to the Valley of BabylandOnly the kingly, kind storks know;If they fly over mountains, or wade through fountains.No man sees them come or go.But an angel maybe, who guards some baby,Or a fairy perhaps, with her magic wand,Brings them straightway to the wonderful gatewayThat leads to Babyland.And there in the Valley of Babyland,Under the mosses and leaves and ferns,Like an unfledged starling, they find the darling,For whom the heart of a mother yearns;And they lift him lightly, and snug him tightlyIn feathers soft as a lady’s hand;And off with a rockaway step they walk awayOut of Babyland.As they go from the Valley of Babyland,Forth into the world of great unrest,Sometimes in weeping, he wakes from sleepingBefore he reaches the mother’s breast.Ah, how she blesses him, how she caresses him,Bonniest bird in the bright home bandThat o’er land and water, the kind stork brought herFrom far off Babyland.
HAVE you heard of the Valley of Babyland,The realm where the dear little darlings stay,Till the kind storks go, as all men know,And, oh, so tenderly bring them away?The paths are winding and past all finding,By all save the storks who understandThe gates and the highways and the intricate bywaysThat lead to Babyland.All over the Valley of BabylandSweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss;And under the ferns fair, and under the plants there,Lie little heads like spools of floss.With a soothing number the river of slumberFlows o’er a bedway of silver sand;And angels are keeping watch o’er the sleepingBabes of Babyland.The path to the Valley of BabylandOnly the kingly, kind storks know;If they fly over mountains, or wade through fountains.No man sees them come or go.But an angel maybe, who guards some baby,Or a fairy perhaps, with her magic wand,Brings them straightway to the wonderful gatewayThat leads to Babyland.And there in the Valley of Babyland,Under the mosses and leaves and ferns,Like an unfledged starling, they find the darling,For whom the heart of a mother yearns;And they lift him lightly, and snug him tightlyIn feathers soft as a lady’s hand;And off with a rockaway step they walk awayOut of Babyland.As they go from the Valley of Babyland,Forth into the world of great unrest,Sometimes in weeping, he wakes from sleepingBefore he reaches the mother’s breast.Ah, how she blesses him, how she caresses him,Bonniest bird in the bright home bandThat o’er land and water, the kind stork brought herFrom far off Babyland.
HAVE you heard of the Valley of Babyland,The realm where the dear little darlings stay,Till the kind storks go, as all men know,And, oh, so tenderly bring them away?The paths are winding and past all finding,By all save the storks who understandThe gates and the highways and the intricate bywaysThat lead to Babyland.
All over the Valley of BabylandSweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss;And under the ferns fair, and under the plants there,Lie little heads like spools of floss.With a soothing number the river of slumberFlows o’er a bedway of silver sand;And angels are keeping watch o’er the sleepingBabes of Babyland.
The path to the Valley of BabylandOnly the kingly, kind storks know;If they fly over mountains, or wade through fountains.No man sees them come or go.But an angel maybe, who guards some baby,Or a fairy perhaps, with her magic wand,Brings them straightway to the wonderful gatewayThat leads to Babyland.
And there in the Valley of Babyland,Under the mosses and leaves and ferns,Like an unfledged starling, they find the darling,For whom the heart of a mother yearns;And they lift him lightly, and snug him tightlyIn feathers soft as a lady’s hand;And off with a rockaway step they walk awayOut of Babyland.
As they go from the Valley of Babyland,Forth into the world of great unrest,Sometimes in weeping, he wakes from sleepingBefore he reaches the mother’s breast.Ah, how she blesses him, how she caresses him,Bonniest bird in the bright home bandThat o’er land and water, the kind stork brought herFrom far off Babyland.
BETWEEN the curtains of snowy lace,Over the way is a baby’s face;It peeps forth, smiling in merry glee,And waves its pink little hand at me.My heart responds with a lonely cry—But in the wonderful By-and-By—Out from the window of God’s “To Be,”That other baby shall beckon to me.That ever haunting and longed-for face,That perfect vision of infant grace,Shall shine on me in a splendor of light,Never to fade from my eager sight.All that was taken shall be made good;All that puzzles me understood;And the wee white hand that I lost, one day,Shall lead me into the Better Way.
BETWEEN the curtains of snowy lace,Over the way is a baby’s face;It peeps forth, smiling in merry glee,And waves its pink little hand at me.My heart responds with a lonely cry—But in the wonderful By-and-By—Out from the window of God’s “To Be,”That other baby shall beckon to me.That ever haunting and longed-for face,That perfect vision of infant grace,Shall shine on me in a splendor of light,Never to fade from my eager sight.All that was taken shall be made good;All that puzzles me understood;And the wee white hand that I lost, one day,Shall lead me into the Better Way.
BETWEEN the curtains of snowy lace,Over the way is a baby’s face;It peeps forth, smiling in merry glee,And waves its pink little hand at me.
My heart responds with a lonely cry—But in the wonderful By-and-By—Out from the window of God’s “To Be,”That other baby shall beckon to me.
That ever haunting and longed-for face,That perfect vision of infant grace,Shall shine on me in a splendor of light,Never to fade from my eager sight.
All that was taken shall be made good;All that puzzles me understood;And the wee white hand that I lost, one day,Shall lead me into the Better Way.
ALL suddenly between me and the light,That brightly shone, and warm,Robed in the pall-like garments of the night,There rose a shadowy form.“Stand back,” I said; “you quite obscure the sun;What do you want with me?”“Dost thou not know, then?” quoth the mystic one;“Look on my face and see!”I looked, and, lo! it was my old despair,Robed in a new disguise;In blacker garments than it used to wear,But with the same sad eyes.So ghostly were the memories it awoke,I shrank in fear away.“Nay, be more kind,” ’twas thus the dark shape spoke,“For I have come to stay.“So long thy feet have trod on sunny heights,Such joys thy heart has known,Perchance thou hast forgotten those long nights,When we two watched alone,“Though sweet and dear the pleasures thou hast met,And comely to thine eye,Has one of them, in all that bright throng yet,Been half so true as I?“And that last rapture which ensnared thee soWith pleasure twin to pain,It was the swiftest of them all to go—But I—I will remain.“Again we two will live a thousand years,In desperate nights of grief,That shall refuse the bitter balm of tears,For thy bruised heart’s relief.“Again we two will watch the hopeless dawnCreep up a lonely sky—Again we’ll urge the drear day to be gone,Yet dread to see it die.“Nay, shrink not from me, for I am thy friend,One whom the Master sent;And I shall help thee, ere we reach the end,To find a great content.“And I will give thee courage to attain,The heights supremely fair,Wherein thou’lt cry, ‘How blessed was my pain!How God sent my Despair!’ ”
ALL suddenly between me and the light,That brightly shone, and warm,Robed in the pall-like garments of the night,There rose a shadowy form.“Stand back,” I said; “you quite obscure the sun;What do you want with me?”“Dost thou not know, then?” quoth the mystic one;“Look on my face and see!”I looked, and, lo! it was my old despair,Robed in a new disguise;In blacker garments than it used to wear,But with the same sad eyes.So ghostly were the memories it awoke,I shrank in fear away.“Nay, be more kind,” ’twas thus the dark shape spoke,“For I have come to stay.“So long thy feet have trod on sunny heights,Such joys thy heart has known,Perchance thou hast forgotten those long nights,When we two watched alone,“Though sweet and dear the pleasures thou hast met,And comely to thine eye,Has one of them, in all that bright throng yet,Been half so true as I?“And that last rapture which ensnared thee soWith pleasure twin to pain,It was the swiftest of them all to go—But I—I will remain.“Again we two will live a thousand years,In desperate nights of grief,That shall refuse the bitter balm of tears,For thy bruised heart’s relief.“Again we two will watch the hopeless dawnCreep up a lonely sky—Again we’ll urge the drear day to be gone,Yet dread to see it die.“Nay, shrink not from me, for I am thy friend,One whom the Master sent;And I shall help thee, ere we reach the end,To find a great content.“And I will give thee courage to attain,The heights supremely fair,Wherein thou’lt cry, ‘How blessed was my pain!How God sent my Despair!’ ”
ALL suddenly between me and the light,That brightly shone, and warm,Robed in the pall-like garments of the night,There rose a shadowy form.
“Stand back,” I said; “you quite obscure the sun;What do you want with me?”“Dost thou not know, then?” quoth the mystic one;“Look on my face and see!”
I looked, and, lo! it was my old despair,Robed in a new disguise;In blacker garments than it used to wear,But with the same sad eyes.
So ghostly were the memories it awoke,I shrank in fear away.“Nay, be more kind,” ’twas thus the dark shape spoke,“For I have come to stay.
“So long thy feet have trod on sunny heights,Such joys thy heart has known,Perchance thou hast forgotten those long nights,When we two watched alone,
“Though sweet and dear the pleasures thou hast met,And comely to thine eye,Has one of them, in all that bright throng yet,Been half so true as I?
“And that last rapture which ensnared thee soWith pleasure twin to pain,It was the swiftest of them all to go—But I—I will remain.
“Again we two will live a thousand years,In desperate nights of grief,That shall refuse the bitter balm of tears,For thy bruised heart’s relief.
“Again we two will watch the hopeless dawnCreep up a lonely sky—Again we’ll urge the drear day to be gone,Yet dread to see it die.
“Nay, shrink not from me, for I am thy friend,One whom the Master sent;And I shall help thee, ere we reach the end,To find a great content.
“And I will give thee courage to attain,The heights supremely fair,Wherein thou’lt cry, ‘How blessed was my pain!How God sent my Despair!’ ”
BETWEEN the acts while the orchestra playedThat sweet old waltz with the lilting measure,I drifted away to a dear dead day,When the dance, for me, was the sum of all pleasure;When my veins were rife with the fever of life,When hope ran high as an inswept ocean,And my heart’s great gladness was almost madness,As I floated off to the music’s motion.How little I cared for the world outside!How little I cared for the dull day after!The thought of trouble went up like a bubble,And burst in a sparkle of mirthful laughter.Oh! and the beat of it, oh! and the sweet of it—Melody, motion, and young blood melted;The dancers swaying, the players playing,The air song-deluged and music-pelted.I knew no weariness, no, not I—My step was as light as the waving grassesThat flutter with ease on the strong-armed breeze,As it waltzes over the wild morasses.Life was all sound and swing; youth was a perfect thing;Night was the goddess of satisfaction.Oh, how I tripped away, right to the edge of day!Joy lay in motion, and rest lay in action.I dance no more on the music’s wave,I yield no more to its wildering power,That time has flown like a rose that is blown,Yet life is a garden forever in flower.Though storms of tears have watered the years,Between to-day and the day departed,Though trials have met me, and grief’s waves wet me,And I have been tired and trouble-hearted.Though under the sod of a wee green grave,A great, sweet hope in darkness perished,Yet life, to my thinking, is a cup worth drinking,A gift to be glad of, and loved, and cherished.There is deeper pleasure in the slower measureThat Time’s grand orchestra now is playing.Its mellowed minor is sadder but finer,And life grows daily more worth the living.
BETWEEN the acts while the orchestra playedThat sweet old waltz with the lilting measure,I drifted away to a dear dead day,When the dance, for me, was the sum of all pleasure;When my veins were rife with the fever of life,When hope ran high as an inswept ocean,And my heart’s great gladness was almost madness,As I floated off to the music’s motion.How little I cared for the world outside!How little I cared for the dull day after!The thought of trouble went up like a bubble,And burst in a sparkle of mirthful laughter.Oh! and the beat of it, oh! and the sweet of it—Melody, motion, and young blood melted;The dancers swaying, the players playing,The air song-deluged and music-pelted.I knew no weariness, no, not I—My step was as light as the waving grassesThat flutter with ease on the strong-armed breeze,As it waltzes over the wild morasses.Life was all sound and swing; youth was a perfect thing;Night was the goddess of satisfaction.Oh, how I tripped away, right to the edge of day!Joy lay in motion, and rest lay in action.I dance no more on the music’s wave,I yield no more to its wildering power,That time has flown like a rose that is blown,Yet life is a garden forever in flower.Though storms of tears have watered the years,Between to-day and the day departed,Though trials have met me, and grief’s waves wet me,And I have been tired and trouble-hearted.Though under the sod of a wee green grave,A great, sweet hope in darkness perished,Yet life, to my thinking, is a cup worth drinking,A gift to be glad of, and loved, and cherished.There is deeper pleasure in the slower measureThat Time’s grand orchestra now is playing.Its mellowed minor is sadder but finer,And life grows daily more worth the living.
BETWEEN the acts while the orchestra playedThat sweet old waltz with the lilting measure,I drifted away to a dear dead day,When the dance, for me, was the sum of all pleasure;When my veins were rife with the fever of life,When hope ran high as an inswept ocean,And my heart’s great gladness was almost madness,As I floated off to the music’s motion.
How little I cared for the world outside!How little I cared for the dull day after!The thought of trouble went up like a bubble,And burst in a sparkle of mirthful laughter.Oh! and the beat of it, oh! and the sweet of it—Melody, motion, and young blood melted;The dancers swaying, the players playing,The air song-deluged and music-pelted.
I knew no weariness, no, not I—My step was as light as the waving grassesThat flutter with ease on the strong-armed breeze,As it waltzes over the wild morasses.Life was all sound and swing; youth was a perfect thing;Night was the goddess of satisfaction.Oh, how I tripped away, right to the edge of day!Joy lay in motion, and rest lay in action.
I dance no more on the music’s wave,I yield no more to its wildering power,That time has flown like a rose that is blown,Yet life is a garden forever in flower.Though storms of tears have watered the years,Between to-day and the day departed,Though trials have met me, and grief’s waves wet me,And I have been tired and trouble-hearted.
Though under the sod of a wee green grave,A great, sweet hope in darkness perished,Yet life, to my thinking, is a cup worth drinking,A gift to be glad of, and loved, and cherished.There is deeper pleasure in the slower measureThat Time’s grand orchestra now is playing.Its mellowed minor is sadder but finer,And life grows daily more worth the living.
COLUMBIA, large-hearted and tender,Too long for the good of your kinYou have shared your home’s comfort and splendorWith all who have asked to come in.The smile of your true eyes has lightedThe way to your wide-open door.You have held out full hands, and invitedThe beggar to take from your store.Your overrun proud sister nations,Whose offspring you help them to keep,Are sending their poorest relations,Their unruly vicious black sheep;Unwashed and unlettered you take them,And lo! we are pushed from your knee;We are governed by laws as they make them,We are slaves in the land of the free.Columbia, you know the devotionOf those who have sprung from your soil;Shall aliens, born over the ocean,Dispute us the fruits of our toil?Most noble and gracious of mothers,Your children rise up and demandThat you bring us no more foster brothers,To breed discontent in the land.Be prudent before you are zealous,Not generous only—but just.Our hearts are grown wrathful and jealousToward those who have outraged your trust.They jostle and crowd in our places,They sneer at the comforts you gave.We say, shut the door in their faces—Until they have learned to behave!In hearts that are greedy and hateful,They harbor ill-will and deceit;They ask for more favors, ungratefulFor those you have poured at their feet.Rise up in your grandeur, and straightwayBar out the bold, clamoring mass;Let sentinels stand at your gateway,To see who is worthy to pass.Give first to your own faithful toilersThe freedom our birthright should claim,And take from these ruthless despoilersThe power which they use to our shame.Columbia, too long you have dalliedWith foes whom you feed from your store;It is time that your wardens were rallied,And stationed outside the locked door.
COLUMBIA, large-hearted and tender,Too long for the good of your kinYou have shared your home’s comfort and splendorWith all who have asked to come in.The smile of your true eyes has lightedThe way to your wide-open door.You have held out full hands, and invitedThe beggar to take from your store.Your overrun proud sister nations,Whose offspring you help them to keep,Are sending their poorest relations,Their unruly vicious black sheep;Unwashed and unlettered you take them,And lo! we are pushed from your knee;We are governed by laws as they make them,We are slaves in the land of the free.Columbia, you know the devotionOf those who have sprung from your soil;Shall aliens, born over the ocean,Dispute us the fruits of our toil?Most noble and gracious of mothers,Your children rise up and demandThat you bring us no more foster brothers,To breed discontent in the land.Be prudent before you are zealous,Not generous only—but just.Our hearts are grown wrathful and jealousToward those who have outraged your trust.They jostle and crowd in our places,They sneer at the comforts you gave.We say, shut the door in their faces—Until they have learned to behave!In hearts that are greedy and hateful,They harbor ill-will and deceit;They ask for more favors, ungratefulFor those you have poured at their feet.Rise up in your grandeur, and straightwayBar out the bold, clamoring mass;Let sentinels stand at your gateway,To see who is worthy to pass.Give first to your own faithful toilersThe freedom our birthright should claim,And take from these ruthless despoilersThe power which they use to our shame.Columbia, too long you have dalliedWith foes whom you feed from your store;It is time that your wardens were rallied,And stationed outside the locked door.
COLUMBIA, large-hearted and tender,Too long for the good of your kinYou have shared your home’s comfort and splendorWith all who have asked to come in.The smile of your true eyes has lightedThe way to your wide-open door.You have held out full hands, and invitedThe beggar to take from your store.
Your overrun proud sister nations,Whose offspring you help them to keep,Are sending their poorest relations,Their unruly vicious black sheep;Unwashed and unlettered you take them,And lo! we are pushed from your knee;We are governed by laws as they make them,We are slaves in the land of the free.
Columbia, you know the devotionOf those who have sprung from your soil;Shall aliens, born over the ocean,Dispute us the fruits of our toil?Most noble and gracious of mothers,Your children rise up and demandThat you bring us no more foster brothers,To breed discontent in the land.
Be prudent before you are zealous,Not generous only—but just.Our hearts are grown wrathful and jealousToward those who have outraged your trust.They jostle and crowd in our places,They sneer at the comforts you gave.We say, shut the door in their faces—Until they have learned to behave!
In hearts that are greedy and hateful,They harbor ill-will and deceit;They ask for more favors, ungratefulFor those you have poured at their feet.Rise up in your grandeur, and straightwayBar out the bold, clamoring mass;Let sentinels stand at your gateway,To see who is worthy to pass.
Give first to your own faithful toilersThe freedom our birthright should claim,And take from these ruthless despoilersThe power which they use to our shame.Columbia, too long you have dalliedWith foes whom you feed from your store;It is time that your wardens were rallied,And stationed outside the locked door.
SOMETIMES when I have dropped to sleep,Draped in a soft luxurious gloom,Across my drowsing mind will creepThe memory of another room,Where resinous knots in roof boards madeA frescoing of light and shade,And sighing poplars brushed their leavesAgainst the humbly sloping eaves.Again I fancy, in my dreams,I’m lying in my trundle bed;I seem to see the bare old beamsAnd unhewn rafters overhead.The mud wasp’s shrill falsetto humI hear again, and see him comeForth from his dark-walled hanging house,Dressed in his black and yellow blouse.There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred,And wove into my fair dream’s woofThe chattering of a martin bird,Or rain-drops pattering on the roof.Or half awake, and half in fear,I saw the spider spinning nearHis pretty castle where the flyShould come to ruin by-and-by.And there I fashioned from my brainYouth’s shining structures in the air.I did not wholly build in vain,For some were lasting, firm and fair.And I am one who lives to sayMy life has held more gold than gray,And that the splendor of the realSurpassed my early dream’s ideal.But still I love to wander backTo that old time and that old place;To tread my way o’er memory’s track,And catch the early morning grace,In that quaint room beneath the rafter,That echoed to my childish laughter;To dream again the dreams that grewMore beautiful as they came true.
SOMETIMES when I have dropped to sleep,Draped in a soft luxurious gloom,Across my drowsing mind will creepThe memory of another room,Where resinous knots in roof boards madeA frescoing of light and shade,And sighing poplars brushed their leavesAgainst the humbly sloping eaves.Again I fancy, in my dreams,I’m lying in my trundle bed;I seem to see the bare old beamsAnd unhewn rafters overhead.The mud wasp’s shrill falsetto humI hear again, and see him comeForth from his dark-walled hanging house,Dressed in his black and yellow blouse.There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred,And wove into my fair dream’s woofThe chattering of a martin bird,Or rain-drops pattering on the roof.Or half awake, and half in fear,I saw the spider spinning nearHis pretty castle where the flyShould come to ruin by-and-by.And there I fashioned from my brainYouth’s shining structures in the air.I did not wholly build in vain,For some were lasting, firm and fair.And I am one who lives to sayMy life has held more gold than gray,And that the splendor of the realSurpassed my early dream’s ideal.But still I love to wander backTo that old time and that old place;To tread my way o’er memory’s track,And catch the early morning grace,In that quaint room beneath the rafter,That echoed to my childish laughter;To dream again the dreams that grewMore beautiful as they came true.
SOMETIMES when I have dropped to sleep,Draped in a soft luxurious gloom,Across my drowsing mind will creepThe memory of another room,Where resinous knots in roof boards madeA frescoing of light and shade,And sighing poplars brushed their leavesAgainst the humbly sloping eaves.
Again I fancy, in my dreams,I’m lying in my trundle bed;I seem to see the bare old beamsAnd unhewn rafters overhead.The mud wasp’s shrill falsetto humI hear again, and see him comeForth from his dark-walled hanging house,Dressed in his black and yellow blouse.
There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred,And wove into my fair dream’s woofThe chattering of a martin bird,Or rain-drops pattering on the roof.Or half awake, and half in fear,I saw the spider spinning nearHis pretty castle where the flyShould come to ruin by-and-by.
And there I fashioned from my brainYouth’s shining structures in the air.I did not wholly build in vain,For some were lasting, firm and fair.And I am one who lives to sayMy life has held more gold than gray,And that the splendor of the realSurpassed my early dream’s ideal.
But still I love to wander backTo that old time and that old place;To tread my way o’er memory’s track,And catch the early morning grace,In that quaint room beneath the rafter,That echoed to my childish laughter;To dream again the dreams that grewMore beautiful as they came true.
SHE was my dream’s fulfilment and my joy,This lovely woman whom you call your wife.You sported at your play, an idle boy,When I first felt the stirring of her lifeWithin my startled being. I was thrilledWith such intensity of love, it filledThe very universe! But words are vain—No man can comprehend that wild, sweet pain.You smiled in childhood’s slumber while I feltThe agonies of labour; and the nightsI, weeping, o’er the little sufferer knelt,You, wandering on through dreamland’s fair delightsFlung out your lengthening limbs and slept and grew;While I, awake, saved this dear wife for you.She was my heart’s loved idle and my pride.I taught her all those graces which you praise,I dreamed of coming years, when at my sideShe should lend luster to my fading days,Should cling to me (as she to you clings now),The young fruit hanging to the withered bough.But lo! the blossom was so fair a sight,You plucked it from me—for your own delight.Well, you are worthy of her—oh, thank God—And yet I think you do not realizeHow burning were the sands o’er which I trod,To bear and rear this woman you so prize.It was no easy thing to see her go—Even into the arms of the one she worshiped so.How strong, how vast, how awful seems the powerOf this new love which fills a maiden’s heart,For one who never bore a single hourOf pain for her; which tears her life apartFrom all its moorings, and controls her moreThan all the ties the years have held before;Which crowns a stranger with a kingly grace—And give the one who bore her—second place!She loves me still! and yet, were Death to say,“Choose now between them!” you would be her choice.God meant it to be so—it is His way.But can you wonder if, while I rejoiceIn her content, this thought hurts like a knife—“No longer necessary to her life!”My pleasure in her joy is bitter sweet.Your very goodness sometimes hurts my heart,Because, for her, life’s drama seems completeWithout the mother’s oft-repeated part.Be patient with me! She was mine so longWho now is yours. One must indeed be strong,To meet the loss without the least regret.And so, forgive me, if my eyes are wet.
SHE was my dream’s fulfilment and my joy,This lovely woman whom you call your wife.You sported at your play, an idle boy,When I first felt the stirring of her lifeWithin my startled being. I was thrilledWith such intensity of love, it filledThe very universe! But words are vain—No man can comprehend that wild, sweet pain.You smiled in childhood’s slumber while I feltThe agonies of labour; and the nightsI, weeping, o’er the little sufferer knelt,You, wandering on through dreamland’s fair delightsFlung out your lengthening limbs and slept and grew;While I, awake, saved this dear wife for you.She was my heart’s loved idle and my pride.I taught her all those graces which you praise,I dreamed of coming years, when at my sideShe should lend luster to my fading days,Should cling to me (as she to you clings now),The young fruit hanging to the withered bough.But lo! the blossom was so fair a sight,You plucked it from me—for your own delight.Well, you are worthy of her—oh, thank God—And yet I think you do not realizeHow burning were the sands o’er which I trod,To bear and rear this woman you so prize.It was no easy thing to see her go—Even into the arms of the one she worshiped so.How strong, how vast, how awful seems the powerOf this new love which fills a maiden’s heart,For one who never bore a single hourOf pain for her; which tears her life apartFrom all its moorings, and controls her moreThan all the ties the years have held before;Which crowns a stranger with a kingly grace—And give the one who bore her—second place!She loves me still! and yet, were Death to say,“Choose now between them!” you would be her choice.God meant it to be so—it is His way.But can you wonder if, while I rejoiceIn her content, this thought hurts like a knife—“No longer necessary to her life!”My pleasure in her joy is bitter sweet.Your very goodness sometimes hurts my heart,Because, for her, life’s drama seems completeWithout the mother’s oft-repeated part.Be patient with me! She was mine so longWho now is yours. One must indeed be strong,To meet the loss without the least regret.And so, forgive me, if my eyes are wet.
SHE was my dream’s fulfilment and my joy,This lovely woman whom you call your wife.You sported at your play, an idle boy,When I first felt the stirring of her lifeWithin my startled being. I was thrilledWith such intensity of love, it filledThe very universe! But words are vain—No man can comprehend that wild, sweet pain.
You smiled in childhood’s slumber while I feltThe agonies of labour; and the nightsI, weeping, o’er the little sufferer knelt,You, wandering on through dreamland’s fair delightsFlung out your lengthening limbs and slept and grew;While I, awake, saved this dear wife for you.
She was my heart’s loved idle and my pride.I taught her all those graces which you praise,I dreamed of coming years, when at my sideShe should lend luster to my fading days,Should cling to me (as she to you clings now),The young fruit hanging to the withered bough.But lo! the blossom was so fair a sight,You plucked it from me—for your own delight.
Well, you are worthy of her—oh, thank God—And yet I think you do not realizeHow burning were the sands o’er which I trod,To bear and rear this woman you so prize.It was no easy thing to see her go—Even into the arms of the one she worshiped so.
How strong, how vast, how awful seems the powerOf this new love which fills a maiden’s heart,For one who never bore a single hourOf pain for her; which tears her life apartFrom all its moorings, and controls her moreThan all the ties the years have held before;Which crowns a stranger with a kingly grace—And give the one who bore her—second place!
She loves me still! and yet, were Death to say,“Choose now between them!” you would be her choice.God meant it to be so—it is His way.But can you wonder if, while I rejoiceIn her content, this thought hurts like a knife—“No longer necessary to her life!”
My pleasure in her joy is bitter sweet.Your very goodness sometimes hurts my heart,Because, for her, life’s drama seems completeWithout the mother’s oft-repeated part.Be patient with me! She was mine so longWho now is yours. One must indeed be strong,To meet the loss without the least regret.And so, forgive me, if my eyes are wet.
IT is soiled and quite passe,Broken too, and out of fashion,But it stirs my heart some way,As I hold it here to-day,With a dead year’s grace and passion.Oh, my pretty fan!Precious dream and thrilling strain,Rise up from that vanished season;Back to heart and nerve and brainSweeps the joy as keen as pain,Joy that asks no cause or reason.Oh, my dainty fan!Hopes that perished in a nightGaze at me like spectral faces;Grim despair and lost delight,Sorrow long since gone from sight—All are hiding in these laces.Oh, my broken fan!Let us lay the thing away—I am sadder now and older;Fled the ball-room and the play—You have had your foolish day,And the night and life are colder.Exit—little fan!
IT is soiled and quite passe,Broken too, and out of fashion,But it stirs my heart some way,As I hold it here to-day,With a dead year’s grace and passion.Oh, my pretty fan!Precious dream and thrilling strain,Rise up from that vanished season;Back to heart and nerve and brainSweeps the joy as keen as pain,Joy that asks no cause or reason.Oh, my dainty fan!Hopes that perished in a nightGaze at me like spectral faces;Grim despair and lost delight,Sorrow long since gone from sight—All are hiding in these laces.Oh, my broken fan!Let us lay the thing away—I am sadder now and older;Fled the ball-room and the play—You have had your foolish day,And the night and life are colder.Exit—little fan!
IT is soiled and quite passe,Broken too, and out of fashion,But it stirs my heart some way,As I hold it here to-day,With a dead year’s grace and passion.Oh, my pretty fan!
Precious dream and thrilling strain,Rise up from that vanished season;Back to heart and nerve and brainSweeps the joy as keen as pain,Joy that asks no cause or reason.Oh, my dainty fan!
Hopes that perished in a nightGaze at me like spectral faces;Grim despair and lost delight,Sorrow long since gone from sight—All are hiding in these laces.Oh, my broken fan!
Let us lay the thing away—I am sadder now and older;Fled the ball-room and the play—You have had your foolish day,And the night and life are colder.Exit—little fan!
NO classes here! Why, that is idle talk.The village beau sneers at the country boor;The importuning mendicants who walkOur cities’ streets despise the parish poor.The daily toiler at some noisy loomHolds back her garments from the kitchen aid.Meanwhile the latter leans upon her broom,Unconscious of the bow the laundress made.The grocer’s daughter eyes the farmer’s lassWith haughty glances; and the lawyer’s wifeWould pay no visits to the trading class,If policy were not her creed in life.The merchant’s son nods coldly at the clerk;The proud possessor of a pedigreeIgnores the youth whose father rose by work;The title-seeking maiden scorns all three.The aristocracy of blood looks downUpon the “nouveau riche;” and in disdain,The lovers of the intellectual frownOn both, and worship at the shrine of brain.“No classes here,” the clergyman has said;“We are one family.” Yet see his rageAnd horror when his favorite son would wedSome pure and pretty player on the stage.It is the vain but natural human wayOf vaunting our weak selves, our pride, our worth!Not till the long-delayed millennial dayShall we behold “no classes” on God’s earth.
NO classes here! Why, that is idle talk.The village beau sneers at the country boor;The importuning mendicants who walkOur cities’ streets despise the parish poor.The daily toiler at some noisy loomHolds back her garments from the kitchen aid.Meanwhile the latter leans upon her broom,Unconscious of the bow the laundress made.The grocer’s daughter eyes the farmer’s lassWith haughty glances; and the lawyer’s wifeWould pay no visits to the trading class,If policy were not her creed in life.The merchant’s son nods coldly at the clerk;The proud possessor of a pedigreeIgnores the youth whose father rose by work;The title-seeking maiden scorns all three.The aristocracy of blood looks downUpon the “nouveau riche;” and in disdain,The lovers of the intellectual frownOn both, and worship at the shrine of brain.“No classes here,” the clergyman has said;“We are one family.” Yet see his rageAnd horror when his favorite son would wedSome pure and pretty player on the stage.It is the vain but natural human wayOf vaunting our weak selves, our pride, our worth!Not till the long-delayed millennial dayShall we behold “no classes” on God’s earth.
NO classes here! Why, that is idle talk.The village beau sneers at the country boor;The importuning mendicants who walkOur cities’ streets despise the parish poor.
The daily toiler at some noisy loomHolds back her garments from the kitchen aid.Meanwhile the latter leans upon her broom,Unconscious of the bow the laundress made.
The grocer’s daughter eyes the farmer’s lassWith haughty glances; and the lawyer’s wifeWould pay no visits to the trading class,If policy were not her creed in life.
The merchant’s son nods coldly at the clerk;The proud possessor of a pedigreeIgnores the youth whose father rose by work;The title-seeking maiden scorns all three.
The aristocracy of blood looks downUpon the “nouveau riche;” and in disdain,The lovers of the intellectual frownOn both, and worship at the shrine of brain.
“No classes here,” the clergyman has said;“We are one family.” Yet see his rageAnd horror when his favorite son would wedSome pure and pretty player on the stage.
It is the vain but natural human wayOf vaunting our weak selves, our pride, our worth!Not till the long-delayed millennial dayShall we behold “no classes” on God’s earth.
AS we hurry away to the end, my friend,Of this sad little farce called existence,We are sure that the future will bring one thing,And that is the grave in the distance.And so when our lives run along all wrong,And nothing seems real or certain,We can comfort ourselves with the thought (or not)Of that specter behind the curtain.But we haven’t much time to repine or whine,Or to wound or jostle each other;And the hour for us each is to-day, I say,If we mean to assist a brother.And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth,But the worry it brings is double;And all that repays for the strife of life,Is helping some soul in trouble.I tell you, if I could go back the trackTo my life’s morning hour,I would not set forth seeking name or fame,Or that poor bauble called power.I would be like the sunlight, and live to give;I would lend but I would not borrow;Nor would I be blind and complain of pain,Forgetting the meaning of sorrow.This world is a vaporous jest at best,Tossed off by the gods in laughter;And a cruel attempt at wit were it,If nothing better came after.It is reeking with hearts that ache and break,Which we ought to comfort and strengthen,As we hurry away to the end, my friend,And the shadows behind us lengthen.
AS we hurry away to the end, my friend,Of this sad little farce called existence,We are sure that the future will bring one thing,And that is the grave in the distance.And so when our lives run along all wrong,And nothing seems real or certain,We can comfort ourselves with the thought (or not)Of that specter behind the curtain.But we haven’t much time to repine or whine,Or to wound or jostle each other;And the hour for us each is to-day, I say,If we mean to assist a brother.And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth,But the worry it brings is double;And all that repays for the strife of life,Is helping some soul in trouble.I tell you, if I could go back the trackTo my life’s morning hour,I would not set forth seeking name or fame,Or that poor bauble called power.I would be like the sunlight, and live to give;I would lend but I would not borrow;Nor would I be blind and complain of pain,Forgetting the meaning of sorrow.This world is a vaporous jest at best,Tossed off by the gods in laughter;And a cruel attempt at wit were it,If nothing better came after.It is reeking with hearts that ache and break,Which we ought to comfort and strengthen,As we hurry away to the end, my friend,And the shadows behind us lengthen.
AS we hurry away to the end, my friend,Of this sad little farce called existence,We are sure that the future will bring one thing,And that is the grave in the distance.And so when our lives run along all wrong,And nothing seems real or certain,We can comfort ourselves with the thought (or not)Of that specter behind the curtain.
But we haven’t much time to repine or whine,Or to wound or jostle each other;And the hour for us each is to-day, I say,If we mean to assist a brother.And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth,But the worry it brings is double;And all that repays for the strife of life,Is helping some soul in trouble.
I tell you, if I could go back the trackTo my life’s morning hour,I would not set forth seeking name or fame,Or that poor bauble called power.I would be like the sunlight, and live to give;I would lend but I would not borrow;Nor would I be blind and complain of pain,Forgetting the meaning of sorrow.
This world is a vaporous jest at best,Tossed off by the gods in laughter;And a cruel attempt at wit were it,If nothing better came after.It is reeking with hearts that ache and break,Which we ought to comfort and strengthen,As we hurry away to the end, my friend,And the shadows behind us lengthen.
BEFORE this scarf was faded,What hours of mirth it knew!How gaily it paradedFor smiling eyes to view!The days were tinged with glory,The nights too quickly sped,And life was like a storyWhere all the people wed.Before this rosebud wilted,How passionately sweetThe wild waltz swelled and liltedIn time for flying feet!How loud the bassoons muttered!The horns grew madly shrill;And, oh, the vows lips utteredThat hearts could not fulfill.Before this fan was broken,Behind its lace and pearlWhat whispered words were spoken—What hearts were in a whirl!What homesteads were selectedIn Fancy’s realm of Spain!What castles were erected,Without a room for pain!When this odd glove was mated,How thrilling seemed the play!May be our hearts are sated—They tire so soon to-day.Oh, shut away those treasures,They speak the dreary truth—We have outgrown the pleasuresAnd keen delights of youth.
BEFORE this scarf was faded,What hours of mirth it knew!How gaily it paradedFor smiling eyes to view!The days were tinged with glory,The nights too quickly sped,And life was like a storyWhere all the people wed.Before this rosebud wilted,How passionately sweetThe wild waltz swelled and liltedIn time for flying feet!How loud the bassoons muttered!The horns grew madly shrill;And, oh, the vows lips utteredThat hearts could not fulfill.Before this fan was broken,Behind its lace and pearlWhat whispered words were spoken—What hearts were in a whirl!What homesteads were selectedIn Fancy’s realm of Spain!What castles were erected,Without a room for pain!When this odd glove was mated,How thrilling seemed the play!May be our hearts are sated—They tire so soon to-day.Oh, shut away those treasures,They speak the dreary truth—We have outgrown the pleasuresAnd keen delights of youth.
BEFORE this scarf was faded,What hours of mirth it knew!How gaily it paradedFor smiling eyes to view!The days were tinged with glory,The nights too quickly sped,And life was like a storyWhere all the people wed.
Before this rosebud wilted,How passionately sweetThe wild waltz swelled and liltedIn time for flying feet!How loud the bassoons muttered!The horns grew madly shrill;And, oh, the vows lips utteredThat hearts could not fulfill.
Before this fan was broken,Behind its lace and pearlWhat whispered words were spoken—What hearts were in a whirl!What homesteads were selectedIn Fancy’s realm of Spain!What castles were erected,Without a room for pain!
When this odd glove was mated,How thrilling seemed the play!May be our hearts are sated—They tire so soon to-day.Oh, shut away those treasures,They speak the dreary truth—We have outgrown the pleasuresAnd keen delights of youth.
BACK in the box by the curtains shaded,She sits alone by the house unseen;Her eye is dim, her cheek is faded,She who was once the people’s queen.The curtain rolls up, and she sees before herA vision of beauty and youth and grace.Ah! no wonder all hearts adore her,Silver-throated and fair of face.Out of her box she leans and listens;Oh, is it with pleasure or with despairThat her thin cheek pales and her dim eye glistens,While that fresh young voice sings the grand old air?She is back again in the Past’s bright splendor—When life seemed worth living, and love a truth,Ere Time had told her she must surrenderHer double dower of fame and youth.It is she herself who stands there singingTo that sea of faces that shines and stirs;And the cheers on cheers that go up ringingAnd rousing the echoes—are hers—all hers.Just for one moment the sweet delusionQuickens her pulses and blurs her sight,And wakes within her that wild confusionOf joy that is anguish and fierce delight.Then the curtain goes down and the lights are gleamingBrightly o’er circle and box and stall.She starts like a sleeper who wakes from dreaming—Her past lies under a funeral pall.Her day is dead and her star descendedNever to rise or shine again;Her reign is over—her Queenship ended—A new name is sounded and sung by men.All the glitter and glow and splendor,All the glory of that lost day,With the friends that seemed true, and the love that seemed tender,Why, what is it all but a dead bouquet?She rises to go. Has the night turned colder?The new Queen answers to call and shout;And the old Queen looks back over her shoulder,Then all unnoticed she passes out.
BACK in the box by the curtains shaded,She sits alone by the house unseen;Her eye is dim, her cheek is faded,She who was once the people’s queen.The curtain rolls up, and she sees before herA vision of beauty and youth and grace.Ah! no wonder all hearts adore her,Silver-throated and fair of face.Out of her box she leans and listens;Oh, is it with pleasure or with despairThat her thin cheek pales and her dim eye glistens,While that fresh young voice sings the grand old air?She is back again in the Past’s bright splendor—When life seemed worth living, and love a truth,Ere Time had told her she must surrenderHer double dower of fame and youth.It is she herself who stands there singingTo that sea of faces that shines and stirs;And the cheers on cheers that go up ringingAnd rousing the echoes—are hers—all hers.Just for one moment the sweet delusionQuickens her pulses and blurs her sight,And wakes within her that wild confusionOf joy that is anguish and fierce delight.Then the curtain goes down and the lights are gleamingBrightly o’er circle and box and stall.She starts like a sleeper who wakes from dreaming—Her past lies under a funeral pall.Her day is dead and her star descendedNever to rise or shine again;Her reign is over—her Queenship ended—A new name is sounded and sung by men.All the glitter and glow and splendor,All the glory of that lost day,With the friends that seemed true, and the love that seemed tender,Why, what is it all but a dead bouquet?She rises to go. Has the night turned colder?The new Queen answers to call and shout;And the old Queen looks back over her shoulder,Then all unnoticed she passes out.
BACK in the box by the curtains shaded,She sits alone by the house unseen;Her eye is dim, her cheek is faded,She who was once the people’s queen.
The curtain rolls up, and she sees before herA vision of beauty and youth and grace.Ah! no wonder all hearts adore her,Silver-throated and fair of face.
Out of her box she leans and listens;Oh, is it with pleasure or with despairThat her thin cheek pales and her dim eye glistens,While that fresh young voice sings the grand old air?
She is back again in the Past’s bright splendor—When life seemed worth living, and love a truth,Ere Time had told her she must surrenderHer double dower of fame and youth.
It is she herself who stands there singingTo that sea of faces that shines and stirs;And the cheers on cheers that go up ringingAnd rousing the echoes—are hers—all hers.
Just for one moment the sweet delusionQuickens her pulses and blurs her sight,And wakes within her that wild confusionOf joy that is anguish and fierce delight.
Then the curtain goes down and the lights are gleamingBrightly o’er circle and box and stall.She starts like a sleeper who wakes from dreaming—Her past lies under a funeral pall.
Her day is dead and her star descendedNever to rise or shine again;Her reign is over—her Queenship ended—A new name is sounded and sung by men.
All the glitter and glow and splendor,All the glory of that lost day,With the friends that seemed true, and the love that seemed tender,Why, what is it all but a dead bouquet?
She rises to go. Has the night turned colder?The new Queen answers to call and shout;And the old Queen looks back over her shoulder,Then all unnoticed she passes out.
IWILL not doubt, though all my ships at seaCome drifting home with broken masts and sails;I shall believe the Hand which never fails,From seeming evil worketh good for me;And though I weep because those sails are battered,Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered,“I trust in thee.”I will not doubt, though all my prayers returnUnanswered from the still, white Realm above;I shall believe it is an all-wise LoveWhich has refused those things for which I yearn;And though at times I cannot keep from grieving,Yet the pure ardor of my fixed believingUndimmed shall burn.I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain,And troubles swarm like bees about a hive;I shall believe the heights for which I striveAre only reached by anguish and by pain;And though I groan and tremble with my crosses,I yet shall see, through my severest losses,The greater gain.I will not doubt; well anchored in the faith,Like some staunch ship, my soul braves every gale,So strong its courage that it will not failTo breast the mighty unknown sea of Death.Oh, may I cry when body parts with spirit,“I do not doubt,” so listening worlds may hear it,With my last breath.
IWILL not doubt, though all my ships at seaCome drifting home with broken masts and sails;I shall believe the Hand which never fails,From seeming evil worketh good for me;And though I weep because those sails are battered,Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered,“I trust in thee.”I will not doubt, though all my prayers returnUnanswered from the still, white Realm above;I shall believe it is an all-wise LoveWhich has refused those things for which I yearn;And though at times I cannot keep from grieving,Yet the pure ardor of my fixed believingUndimmed shall burn.I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain,And troubles swarm like bees about a hive;I shall believe the heights for which I striveAre only reached by anguish and by pain;And though I groan and tremble with my crosses,I yet shall see, through my severest losses,The greater gain.I will not doubt; well anchored in the faith,Like some staunch ship, my soul braves every gale,So strong its courage that it will not failTo breast the mighty unknown sea of Death.Oh, may I cry when body parts with spirit,“I do not doubt,” so listening worlds may hear it,With my last breath.
IWILL not doubt, though all my ships at seaCome drifting home with broken masts and sails;I shall believe the Hand which never fails,From seeming evil worketh good for me;And though I weep because those sails are battered,Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered,“I trust in thee.”
I will not doubt, though all my prayers returnUnanswered from the still, white Realm above;I shall believe it is an all-wise LoveWhich has refused those things for which I yearn;And though at times I cannot keep from grieving,Yet the pure ardor of my fixed believingUndimmed shall burn.
I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain,And troubles swarm like bees about a hive;I shall believe the heights for which I striveAre only reached by anguish and by pain;And though I groan and tremble with my crosses,I yet shall see, through my severest losses,The greater gain.
I will not doubt; well anchored in the faith,Like some staunch ship, my soul braves every gale,So strong its courage that it will not failTo breast the mighty unknown sea of Death.Oh, may I cry when body parts with spirit,“I do not doubt,” so listening worlds may hear it,With my last breath.
WE sigh above historic pages,Brave with the deeds of courtly men,And wish those peers of middle agesIn our dull day could live again.And yet no knight or Troubadour beganIn chivalry with the American.He does not frequent joust or tourney,And flaunt his lady’s colors there;But in the tedium of a journey,He shows that deferential care—That thoughtful kindness to the sex at large,Which makes each woman feel herself his charge.He does not challenge foes to duel,To win his lady’s cast-off glove,But proves in ways less rash and cruel,The truth and fervor of his love.Not by bold deeds, but by his reverent mien,He pays his public tribute to his Queen.He may not shine with courtly graces,But yet, his kind, respectful airTo woman, whatsoe’er her place is,It might be well if kings could share.So, for the chivalric true gentleman,Give me, I say, our own American.
WE sigh above historic pages,Brave with the deeds of courtly men,And wish those peers of middle agesIn our dull day could live again.And yet no knight or Troubadour beganIn chivalry with the American.He does not frequent joust or tourney,And flaunt his lady’s colors there;But in the tedium of a journey,He shows that deferential care—That thoughtful kindness to the sex at large,Which makes each woman feel herself his charge.He does not challenge foes to duel,To win his lady’s cast-off glove,But proves in ways less rash and cruel,The truth and fervor of his love.Not by bold deeds, but by his reverent mien,He pays his public tribute to his Queen.He may not shine with courtly graces,But yet, his kind, respectful airTo woman, whatsoe’er her place is,It might be well if kings could share.So, for the chivalric true gentleman,Give me, I say, our own American.
WE sigh above historic pages,Brave with the deeds of courtly men,And wish those peers of middle agesIn our dull day could live again.And yet no knight or Troubadour beganIn chivalry with the American.
He does not frequent joust or tourney,And flaunt his lady’s colors there;But in the tedium of a journey,He shows that deferential care—That thoughtful kindness to the sex at large,Which makes each woman feel herself his charge.
He does not challenge foes to duel,To win his lady’s cast-off glove,But proves in ways less rash and cruel,The truth and fervor of his love.Not by bold deeds, but by his reverent mien,He pays his public tribute to his Queen.
He may not shine with courtly graces,But yet, his kind, respectful airTo woman, whatsoe’er her place is,It might be well if kings could share.So, for the chivalric true gentleman,Give me, I say, our own American.
IOWN the charms of lovely Nature; still,In human nature more delight I find.Though sweet the murmuring voices of the rill,I much prefer the voices of my kind.I like the roar of cities. In the mart,Where busy toilers strive for place and gain,I seem to read humanity’s great heart,And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its pain.The rush of hurrying trains that cannot wait,The tread of myriad feet, all say to me:“You are the architect of your own fate;Toil on, hope on, and dare to do and be.”I like the jangled music of the loudBold bells; the whistle’s sudden shrill reply;And there is inspiration in a crowd—A magnetism flashed from eye to eye.My sorrows all seem lightened and my joysAugmented when the comrade world walks near;Close to mankind my soul best keeps its poise.Give me the great town’s bustle, strife, and noiseAnd let who will, hold Nature’s calm more dear.
IOWN the charms of lovely Nature; still,In human nature more delight I find.Though sweet the murmuring voices of the rill,I much prefer the voices of my kind.I like the roar of cities. In the mart,Where busy toilers strive for place and gain,I seem to read humanity’s great heart,And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its pain.The rush of hurrying trains that cannot wait,The tread of myriad feet, all say to me:“You are the architect of your own fate;Toil on, hope on, and dare to do and be.”I like the jangled music of the loudBold bells; the whistle’s sudden shrill reply;And there is inspiration in a crowd—A magnetism flashed from eye to eye.My sorrows all seem lightened and my joysAugmented when the comrade world walks near;Close to mankind my soul best keeps its poise.Give me the great town’s bustle, strife, and noiseAnd let who will, hold Nature’s calm more dear.
IOWN the charms of lovely Nature; still,In human nature more delight I find.Though sweet the murmuring voices of the rill,I much prefer the voices of my kind.
I like the roar of cities. In the mart,Where busy toilers strive for place and gain,I seem to read humanity’s great heart,And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its pain.
The rush of hurrying trains that cannot wait,The tread of myriad feet, all say to me:“You are the architect of your own fate;Toil on, hope on, and dare to do and be.”
I like the jangled music of the loudBold bells; the whistle’s sudden shrill reply;And there is inspiration in a crowd—A magnetism flashed from eye to eye.
My sorrows all seem lightened and my joysAugmented when the comrade world walks near;Close to mankind my soul best keeps its poise.Give me the great town’s bustle, strife, and noiseAnd let who will, hold Nature’s calm more dear.
GIVE us that grand word “woman” once again,And let’s have done with “lady”: one’s a termFull of fine force, strong, beautiful, and firm,Fit for the noblest use of tongue or pen;And one’s a word for lackeys. One suggestsThe Mother, Wife, and Sister! One the dameWhose costly robe, mayhap, gives her the name.One word upon its own strength leans and rests;The other minces tiptoe. Who would beThe perfect woman must grow brave of heartAnd broad of soul to play her troubled partWell in life’s drama. While each day we seeThe “perfect lady” skilled in what to doAnd what to say, grace in each tone and act(’Tis taught in schools, but needs some native tact),Yet narrow in her mind as in her shoe.Give the first place then to the nobler phrase,And leave the lesser word for lesser praise.
GIVE us that grand word “woman” once again,And let’s have done with “lady”: one’s a termFull of fine force, strong, beautiful, and firm,Fit for the noblest use of tongue or pen;And one’s a word for lackeys. One suggestsThe Mother, Wife, and Sister! One the dameWhose costly robe, mayhap, gives her the name.One word upon its own strength leans and rests;The other minces tiptoe. Who would beThe perfect woman must grow brave of heartAnd broad of soul to play her troubled partWell in life’s drama. While each day we seeThe “perfect lady” skilled in what to doAnd what to say, grace in each tone and act(’Tis taught in schools, but needs some native tact),Yet narrow in her mind as in her shoe.Give the first place then to the nobler phrase,And leave the lesser word for lesser praise.
GIVE us that grand word “woman” once again,And let’s have done with “lady”: one’s a termFull of fine force, strong, beautiful, and firm,Fit for the noblest use of tongue or pen;And one’s a word for lackeys. One suggestsThe Mother, Wife, and Sister! One the dameWhose costly robe, mayhap, gives her the name.One word upon its own strength leans and rests;The other minces tiptoe. Who would beThe perfect woman must grow brave of heartAnd broad of soul to play her troubled partWell in life’s drama. While each day we seeThe “perfect lady” skilled in what to doAnd what to say, grace in each tone and act(’Tis taught in schools, but needs some native tact),Yet narrow in her mind as in her shoe.Give the first place then to the nobler phrase,And leave the lesser word for lesser praise.
SO we must part forever; and althoughI long have beat my wings and cried to go,Free from your narrow limiting control,Forth into space, the true home of the soul,Yet now, yet now that hour is drawing near,I pause reluctant, finding you so dear.All joys await me in the realm of God—Must you, my comrade, moulder in the sod?I was your captive, yet you were my slave:Your prisoner, yet obedience you gaveTo all my earnest wishes and commands.Now to the worm I leave those willing handsThat toiled for me or held the books I read,Those feet that trod where’er I wished to tread,Those arms that clasped my dear ones, and the breastOn which one loved and loving heart found rest,Those lips through which my prayers to God have risen,Those eyes that were the windows to my prison.From these, all these, Death’s Angel bids me sever;Dear Comrade Body, fare thee well forever!I go to my inheritance, and goWith joy that only the freed soul can know;Yet in my spirit wanderings I trustI may sometimes pause near your sacred dust.
SO we must part forever; and althoughI long have beat my wings and cried to go,Free from your narrow limiting control,Forth into space, the true home of the soul,Yet now, yet now that hour is drawing near,I pause reluctant, finding you so dear.All joys await me in the realm of God—Must you, my comrade, moulder in the sod?I was your captive, yet you were my slave:Your prisoner, yet obedience you gaveTo all my earnest wishes and commands.Now to the worm I leave those willing handsThat toiled for me or held the books I read,Those feet that trod where’er I wished to tread,Those arms that clasped my dear ones, and the breastOn which one loved and loving heart found rest,Those lips through which my prayers to God have risen,Those eyes that were the windows to my prison.From these, all these, Death’s Angel bids me sever;Dear Comrade Body, fare thee well forever!I go to my inheritance, and goWith joy that only the freed soul can know;Yet in my spirit wanderings I trustI may sometimes pause near your sacred dust.
SO we must part forever; and althoughI long have beat my wings and cried to go,Free from your narrow limiting control,Forth into space, the true home of the soul,
Yet now, yet now that hour is drawing near,I pause reluctant, finding you so dear.All joys await me in the realm of God—Must you, my comrade, moulder in the sod?
I was your captive, yet you were my slave:Your prisoner, yet obedience you gaveTo all my earnest wishes and commands.Now to the worm I leave those willing hands
That toiled for me or held the books I read,Those feet that trod where’er I wished to tread,Those arms that clasped my dear ones, and the breastOn which one loved and loving heart found rest,
Those lips through which my prayers to God have risen,Those eyes that were the windows to my prison.From these, all these, Death’s Angel bids me sever;Dear Comrade Body, fare thee well forever!
I go to my inheritance, and goWith joy that only the freed soul can know;Yet in my spirit wanderings I trustI may sometimes pause near your sacred dust.
BETWEEN the shore and the distant sky-lands,Where a ship’s dim shape seems etched on space,There lies this cluster of lovely islands,Like laughing mermaids grouped in grace.I look out over the waves and wonder,Are they not sirens who dwell in the sea?When the tide runs high they dip down underLike mirthful bathers who sport in glee.When the tide runs low they lift their shouldersAbove the billows and gayly spreadTheir soft green garments along the bouldersOf grim gray granite that form their bed.Close by the group, in sheltered places,Many a ship at anchor lies,And drinks the charm of their smiling faces,As lovers drink smiles from maidens’ eyes.But true to the harsh and stern old ocean,As maids in a harem are true to one,They give him all of their hearts’ devotion,Though wooed forever by moon and sun.A ship sails on that has bravely wadedThrough foaming billows to sue in vain;A whip-poor-will flies that has serenadedAnd sung unanswered his plaintive strain.In the sea’s great arms I see them lying,Bright and beaming and fond and fair,While the jealous July day is dyingIn a crimson fury of mad despair.The desolate moon drifts slowly over,And covers its face with the lace of a cloud,While the sea, like a glad triumphant lover,Clasps close his islands and laughs aloud.
BETWEEN the shore and the distant sky-lands,Where a ship’s dim shape seems etched on space,There lies this cluster of lovely islands,Like laughing mermaids grouped in grace.I look out over the waves and wonder,Are they not sirens who dwell in the sea?When the tide runs high they dip down underLike mirthful bathers who sport in glee.When the tide runs low they lift their shouldersAbove the billows and gayly spreadTheir soft green garments along the bouldersOf grim gray granite that form their bed.Close by the group, in sheltered places,Many a ship at anchor lies,And drinks the charm of their smiling faces,As lovers drink smiles from maidens’ eyes.But true to the harsh and stern old ocean,As maids in a harem are true to one,They give him all of their hearts’ devotion,Though wooed forever by moon and sun.A ship sails on that has bravely wadedThrough foaming billows to sue in vain;A whip-poor-will flies that has serenadedAnd sung unanswered his plaintive strain.In the sea’s great arms I see them lying,Bright and beaming and fond and fair,While the jealous July day is dyingIn a crimson fury of mad despair.The desolate moon drifts slowly over,And covers its face with the lace of a cloud,While the sea, like a glad triumphant lover,Clasps close his islands and laughs aloud.
BETWEEN the shore and the distant sky-lands,Where a ship’s dim shape seems etched on space,There lies this cluster of lovely islands,Like laughing mermaids grouped in grace.
I look out over the waves and wonder,Are they not sirens who dwell in the sea?When the tide runs high they dip down underLike mirthful bathers who sport in glee.
When the tide runs low they lift their shouldersAbove the billows and gayly spreadTheir soft green garments along the bouldersOf grim gray granite that form their bed.
Close by the group, in sheltered places,Many a ship at anchor lies,And drinks the charm of their smiling faces,As lovers drink smiles from maidens’ eyes.
But true to the harsh and stern old ocean,As maids in a harem are true to one,They give him all of their hearts’ devotion,Though wooed forever by moon and sun.
A ship sails on that has bravely wadedThrough foaming billows to sue in vain;A whip-poor-will flies that has serenadedAnd sung unanswered his plaintive strain.
In the sea’s great arms I see them lying,Bright and beaming and fond and fair,While the jealous July day is dyingIn a crimson fury of mad despair.
The desolate moon drifts slowly over,And covers its face with the lace of a cloud,While the sea, like a glad triumphant lover,Clasps close his islands and laughs aloud.