Awake, fond heart, to life again,For why should sorrow everEnshroud the past with endless pain,Cause bitter tears to flow in vainFor those passed o’er the river?The dead are gone—they ne’er return,Life’s troubles here are ended;And though to see them back we yearn,Christ’s teachings lead us to discern’Tis not what God intended.Who can the curtain thrust aside,Or gaze through Death’s dark portals?Short space on earth doth each abide,Then comes his call to swell the tide,Whose waves are dying mortals.We all must die, mayhap this nightOur souls are drifting thither,Where those dear loved ones lost to sightAwait us there in glory bright,Across the shining river.
Awake, fond heart, to life again,For why should sorrow everEnshroud the past with endless pain,Cause bitter tears to flow in vainFor those passed o’er the river?
Awake, fond heart, to life again,
For why should sorrow ever
Enshroud the past with endless pain,
Cause bitter tears to flow in vain
For those passed o’er the river?
The dead are gone—they ne’er return,Life’s troubles here are ended;And though to see them back we yearn,Christ’s teachings lead us to discern’Tis not what God intended.
The dead are gone—they ne’er return,
Life’s troubles here are ended;
And though to see them back we yearn,
Christ’s teachings lead us to discern
’Tis not what God intended.
Who can the curtain thrust aside,Or gaze through Death’s dark portals?Short space on earth doth each abide,Then comes his call to swell the tide,Whose waves are dying mortals.
Who can the curtain thrust aside,
Or gaze through Death’s dark portals?
Short space on earth doth each abide,
Then comes his call to swell the tide,
Whose waves are dying mortals.
We all must die, mayhap this nightOur souls are drifting thither,Where those dear loved ones lost to sightAwait us there in glory bright,Across the shining river.
We all must die, mayhap this night
Our souls are drifting thither,
Where those dear loved ones lost to sight
Await us there in glory bright,
Across the shining river.
Dead in his chair. The sun’s expiring raysWith crimson glow lights up the rigid face,And in the unclosed eyes that look afarA blood-red sunbeam finds a resting place.Dead! with the pen still clutched in pulseless hand,“Dear wife,” sole words before his sightless gaze.One nerveless arm hangs strangely by the chair,While at his frozen feet a kitten plays.Dead! Can it be, with children’s shouts without?So still he sits. How painful is the light,And deeper glows the crimson on his face,The sun has set, Goodnight.
Dead in his chair. The sun’s expiring raysWith crimson glow lights up the rigid face,And in the unclosed eyes that look afarA blood-red sunbeam finds a resting place.
Dead in his chair. The sun’s expiring rays
With crimson glow lights up the rigid face,
And in the unclosed eyes that look afar
A blood-red sunbeam finds a resting place.
Dead! with the pen still clutched in pulseless hand,“Dear wife,” sole words before his sightless gaze.One nerveless arm hangs strangely by the chair,While at his frozen feet a kitten plays.
Dead! with the pen still clutched in pulseless hand,
“Dear wife,” sole words before his sightless gaze.
One nerveless arm hangs strangely by the chair,
While at his frozen feet a kitten plays.
Dead! Can it be, with children’s shouts without?So still he sits. How painful is the light,And deeper glows the crimson on his face,The sun has set, Goodnight.
Dead! Can it be, with children’s shouts without?
So still he sits. How painful is the light,
And deeper glows the crimson on his face,
The sun has set, Goodnight.
The funeral march, it suiteth not my mood,Its Stygian tones are those on which men brood.Beyond its solemn measure lies the tomb,And shades dissolving in eternal gloom.Nay! rather let me hear some lively air,Whose Springtime notes suggest a morning fair,Filled with the pulsing joys that life can give,On this old earth, for oh! ’tis sweet to live.
The funeral march, it suiteth not my mood,Its Stygian tones are those on which men brood.Beyond its solemn measure lies the tomb,And shades dissolving in eternal gloom.
The funeral march, it suiteth not my mood,
Its Stygian tones are those on which men brood.
Beyond its solemn measure lies the tomb,
And shades dissolving in eternal gloom.
Nay! rather let me hear some lively air,Whose Springtime notes suggest a morning fair,Filled with the pulsing joys that life can give,On this old earth, for oh! ’tis sweet to live.
Nay! rather let me hear some lively air,
Whose Springtime notes suggest a morning fair,
Filled with the pulsing joys that life can give,
On this old earth, for oh! ’tis sweet to live.
The corn may spring, the corn may spring,And thou beside the river walk;Yet sad must be the song you sing,A withered flower on the stalk.The elms overhead are sighing,The solemn rooks around are flying,Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!And once ’twas here we walked alone,In that sweet hush of eventide,Before thy heart had turned to stone,Before thy love for me had died.The elms overhead are sighing,The solemn rooks around are flying,Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!Beyond the fence in peace I sleep,And soughing breezes kiss my grave.I hear my name, and thou dost weep,For I was fair and thou wert brave.The elms overhead are sighing,The solemn rooks around are flying,Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!I hear thee coming through the gate,I feel thee kneeling at my head.I hear thy cry, “Too late! Too late!”I love her now and she is dead.The elms overhead are sighing,The solemn rooks around are flying,Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!
The corn may spring, the corn may spring,And thou beside the river walk;Yet sad must be the song you sing,A withered flower on the stalk.The elms overhead are sighing,The solemn rooks around are flying,Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!
The corn may spring, the corn may spring,
And thou beside the river walk;
Yet sad must be the song you sing,
A withered flower on the stalk.
The elms overhead are sighing,
The solemn rooks around are flying,
Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!
And once ’twas here we walked alone,In that sweet hush of eventide,Before thy heart had turned to stone,Before thy love for me had died.The elms overhead are sighing,The solemn rooks around are flying,Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!
And once ’twas here we walked alone,
In that sweet hush of eventide,
Before thy heart had turned to stone,
Before thy love for me had died.
The elms overhead are sighing,
The solemn rooks around are flying,
Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!
Beyond the fence in peace I sleep,And soughing breezes kiss my grave.I hear my name, and thou dost weep,For I was fair and thou wert brave.The elms overhead are sighing,The solemn rooks around are flying,Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!
Beyond the fence in peace I sleep,
And soughing breezes kiss my grave.
I hear my name, and thou dost weep,
For I was fair and thou wert brave.
The elms overhead are sighing,
The solemn rooks around are flying,
Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!
I hear thee coming through the gate,I feel thee kneeling at my head.I hear thy cry, “Too late! Too late!”I love her now and she is dead.The elms overhead are sighing,The solemn rooks around are flying,Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!
I hear thee coming through the gate,
I feel thee kneeling at my head.
I hear thy cry, “Too late! Too late!”
I love her now and she is dead.
The elms overhead are sighing,
The solemn rooks around are flying,
Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw!
I’ll sing you a song about great Atilla,A mighty man was he.He was King of the Huns, had seventy sons,And daughters one hundred and three, three, three,And daughters 1, 0, 3.All nations vowed him a very fine fellow,With them he couldn’t agree;One Autumn so mellow, he conquered TorcelloA. D. four hundred and forty-three,Anno Domini 4, 4, 3.So he left a son to watch over the place,Though round it flowed the sea,And all over the place sprang the Kingly raceOf Torcellani—that’s me, me, me,Anno Domini 4, 4, 3.
I’ll sing you a song about great Atilla,A mighty man was he.He was King of the Huns, had seventy sons,And daughters one hundred and three, three, three,And daughters 1, 0, 3.
I’ll sing you a song about great Atilla,
A mighty man was he.
He was King of the Huns, had seventy sons,
And daughters one hundred and three, three, three,
And daughters 1, 0, 3.
All nations vowed him a very fine fellow,With them he couldn’t agree;One Autumn so mellow, he conquered TorcelloA. D. four hundred and forty-three,Anno Domini 4, 4, 3.
All nations vowed him a very fine fellow,
With them he couldn’t agree;
One Autumn so mellow, he conquered Torcello
A. D. four hundred and forty-three,
Anno Domini 4, 4, 3.
So he left a son to watch over the place,Though round it flowed the sea,And all over the place sprang the Kingly raceOf Torcellani—that’s me, me, me,Anno Domini 4, 4, 3.
So he left a son to watch over the place,
Though round it flowed the sea,
And all over the place sprang the Kingly race
Of Torcellani—that’s me, me, me,
Anno Domini 4, 4, 3.
Midst pastoral lands and purling recluse streamsThere dwells the maiden queen of recreant dreams,Gentian by name, a maid most wondrous fair,With eyes like astral and her glorious hair,Tangled with moonbeams, disputes the rightOf other garb to veil the beauteous sight.Her skin, as white as Ida’s Cretean snow,Outlines a form of soft voluptuous flowOf grace majestic, contours fair to see,Exquisite in their matchless symmetry;While, crowning all, a sweet and noble graceMarks every movement and o’erspreads her face.And having this described this noctal flower,The Muse will now define sweet Gentian’s power.From out her bower of amaranthine hueShe peers with eyes of soft, exquisite blue,And breathing gently, like a zephyr’s kiss,Enjoys alone the core of perfect bliss.Queen of a land, to every mortal givenA glimpse, at least, of what perchance is heaven;Queen of a land of terror, shame and crime,From life to death, and all that marketh time.Queen of a land more wondrous than our ownSweet Gentian reigns, and sways the realm alone.Mistress of nations, every soul on earthBecomes her vassal at the hour of birth.Kings are her subjects, as the peasant boy,And brilliant minds with her a fancy toy.Once steeped in sleep, all minds become as one,For Gentian’s spell o’er man has then begun.No longer cares of base terrestrial clayTorment the soul with visions of the day.Earth is no more, the river crossed is deep,Man dies each time his head is bowed in sleep,And Gentian paints the sphere to suit her mindCapricious as the sex of womankind.Now steeped in bliss she leads the love-sick swainAnd gives the kiss for which he sighed in vain.The maid who but that morn his glances fledCaresses lovingly his restless head.The hapless poet who is lost to fameHears in his sleep his own illustrious name,And, laurel crowned, looks back with scornful eyeInto a past of mean obscurity.The ship-wrecked boy on some far distant shoreIn happy dreamland sees his home once more,His mother’s face aglow with pride and joyAs to her breast she clasps her sailor boy,And summer seas beat on the golden sandThat forms the shore of Gentian’s wonderland.The ruined merchant’s heart again grows light,As fortune smiles on him at dead of night,And sheriff’s sales and judgment notes confessedNo longer break the weary toiler’s rest.Proudly he says, “My word is now my bond,”And coins the yellow dross with Gentian’s wand.The holy man, by church ordained a priest,In dreams partaketh of the merry feast,And sparkling glances when the hour is lateMake roguish havoc with the celibate.“Avaunt!” he cries, “such joys are not for me.”And wakes in prayer upon his bended knee.The scientist retires with addled brainTo dream his fretful genius o’er again,When from Cimmerian darkness breaks a lightThe Atlantic bridged bursts on his ’stonished sight.And then his mind is turned to stranger things,As up he soars on his invented wings.Begrimed with coal, the miner goes to restAnd sharp-drawn breaths inflate his manly chest.Sudden, the clothes are rudely thrust aside,His eyes with terror now stand open wide;The roof is falling, God! the whole mine shakes!A loud explosion, ’tis a dream, he wakes.A little elf, a girl, a tiny tot,With waxen face, indents the baby cot,And visions fair regale her infant sightOf cakes and candy through the silent night.Sleep, little angel, Gentian marks thy worth,A sleeping child, the sweetest thing on earth.’Midst dirt and filth, at night the city gloomSteals weird and sickly to a garret room,Where, breathing hard upon a mattress bare,A girlish form is outlined sleeping there.One of the lost, polluted, base, defiled,Yet once she slept, a little angel child.And now she moves, sweet Gentian enters in,And she is pure again and free from sin.The dry, parched lips with innocence now speak,And balmy breezes fan the fevered cheek.The little white-washed cottage standeth nearAnd mother’s voice sounds sweetly on her ear,While from the fields the scent of new mown hayComes strong and lusty at the close of day.Her little sisters and her brothers waitFor her to join them at the garden gate,And in her sleep her laugh is undefiled,For she is once again a little child.The anxious farmer sees his fallow landYield heavy crops beneath the reaper’s hand,And barren orchards bend beneath the weightOf golden fruit, ’twas joy to cultivate.No landlord’s agent doth his peace invade.He dreams of ownership, and taxes paid.The country parson turns and twists in bed,As mighty thoughts run rampant through his head.He mounts the village pulpit wreathed in smiles,And proudly gazes down the crowded aisles.Forgot is life, with its unvarnished viewsAnd vault-like echoes from the empty pews,The church is filled, his lips now move in prayer,And touched is every heart that’s gathered there.Not satisfied, his sermon follows next,And from a flower he takes his simple text.Now thrills his audience with his eloquence,And marvels greatly at his common sense;And as he speaks with love of our dear Lord,He sees ahead his well-earned, just reward.A scholar, preacher, helper of the sick,He gets at last a lawn-sleeved bishopric,But soon as he the pastoral crosier takes,The country parson to himself awakes.The hapless monarch on his bed of downNo longer sinks beneath the jeweled crown;His mind expands with liberty of thought,And heart proclaims his king-ship dearly bought.In sleep alone, his deep-drawn sighs confessHis heart’s desire, domestic happiness.“Domestic happiness,” sweet Gentian sings,“Belongs to laborers, and not to kings.”And so she bids us with a graceful easeAssume a virtue of some dread disease,Which pleases best the tricky fairy’s mind,Who hurts so much and yet can be so kind.Well do we know how perfect is her willWho makes us love the rival we would kill,Or vice versa, which more awful seemsShe makes us kill our rival in our dreams.Ah! gentle Gentian, what a power is thine,To be so cruel and yet so divine.
Midst pastoral lands and purling recluse streamsThere dwells the maiden queen of recreant dreams,Gentian by name, a maid most wondrous fair,With eyes like astral and her glorious hair,Tangled with moonbeams, disputes the rightOf other garb to veil the beauteous sight.Her skin, as white as Ida’s Cretean snow,Outlines a form of soft voluptuous flowOf grace majestic, contours fair to see,Exquisite in their matchless symmetry;While, crowning all, a sweet and noble graceMarks every movement and o’erspreads her face.And having this described this noctal flower,The Muse will now define sweet Gentian’s power.From out her bower of amaranthine hueShe peers with eyes of soft, exquisite blue,And breathing gently, like a zephyr’s kiss,Enjoys alone the core of perfect bliss.Queen of a land, to every mortal givenA glimpse, at least, of what perchance is heaven;Queen of a land of terror, shame and crime,From life to death, and all that marketh time.Queen of a land more wondrous than our ownSweet Gentian reigns, and sways the realm alone.Mistress of nations, every soul on earthBecomes her vassal at the hour of birth.Kings are her subjects, as the peasant boy,And brilliant minds with her a fancy toy.Once steeped in sleep, all minds become as one,For Gentian’s spell o’er man has then begun.No longer cares of base terrestrial clayTorment the soul with visions of the day.Earth is no more, the river crossed is deep,Man dies each time his head is bowed in sleep,And Gentian paints the sphere to suit her mindCapricious as the sex of womankind.Now steeped in bliss she leads the love-sick swainAnd gives the kiss for which he sighed in vain.The maid who but that morn his glances fledCaresses lovingly his restless head.The hapless poet who is lost to fameHears in his sleep his own illustrious name,And, laurel crowned, looks back with scornful eyeInto a past of mean obscurity.The ship-wrecked boy on some far distant shoreIn happy dreamland sees his home once more,His mother’s face aglow with pride and joyAs to her breast she clasps her sailor boy,And summer seas beat on the golden sandThat forms the shore of Gentian’s wonderland.The ruined merchant’s heart again grows light,As fortune smiles on him at dead of night,And sheriff’s sales and judgment notes confessedNo longer break the weary toiler’s rest.Proudly he says, “My word is now my bond,”And coins the yellow dross with Gentian’s wand.The holy man, by church ordained a priest,In dreams partaketh of the merry feast,And sparkling glances when the hour is lateMake roguish havoc with the celibate.“Avaunt!” he cries, “such joys are not for me.”And wakes in prayer upon his bended knee.The scientist retires with addled brainTo dream his fretful genius o’er again,When from Cimmerian darkness breaks a lightThe Atlantic bridged bursts on his ’stonished sight.And then his mind is turned to stranger things,As up he soars on his invented wings.Begrimed with coal, the miner goes to restAnd sharp-drawn breaths inflate his manly chest.Sudden, the clothes are rudely thrust aside,His eyes with terror now stand open wide;The roof is falling, God! the whole mine shakes!A loud explosion, ’tis a dream, he wakes.A little elf, a girl, a tiny tot,With waxen face, indents the baby cot,And visions fair regale her infant sightOf cakes and candy through the silent night.Sleep, little angel, Gentian marks thy worth,A sleeping child, the sweetest thing on earth.’Midst dirt and filth, at night the city gloomSteals weird and sickly to a garret room,Where, breathing hard upon a mattress bare,A girlish form is outlined sleeping there.One of the lost, polluted, base, defiled,Yet once she slept, a little angel child.And now she moves, sweet Gentian enters in,And she is pure again and free from sin.The dry, parched lips with innocence now speak,And balmy breezes fan the fevered cheek.The little white-washed cottage standeth nearAnd mother’s voice sounds sweetly on her ear,While from the fields the scent of new mown hayComes strong and lusty at the close of day.Her little sisters and her brothers waitFor her to join them at the garden gate,And in her sleep her laugh is undefiled,For she is once again a little child.The anxious farmer sees his fallow landYield heavy crops beneath the reaper’s hand,And barren orchards bend beneath the weightOf golden fruit, ’twas joy to cultivate.No landlord’s agent doth his peace invade.He dreams of ownership, and taxes paid.The country parson turns and twists in bed,As mighty thoughts run rampant through his head.He mounts the village pulpit wreathed in smiles,And proudly gazes down the crowded aisles.Forgot is life, with its unvarnished viewsAnd vault-like echoes from the empty pews,The church is filled, his lips now move in prayer,And touched is every heart that’s gathered there.Not satisfied, his sermon follows next,And from a flower he takes his simple text.Now thrills his audience with his eloquence,And marvels greatly at his common sense;And as he speaks with love of our dear Lord,He sees ahead his well-earned, just reward.A scholar, preacher, helper of the sick,He gets at last a lawn-sleeved bishopric,But soon as he the pastoral crosier takes,The country parson to himself awakes.The hapless monarch on his bed of downNo longer sinks beneath the jeweled crown;His mind expands with liberty of thought,And heart proclaims his king-ship dearly bought.In sleep alone, his deep-drawn sighs confessHis heart’s desire, domestic happiness.“Domestic happiness,” sweet Gentian sings,“Belongs to laborers, and not to kings.”And so she bids us with a graceful easeAssume a virtue of some dread disease,Which pleases best the tricky fairy’s mind,Who hurts so much and yet can be so kind.Well do we know how perfect is her willWho makes us love the rival we would kill,Or vice versa, which more awful seemsShe makes us kill our rival in our dreams.Ah! gentle Gentian, what a power is thine,To be so cruel and yet so divine.
Midst pastoral lands and purling recluse streams
There dwells the maiden queen of recreant dreams,
Gentian by name, a maid most wondrous fair,
With eyes like astral and her glorious hair,
Tangled with moonbeams, disputes the right
Of other garb to veil the beauteous sight.
Her skin, as white as Ida’s Cretean snow,
Outlines a form of soft voluptuous flow
Of grace majestic, contours fair to see,
Exquisite in their matchless symmetry;
While, crowning all, a sweet and noble grace
Marks every movement and o’erspreads her face.
And having this described this noctal flower,
The Muse will now define sweet Gentian’s power.
From out her bower of amaranthine hue
She peers with eyes of soft, exquisite blue,
And breathing gently, like a zephyr’s kiss,
Enjoys alone the core of perfect bliss.
Queen of a land, to every mortal given
A glimpse, at least, of what perchance is heaven;
Queen of a land of terror, shame and crime,
From life to death, and all that marketh time.
Queen of a land more wondrous than our own
Sweet Gentian reigns, and sways the realm alone.
Mistress of nations, every soul on earth
Becomes her vassal at the hour of birth.
Kings are her subjects, as the peasant boy,
And brilliant minds with her a fancy toy.
Once steeped in sleep, all minds become as one,
For Gentian’s spell o’er man has then begun.
No longer cares of base terrestrial clay
Torment the soul with visions of the day.
Earth is no more, the river crossed is deep,
Man dies each time his head is bowed in sleep,
And Gentian paints the sphere to suit her mind
Capricious as the sex of womankind.
Now steeped in bliss she leads the love-sick swain
And gives the kiss for which he sighed in vain.
The maid who but that morn his glances fled
Caresses lovingly his restless head.
The hapless poet who is lost to fame
Hears in his sleep his own illustrious name,
And, laurel crowned, looks back with scornful eye
Into a past of mean obscurity.
The ship-wrecked boy on some far distant shore
In happy dreamland sees his home once more,
His mother’s face aglow with pride and joy
As to her breast she clasps her sailor boy,
And summer seas beat on the golden sand
That forms the shore of Gentian’s wonderland.
The ruined merchant’s heart again grows light,
As fortune smiles on him at dead of night,
And sheriff’s sales and judgment notes confessed
No longer break the weary toiler’s rest.
Proudly he says, “My word is now my bond,”
And coins the yellow dross with Gentian’s wand.
The holy man, by church ordained a priest,
In dreams partaketh of the merry feast,
And sparkling glances when the hour is late
Make roguish havoc with the celibate.
“Avaunt!” he cries, “such joys are not for me.”
And wakes in prayer upon his bended knee.
The scientist retires with addled brain
To dream his fretful genius o’er again,
When from Cimmerian darkness breaks a light
The Atlantic bridged bursts on his ’stonished sight.
And then his mind is turned to stranger things,
As up he soars on his invented wings.
Begrimed with coal, the miner goes to rest
And sharp-drawn breaths inflate his manly chest.
Sudden, the clothes are rudely thrust aside,
His eyes with terror now stand open wide;
The roof is falling, God! the whole mine shakes!
A loud explosion, ’tis a dream, he wakes.
A little elf, a girl, a tiny tot,
With waxen face, indents the baby cot,
And visions fair regale her infant sight
Of cakes and candy through the silent night.
Sleep, little angel, Gentian marks thy worth,
A sleeping child, the sweetest thing on earth.
’Midst dirt and filth, at night the city gloom
Steals weird and sickly to a garret room,
Where, breathing hard upon a mattress bare,
A girlish form is outlined sleeping there.
One of the lost, polluted, base, defiled,
Yet once she slept, a little angel child.
And now she moves, sweet Gentian enters in,
And she is pure again and free from sin.
The dry, parched lips with innocence now speak,
And balmy breezes fan the fevered cheek.
The little white-washed cottage standeth near
And mother’s voice sounds sweetly on her ear,
While from the fields the scent of new mown hay
Comes strong and lusty at the close of day.
Her little sisters and her brothers wait
For her to join them at the garden gate,
And in her sleep her laugh is undefiled,
For she is once again a little child.
The anxious farmer sees his fallow land
Yield heavy crops beneath the reaper’s hand,
And barren orchards bend beneath the weight
Of golden fruit, ’twas joy to cultivate.
No landlord’s agent doth his peace invade.
He dreams of ownership, and taxes paid.
The country parson turns and twists in bed,
As mighty thoughts run rampant through his head.
He mounts the village pulpit wreathed in smiles,
And proudly gazes down the crowded aisles.
Forgot is life, with its unvarnished views
And vault-like echoes from the empty pews,
The church is filled, his lips now move in prayer,
And touched is every heart that’s gathered there.
Not satisfied, his sermon follows next,
And from a flower he takes his simple text.
Now thrills his audience with his eloquence,
And marvels greatly at his common sense;
And as he speaks with love of our dear Lord,
He sees ahead his well-earned, just reward.
A scholar, preacher, helper of the sick,
He gets at last a lawn-sleeved bishopric,
But soon as he the pastoral crosier takes,
The country parson to himself awakes.
The hapless monarch on his bed of down
No longer sinks beneath the jeweled crown;
His mind expands with liberty of thought,
And heart proclaims his king-ship dearly bought.
In sleep alone, his deep-drawn sighs confess
His heart’s desire, domestic happiness.
“Domestic happiness,” sweet Gentian sings,
“Belongs to laborers, and not to kings.”
And so she bids us with a graceful ease
Assume a virtue of some dread disease,
Which pleases best the tricky fairy’s mind,
Who hurts so much and yet can be so kind.
Well do we know how perfect is her will
Who makes us love the rival we would kill,
Or vice versa, which more awful seems
She makes us kill our rival in our dreams.
Ah! gentle Gentian, what a power is thine,
To be so cruel and yet so divine.
There is a grandeur in the man,Who views with calm that endless sleep;Who looks beyond the taking off,Conceives the goal beyond the deep.
There is a grandeur in the man,Who views with calm that endless sleep;Who looks beyond the taking off,Conceives the goal beyond the deep.
There is a grandeur in the man,
Who views with calm that endless sleep;
Who looks beyond the taking off,
Conceives the goal beyond the deep.
Life is a sarcasm rare,It stands in a class of its own,While love thrills the heart of the fairDecay is at work on the bone.That instant the clasp is undoneThe mantle of life slips away,And beauty men worshipped of yoreBecomes but inanimate clay.There’s reason in all things save death,And no one knows why that should be;What is there mysterious in breath,That it should so suddenly flee?Nay, ask not the bent, aged form,The cripple, the starving, the weak,But he whose life-blood courses warm,With health in his eye, on his cheek.Go ask him what thinks he of death,He will laugh in his heart for reply,With sarcasm bating his breath,He will tell you he’s ready to die.
Life is a sarcasm rare,It stands in a class of its own,While love thrills the heart of the fairDecay is at work on the bone.
Life is a sarcasm rare,
It stands in a class of its own,
While love thrills the heart of the fair
Decay is at work on the bone.
That instant the clasp is undoneThe mantle of life slips away,And beauty men worshipped of yoreBecomes but inanimate clay.
That instant the clasp is undone
The mantle of life slips away,
And beauty men worshipped of yore
Becomes but inanimate clay.
There’s reason in all things save death,And no one knows why that should be;What is there mysterious in breath,That it should so suddenly flee?
There’s reason in all things save death,
And no one knows why that should be;
What is there mysterious in breath,
That it should so suddenly flee?
Nay, ask not the bent, aged form,The cripple, the starving, the weak,But he whose life-blood courses warm,With health in his eye, on his cheek.
Nay, ask not the bent, aged form,
The cripple, the starving, the weak,
But he whose life-blood courses warm,
With health in his eye, on his cheek.
Go ask him what thinks he of death,He will laugh in his heart for reply,With sarcasm bating his breath,He will tell you he’s ready to die.
Go ask him what thinks he of death,
He will laugh in his heart for reply,
With sarcasm bating his breath,
He will tell you he’s ready to die.
“Your soul! your soul!” the preachers cry.“What is a soul?” is man’s reply.“To know his soul, must man not die?”“What is a soul?” I’m glad you ask.The soul is life, the form, the mask.The answer was not such a task.The soul is in the ambient air,Down in the earth, in landscape fair.’Tis in the sea, ’tis everywhere.To know his soul man must not die,For ’tis the life he liveth by,Connecting him with God on high.
“Your soul! your soul!” the preachers cry.“What is a soul?” is man’s reply.“To know his soul, must man not die?”
“Your soul! your soul!” the preachers cry.
“What is a soul?” is man’s reply.
“To know his soul, must man not die?”
“What is a soul?” I’m glad you ask.The soul is life, the form, the mask.The answer was not such a task.
“What is a soul?” I’m glad you ask.
The soul is life, the form, the mask.
The answer was not such a task.
The soul is in the ambient air,Down in the earth, in landscape fair.’Tis in the sea, ’tis everywhere.
The soul is in the ambient air,
Down in the earth, in landscape fair.
’Tis in the sea, ’tis everywhere.
To know his soul man must not die,For ’tis the life he liveth by,Connecting him with God on high.
To know his soul man must not die,
For ’tis the life he liveth by,
Connecting him with God on high.
Theme by uncounted thousands written,In Sanscrit, Greek, Teutonic, Latin;Theme that bewildered all their senses,Theme on which vapory thought condenses;Stupendous, contradictory, thrilling,A most mysterious part fulfilling;An endless night that has no morning,Though millions tear-dimmed wait its dawning;A theme divine, in doubt distressing,A curse to some, to more a blessing;Where life began—and where it ceases?The more we think the light decreases.Conflicting doubts half smother reason,Which complicates with age and season,Until, with aching brain confessing,The greatest sage returns to guessing.Happy that simple-hearted creatureWho in the Bible finds a teacher.
Theme by uncounted thousands written,In Sanscrit, Greek, Teutonic, Latin;Theme that bewildered all their senses,Theme on which vapory thought condenses;Stupendous, contradictory, thrilling,A most mysterious part fulfilling;An endless night that has no morning,Though millions tear-dimmed wait its dawning;A theme divine, in doubt distressing,A curse to some, to more a blessing;Where life began—and where it ceases?The more we think the light decreases.Conflicting doubts half smother reason,Which complicates with age and season,Until, with aching brain confessing,The greatest sage returns to guessing.Happy that simple-hearted creatureWho in the Bible finds a teacher.
Theme by uncounted thousands written,
In Sanscrit, Greek, Teutonic, Latin;
Theme that bewildered all their senses,
Theme on which vapory thought condenses;
Stupendous, contradictory, thrilling,
A most mysterious part fulfilling;
An endless night that has no morning,
Though millions tear-dimmed wait its dawning;
A theme divine, in doubt distressing,
A curse to some, to more a blessing;
Where life began—and where it ceases?
The more we think the light decreases.
Conflicting doubts half smother reason,
Which complicates with age and season,
Until, with aching brain confessing,
The greatest sage returns to guessing.
Happy that simple-hearted creature
Who in the Bible finds a teacher.
Oh! Death sublime, the end of our tempestuous struggle here,Enfolding arms, and breast on which to lay our troubled head,Eternal Gates! through which we turn our face from earthly cares,And then our God, whose outstretched arms await the ransomed Dead.
Oh! Death sublime, the end of our tempestuous struggle here,Enfolding arms, and breast on which to lay our troubled head,Eternal Gates! through which we turn our face from earthly cares,And then our God, whose outstretched arms await the ransomed Dead.
Oh! Death sublime, the end of our tempestuous struggle here,
Enfolding arms, and breast on which to lay our troubled head,
Eternal Gates! through which we turn our face from earthly cares,
And then our God, whose outstretched arms await the ransomed Dead.
And when the curfew of our lifeProclaims that even-tide has come,And peaceful shadows end the strife,The day is done,The goal is won.
And when the curfew of our lifeProclaims that even-tide has come,And peaceful shadows end the strife,The day is done,The goal is won.
And when the curfew of our life
Proclaims that even-tide has come,
And peaceful shadows end the strife,
The day is done,
The goal is won.
Life has been thy courtship, sad thy smile,Persistent wooer, always by my side;Pray leave me with the things of earth awhile,Said I that I e’er loved thee? Then I lied.
Life has been thy courtship, sad thy smile,Persistent wooer, always by my side;Pray leave me with the things of earth awhile,Said I that I e’er loved thee? Then I lied.
Life has been thy courtship, sad thy smile,
Persistent wooer, always by my side;
Pray leave me with the things of earth awhile,
Said I that I e’er loved thee? Then I lied.
So weak, dear Lord, so tired,And Thou so great and strong.Wilt Thou not stretch Thine hand to earth,To help a soul along?
So weak, dear Lord, so tired,And Thou so great and strong.Wilt Thou not stretch Thine hand to earth,To help a soul along?
So weak, dear Lord, so tired,
And Thou so great and strong.
Wilt Thou not stretch Thine hand to earth,
To help a soul along?
“Christ was born today!”Hear the joy bells ringing,“Christ was born today!”Hear the children singing.“Christ was born today,Christ was born today!”“Christ was born today!”Hear the love-bells ringing;“Christ was born today!”Hear the old folks singing.“Christ was born today,Christ was born today!”“Christ was born today!”Joy and gladness bringing,“Christ was born today!”All the world is singing.“Christ was born today!”Forever and for aye,“Christ was born today!”
“Christ was born today!”Hear the joy bells ringing,“Christ was born today!”Hear the children singing.“Christ was born today,Christ was born today!”
“Christ was born today!”
Hear the joy bells ringing,
“Christ was born today!”
Hear the children singing.
“Christ was born today,
Christ was born today!”
“Christ was born today!”Hear the love-bells ringing;“Christ was born today!”Hear the old folks singing.“Christ was born today,Christ was born today!”
“Christ was born today!”
Hear the love-bells ringing;
“Christ was born today!”
Hear the old folks singing.
“Christ was born today,
Christ was born today!”
“Christ was born today!”Joy and gladness bringing,“Christ was born today!”All the world is singing.“Christ was born today!”Forever and for aye,“Christ was born today!”
“Christ was born today!”
Joy and gladness bringing,
“Christ was born today!”
All the world is singing.
“Christ was born today!”
Forever and for aye,
“Christ was born today!”
I’ve girded on my armor,To battle for the Lord;Though all the world oppose me,I will uphold His Word.Though tired, wounded, bleeding,My sword still flashes free.I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus,Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me?His name is on my bannerIn letters writ in gold;The glorious name of JESUSLet all the world behold,And in the mighty combatMy leader’s face I see.I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus,Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me?
I’ve girded on my armor,To battle for the Lord;Though all the world oppose me,I will uphold His Word.Though tired, wounded, bleeding,My sword still flashes free.I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus,Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me?
I’ve girded on my armor,
To battle for the Lord;
Though all the world oppose me,
I will uphold His Word.
Though tired, wounded, bleeding,
My sword still flashes free.
I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus,
Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me?
His name is on my bannerIn letters writ in gold;The glorious name of JESUSLet all the world behold,And in the mighty combatMy leader’s face I see.I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus,Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me?
His name is on my banner
In letters writ in gold;
The glorious name of JESUS
Let all the world behold,
And in the mighty combat
My leader’s face I see.
I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus,
Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me?
It is the Lord of Heaven tonightWho’s speaking unto me,And I can see His radiant lightWith great intensity.He’s here beside me now,He takes my trembling hands.Shout out—let all the world shout out,My Saviour understands.
It is the Lord of Heaven tonightWho’s speaking unto me,And I can see His radiant lightWith great intensity.He’s here beside me now,He takes my trembling hands.Shout out—let all the world shout out,My Saviour understands.
It is the Lord of Heaven tonight
Who’s speaking unto me,
And I can see His radiant light
With great intensity.
He’s here beside me now,
He takes my trembling hands.
Shout out—let all the world shout out,
My Saviour understands.
Many there are who would love to seeThings as they are,Things as they are.Life is not what we want it to be.Not what we want it to be:God, give us light,God, give us sight,God, send us peace ere the coming of night.Many there are who desire to doThat which is right,That which is right.Vainly we strive with this end in view,Strive with this end in view:Help us, Great Friend,Strength to us send,Be our Protector, dear Lord, to the end.
Many there are who would love to seeThings as they are,Things as they are.Life is not what we want it to be.Not what we want it to be:God, give us light,God, give us sight,God, send us peace ere the coming of night.
Many there are who would love to see
Things as they are,
Things as they are.
Life is not what we want it to be.
Not what we want it to be:
God, give us light,
God, give us sight,
God, send us peace ere the coming of night.
Many there are who desire to doThat which is right,That which is right.Vainly we strive with this end in view,Strive with this end in view:Help us, Great Friend,Strength to us send,Be our Protector, dear Lord, to the end.
Many there are who desire to do
That which is right,
That which is right.
Vainly we strive with this end in view,
Strive with this end in view:
Help us, Great Friend,
Strength to us send,
Be our Protector, dear Lord, to the end.
Through all the bitter cares of life,One sadder sight I see;My own dear Saviour, on the Cross,Who died on Calvary.What are my aches to His?Then why should I despair?The One who gave His life for allWill help our Cross to bear.Into the valley of my soul,Where deep the shadows lie,There comes a shout from Calvary:“Look upward to the sky!Look up, Oh! fainting heart,His outstretched arms receive;For Christ is coming down to earth,Look up, faint heart! Believe!”
Through all the bitter cares of life,One sadder sight I see;My own dear Saviour, on the Cross,Who died on Calvary.What are my aches to His?Then why should I despair?The One who gave His life for allWill help our Cross to bear.
Through all the bitter cares of life,
One sadder sight I see;
My own dear Saviour, on the Cross,
Who died on Calvary.
What are my aches to His?
Then why should I despair?
The One who gave His life for all
Will help our Cross to bear.
Into the valley of my soul,Where deep the shadows lie,There comes a shout from Calvary:“Look upward to the sky!Look up, Oh! fainting heart,His outstretched arms receive;For Christ is coming down to earth,Look up, faint heart! Believe!”
Into the valley of my soul,
Where deep the shadows lie,
There comes a shout from Calvary:
“Look upward to the sky!
Look up, Oh! fainting heart,
His outstretched arms receive;
For Christ is coming down to earth,
Look up, faint heart! Believe!”
Albuquerque, New Mexico,May 14, 1921.