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SANDAVORT. 
 
 Nothing but an insignificant dusty-leaved weed — a weed transformed into 
 a flower only for an hour or two every day." — Lucy Larcoin. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 "7 
 
 ANNA J. GRANNISS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 SKIPPED STITCHES." 
 
 7v- ^- \ '^ \ 
 
 ' AUG ': M ^^ 
 
 KEENK, N, H. : 
 
 T).\KHN(; .V rOMl'ANV, l;o(>K AND )l)i; ViaiNTiCK 
 
 1897. 
 
 'V-.o 
 
 ^^' 
 

 Copyright 1897, 
 by Anna J. Granmss. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
TO 
 M. F.. W. AND S. I. L. 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 
 IS GRATEFULLY DEniCATEO. 
 
FATUEll. BLESS THEM! 
 
 [Mil Jirnrfacfors.] 
 
 Edflirr, iin/ tiro hands were cinptij, 
 
 And they filled them; 
 All my needs awake and .crying. 
 
 And. they stilled them. 
 
 My tired feet covld go no farther, 
 
 And they stayed them; 
 All my fears arose together. 
 
 They allaj/ed them. 
 
 Father, is there nn Kmall service 
 
 I can render f 
 No appreciative token 
 
 I can tender f 
 
 I have never seen, tlieir faces — 
 
 Thou dost know them! 
 Even here, this side of heaven, 
 
 Wilt thou show them 
 
 Some nriv. uncrpected blessing 
 
 As part guerdon; 
 Smile upon tliem for so lifting 
 
 Off my bnrdrn ! 
 
 NigJifly, let their sleep be sweeter 
 
 For this sliaring; 
 Da ill/ make the pathway safer 
 
 To their faring. 
 
 (lire them length of days, my Faf/ier 
 
 Weight t/tem lightly — 
 Let thy love to children's cliildrcn 
 Shine on brightly ! 
 
 Add. my prayers to tliy bonrdy, 
 
 And express them 
 Tn the gift of thine own presence — 
 
 Father, bless them ! 
 
I N^ U E X . 
 
 Sandwort ;) 
 
 A Tuft of Sandwort in the Sun i:'. 
 
 Five Petals 17 
 
 Too Tired to Trust 22 
 
 FrieS'dship 23 
 
 June 24 
 
 Call Her Not Away 25 
 
 A Bruised Reed 26 
 
 In Loving Memory of P. F. P 28 
 
 Song of the Redeemed 30 
 
 On Wings 31 
 
 Ideal Recreation 33 
 
 Tired of the Struggle 35 
 
 "Be-be Goo-coo" 36 
 
 In Passing Through the World 3S 
 
 A Toil Song '. 40 
 
 Pilgrims Faring Valley-ward 41 
 
 The World Wants a Song 43 
 
 What Does It Mean ? 45 
 
 To M y Mother on Her Seventy-sixth Birthday 47 
 
 Two Women 52 
 
 Singing Brook 53 
 
 A Plea to the Winter Winds 55 
 
 A Petal for You 56 
 
 Finding the Flowers 58 
 
 The Old Even-Song 60 
 
SANDVV^ORT. 
 
 This wee, wee tlower I've taken for my own, 
 because it lives with me here on the plain; 
 
 Into my life its tiny roots have grown, 
 
 And we together share God's sun and rain. 
 
 Hast ever seen the Hower ? It is so small 
 
 And has so little in itself to give, 
 You may not count it any flower at all, 
 
 And yet it joys to he allowed to live. 
 
 It opens in the sunshine, and it grows 
 
 Close to the ground, and is of such small worth 
 
 It takes its life and all the name it knows, 
 Out of the common sand upon the earth. 
 
 Its blossom is the least of all its kind — 
 There is a kind which grows beside the sea, 
 
 While on high mountains, in the rarer wind, 
 Another rings small bells inaudibly. 
 
 This, loves to creep along the edge of walks 
 Almost deserted, and half overgrowai, 
 
 Where you may see tall tiger-lily stalks 
 
 Still standing guard o"er happiness long flown 
 
10 SANDWOKT. 
 
 Froin some old house, untenanted for years, 
 
 Whose whispering walls and vacant staring eyes 
 
 Seem ever telling tales, and dropping tears 
 Over the dust of buried memories. 
 
 Such places seem to court the tiny bloom, 
 As if to kiss the footprints of their dead, 
 
 And win the living from all thoughts of gloom, 
 When back to their old haunts the feet are led. 
 
 And sometimes I have seen it in a place 
 
 Where rumbling wheels passed dangerously near, 
 
 And even there, it lifted up a face 
 
 Full of a confidence that knew no fear. 
 
 And near to humble homes where guests are few. 
 Its wee, pink star-eyes have been known to shine — 
 
 I've seen the sweetest ones I ever knew, 
 
 Near such a quiet door — it grows near mine. 
 
 I saw a garden once — from left to right 
 
 Grew great white lilies with deep golden hearts; 
 Pale roses blushed just at their own delight, 
 
 And strange flowers hung, shot thro' with crimson 
 darts. 
 Amazed I stood before a wondrous bloom, 
 
 And half in awe I asked, '' How came it so ? " 
 The florist said, '' We gave tJdfi all the room. 
 
 Pinched back the Inids, and forced the flower to grow. ' ' 
 
 I felt half saddened as I left the place, 
 For this was culture, and applied I knew 
 
 To life, to human minds and christian grace, 
 And highest culture comes but to a few. 
 
SANDWORT. 11 
 
 1 thought of some great souls upon the earth, 
 With lives now bursting into perfect flower, 
 
 Whom God in wisdom has accounted worth 
 A special exhibition of His power. 
 
 Not all, I mused, shall be accounted so. 
 
 And yet, the least, lie loves enough to save; 
 
 The weaker souls, and humbler flowers that grow, 
 Are using the capacities He gave. 
 
 With thoughts like these, I saw with quickened eyes, 
 The simple flower I'd often seen before. 
 
 But this was when I came to realize 
 
 And love the little sandwort near my door. 
 
 ""Twas afternoon, long past its opening hour. 
 And shut within its calyx made no sign; 
 
 But oh, I thought, this small uncultured flower 
 Is like those many other lives — and mine ! 
 
 Thisi never was pinched back to make it grow; 
 
 It was not worth the forcing fuller bloom; 
 But with a million others, lying low 
 
 It shares the light, and all there is of room. 
 
 It seems to know God loves it as it is. 
 
 His hand is all that ever gives it care. 
 Its only culture is that it is His, 
 
 Its only right is that He placed it there. 
 
 No graceful, bending stalk to swing and sway. 
 
 No graces urging it to rivalry; 
 Its little life laid open to the day, 
 
 Rooted in sand, but looking toward the sky. 
 
12 SANDWOKT. 
 
 I've seen it stepped on; seen great cruel heels 
 Go crushing- thro' its petals — oh, the pain ! 
 
 Then with a strength adversity reveals, 
 I've seen it lift and face the sun again. 
 
 And this is sandwort. At my life's high noon. 
 
 I pull a little tuft and send away; 
 It is a flower that closes over-soon, 
 
 And will not blossom later in the day. 
 
 ""^'^"^^ 
 
A TIFT OF SANDWORT IN TIIK SITN. 13 
 
 A TUFT OF SANDWORT IN THE SUN, 
 
 To-day is my glad gala day, 
 And my heart beats a roundelay 
 
 Set to a merry tune; 
 The sun is bright, the skies are l)lue. 
 The world is fair, and friends are true, 
 
 And life a rosy June. 
 
 I'm light as thistle-down in air, 
 Just floating here and lighting there, 
 
 And nowhere very long. 
 I hear the birds in glade and grove; 
 They sing of youth and hapjiy love, 
 
 And life is like a song, 
 
 I've found a spring that bubbles u}), 
 I drink from out the leafy cuj) 
 
 Just as the fairies drink; 
 You wonder where do fairies go ? 
 I must not tell you, but I know 
 
 They vanish in a wink. 
 
 I go to join a fairy ring. 
 
 To learn some pretty things to sing 
 
 On my next gala day; 
 And once I sing a fairy song. 
 Ah, me ! and once I sing it wrong 
 
 I sing my life away ! 
 
14 A n FT OF SANDWORT IN TITK STK- 
 
 The world is so old, so old, alas ! 
 
 The skeleton years show through, 
 But it only takes a smile and a tear 
 
 To make it all over new, 
 
 A tear drops down from a small gray cloud. 
 
 That happens to hide the sun, 
 And washes the dear old wrinkled face, 
 
 And the miracle is half done. 
 
 Then a smile keej^s dimpling in and out^ 
 Till the shy green things peep thro'. 
 
 And this is the way, year after year, 
 The world is made over new. 
 
 ITp, up^ my pretty blue-bird, 
 
 Up and away; 
 I know how sweet your life is, 
 
 Day after day. 
 
 You've been down in the grasses, 
 
 Xow up you fly; 
 There's a nest full of treasure 
 
 Somewhere near l)y. 
 
 Oh, I know all about it ! 
 
 Fly the wrong way ; 
 I have seen you maneuver 
 
 Before to -da v. 
 
A TTFT OF SAXDWOllT IX 'PIIK STN. 15 
 
 But I know where your nest is, 
 
 Dear little cheat ! 
 Von are acting a falsehood, 
 
 To mislead my feet. 
 
 It is plain yon don't know me, 
 
 Mrs. Blue Fluff, 
 But I know yon^ and love you — 
 
 That is enoui;li ! 
 
 I won't hurt your hirdies, 
 
 Honest and true ! 
 Oh, I see, they are eggs yet, 
 
 What — only two ? 
 
 You thought that bitter loss of yesterday. 
 
 That ho^.e resigned, proved all your toil in vain; 
 
 You did not know it was a step toward heaven. 
 Though taken slowly, with a sense of pain. 
 
16 A TUFT OF SANDWOKT IN TIFF SF^. 
 
 So many, oli, so many dear have died, 
 Yet we who live, no better understand 
 
 What death is like — the dead seem satislied. 
 As though obedient to some glad command — 
 But oh, the living weep on every hand. 
 
 Some call death a condition; man's last state — 
 Inevitable end to mortal strife; 
 
 More say, a portal opened soon or late. 
 Through which he passes to immortal life, 
 Where souls exult, and love and joy are rife. 
 
 C ) timid soul ! on God thou hast relied — 
 
 Why fear death so, since nothing harms but sin? 
 
 Then when for thee the portal opens wide. 
 Be not afraid ; with hushed feet enter in ; 
 Christ went before, thy heaven and mine to win. 
 
 We grow to love the dull routine of care; 
 
 The round of duties done for Love's own sake. 
 Until, in Life's strong chain of circumstance, 
 
 We tremble lest a single link shall break. 
 
 '^^^f 
 
 0^^'='=^ 
 
FIVK PETALS, 17 
 
 FIVE PETALS. 
 I. 
 
 They're bruised and torn, so constantly for us, 
 The lovely flower-folk, plucked by branch and stem, 
 
 How do we know but that the sudden wrench 
 Has something in it which means jjain to them ? 
 
 Somehow, the scientists have come to know 
 That there are colors which we cannot see. 
 
 And insect voices all too finely keyed 
 For us to take note of their melody. 
 
 Our senses are so dull, how can we tell 
 
 But flowers make protest, or plead and moan. 
 
 When we make havoc in their families. 
 
 Which may have ties as tender as our own ? 
 
 Wee flower-folk, of frail but ancient race. 
 Older, wiser for aught we know, than man, 
 
 For what you may have suffered at his hands, 
 I ask for all — ' ' Forgive us if you can ! ' ' 
 
18 FIVK PETALS. 
 
 II, 
 
 A happy thouglit has lately come to nie, 
 And taken from my heart a haunthig fear 
 
 That just the "' lettmg go '' will he a pang, 
 
 Which seems to make the price of life too dear. 
 
 The wisest man the world has ever known, 
 
 Though questioned closely, could not speak and say 
 
 If it were joy or pain in that tirst cry, 
 When he drew hreath upon his natal day. 
 
 Perhaps (I thought) this thing the world dreads so, 
 That we, with pallid lips, have named it Death, 
 
 May only he the souFs unconscious cry, 
 
 When in the air of heaven it catches hreath , 
 
FIVE PKTAL'^. 19 
 
 III. 
 
 You are singing your song too soon by half, 
 You cricket brown, in the meadow grasses. 
 
 And the daisies' hearts are all blown to chaff 
 By the chilly north wind as it passes. 
 
 Where now are the glories the June days pledged 
 In the opening leaf and budded roses ? 
 
 The birds have flown with their young half -fledged, 
 And with their flight the summer closes. 
 
 Where are the sweets the humming-ljird misses ? 
 
 And missing, dies for a sip of nectar — 
 Summer is chary of dewy kisses. 
 
 And the sun hangs high a pallid spectre. 
 
 The sun grows cold like a faithless lover. 
 
 And summer dies as his glance grows colder; 
 
 But repenting late, he bends to cover, 
 
 And in gold and crimson robes to fold her. 
 
20 FIVE PETALS, 
 
 IV. 
 
 A leaf before the wind, helpless and frail, 
 lias always seemed most pitiful to me; 
 
 Type of a life borne down upon the gale 
 Of swift disaster or calamity. 
 
 (Tiven no choice, but hurried blindly on 
 
 By some strong force outside of its control, 
 
 To suddenly discover hope is gone. 
 
 And adverse winds let loose upon the soul. 
 
 The leaf finds lodgment somewhere at the last; 
 
 Against some sheltering hedge it finds a place — 
 Heaven grant poor driven souls, when life is past. 
 
 May find a lodgment somewhere in God's grace. 
 
FIVK I> PETALS. 21 
 
 V. 
 
 A day, a month, a year, 
 Over and over again ; 
 A smile, a sigh, a tear. 
 And the bitter and sweet have been, 
 
 A day, a month, a year. 
 The story sweet and old ; 
 A voice, a heart to hear. 
 And the love of a life is told. 
 
 A day, a month, a year, 
 
 A sweet hope laid away; 
 
 A bride, a breath, a bier. 
 
 And pale hands folded over clay. 
 
 A year, a month, a day — 
 The sands of life are rnn ; 
 A flower of fleeting May, 
 All so soon over with, and done ! 
 
22 TOO TIRED TO TRUST. 
 
 TOO TIRED TO TRUST. 
 
 '' I'm too tired to trust, and too tired to pray ! '' 
 
 Said one as the over-taxed strength gave way; 
 
 "• The one conscious thought by my mind possessed 
 
 Is, oh, could I just dro}^ it all and rest ! 
 
 But will God forgive me do you suppose, 
 
 If I go to sleep as a ba,by goes. 
 
 Without even asking Ilim if I may. 
 
 Without even trying to trust or pray? "" 
 
 Will (rod forgive you? Why just think, dear heart, 
 
 While language to you was an unknown art, 
 
 Did a mother deny you needed rest, 
 
 ( )r refuse to pillow you on her breast ? 
 
 Oh no, but she cradled you in her arms, 
 
 Then guarded your sluml)er against alarms; 
 
 And how quick was her mother-love to see 
 
 The unconscious yearnings awake in thee ! 
 
 When you've grown too weary to trust or pray, 
 
 When over- wrought nature has given way. 
 
 Then just drop it all, and give up to rest. 
 
 As you used to do on a mother's breast. 
 
 lie knows all about it — the dear Lord knows, 
 
 So just go to sleep as a baby goes. 
 
 Without even asking Him if you may; 
 
 God knows when Ilis child is too tired to pray. 
 
TOO TIKKI) TO TKrST. 23 
 
 He judges not solely by uttered prayer; 
 He knows when the yearnings of love are there ; 
 He knows you do pray, he knows you do trust, 
 And He knows the limits of poor weak dust — 
 Oh, the wonderful sympathy of Christ 
 For IHs chosen ones in that midnight tryst, 
 When He bade them sleej) on and take their rest. 
 While on IHm the guilt of the whole world pressed ! 
 YouVe given your life u}) to Him to keep? 
 Then don't be afraid to go right to sleep. 
 
 t/TN. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 I know how sweet a thing it is. 
 
 How strong, how steadfast, and how true; 
 I thought its virtues half divine, 
 
 And proved them so, my friend, in you. 
 
 ■"^p^ 
 
24 JUNK. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 June, with suiisliine in her eyes. 
 Passed her hand across the skies, 
 Then, with archly smiling lips. 
 Blew upon her linger-tips. 
 Soon the air grew wondrous sweet. 
 Overhead, and under feet, 
 Under feet, and overhead. 
 Trooped the roses, white and red; 
 
 Troo})ed the roses — crimson, white, 
 Pink and yellow, pale and l)right. 
 Till they perfumed earth and air — 
 Roses, roses, everywhere; 
 Wearied then, she shook her head, 
 And the petals, white and red, 
 All the petals — crimson, white, 
 Pink and yellow, pale and bright, 
 Fluttered slowly, softly down 
 To the border of her gown. 
 Half dismayed to see them fall. 
 Quick she turned to leave them all. 
 And looking back to say good-by, 
 Met the warm glance of July. 
 
l'AI;L 11 KK NOT AWAY. 25 
 
 CALL HER NOT AWAY. 
 
 spirit-sister, call her not away ! 
 
 All lieav'n is yours, the others are with you: 
 We here on earth cling closer day by day, 
 And oh, we need each other so — we two ! 
 
 You do not miss her presence everywhere; 
 
 Then urge not so your spirit influence. 
 Ileav'n is not dark because she is not there, 
 
 But I would have no light were she called hence. 
 
 There are no tears in heaven; you do not weep, 
 But sing your joyous melodies clear through, 
 
 1 should not sing, but sob myself to sleep, 
 For all my years, even as children do. 
 
 O spirit-sister, call her not away ! 
 
 I've never been without her since my birth; 
 You have the others, sister, let her stay — 
 
 The lone one needs the mother here on earth ! 
 
26 A BRUISED REED. 
 
 A BRUISED REED. 
 
 Like a bruised reed is this life of mine; 
 
 Break it not quite, 
 Heal it, my Father, with a touch divine, 
 
 If it be right. 
 
 Let it once more stand strong in its own place. 
 
 And breathe and grow. 
 And look the cold world calmly in the face. 
 
 Fearing no foe. 
 
 Is it not more to Thee than reed or flower ? 
 
 Enshrined within 
 There is a conscious, ever-living power 
 
 To conquer sin. 
 
 This life of mine, with all its pain and need. 
 
 Its one long ache. 
 Is it not more to Thee than that bruised reed. 
 
 Thou wouldst not break '? 
 
 Then lift it up, my Father, and I pray 
 
 Do Thou stand by 
 Till it can bear the burdens of the day 
 
 Courageously. 
 
A BUriSEI) KKEJ). 27 
 
 Do Tliou stand by, till it is strong to bear 
 
 Temptation's test; 
 Till it has learned upon Thy tender care 
 
 To lean and rest, 
 
 A bruised life, if it be dutiful. 
 
 Bearing its soar. 
 May it not grow to be as beautiful 
 
 As others are ? 
 
 And when the world's unpitying eyes have scanned, 
 
 The scar have found, 
 Then let it plead — " 'Twas here God laid his hand, 
 
 And healed a wound I " 
 
28 IN LOVING MEMORY OF P. F. P. 
 
 IN LOVING MEMORY OF 
 P. F. P. 
 
 She was our friend — she loved the things we love ; 
 The same fair earth, the same far sky above; 
 The trees, the flowers, the pleasant atmosphere, 
 She loved them all — but lately she was here ! 
 
 She loved the rocks, the mosses and the fern. 
 Learned lessons of them each and all in turn ; 
 The tender grass, the lilies of the field. 
 To her receptive soul they all appealed. 
 
 She loved the voice of birds and piping things, 
 The gleam of color on their restless wings. 
 The humming-birds that hung al)ove her flowers. 
 She was their friend — l)ut lately she was ours ! 
 
 The foliage she loved; while half unseen 
 It tinted distant hills with misty green, 
 lentil the spent leaf crimsoned in the fall. 
 She noted every change, and loved them all. 
 
 She loved her friends — upon her heart she bore 
 Their griefs, their hopes and fears; and more, 
 She prayed for them, and as kind heaven willed. 
 She knew the joy of earnest prayer fulfilled. 
 
IN LOVING MKMOKY OF P. F. P. 29 
 
 81ie loved all service; nothing was too small, 
 Nothing too great; she freely rendered all. 
 And life itself she counted not too dear — 
 She was our friend — l)ut lately she M^as here ! 
 
 She is our friend; she sees what we shall see, 
 •(If we but follow steps set trustfully); 
 E'en l)uds, impossible of l)lighted bloom, 
 ITnfold in light which never shades to gloom. 
 
 She sees the faces we so long have missed. 
 Those newly mourned, and some but lately kissed; 
 She hears their voices, clasps their welcoming hands, 
 And joins in sweet employ she understands. 
 
 And Him she served — she sees him as he is; 
 .Her face has caught the radiance of His; 
 Awake ^ — and in his likeness — at his side 
 Shadows are past, and she is satisfied. 
 
30 SONG OF THE REDEEMED, 
 
 SONG OF THE REDEEMED. 
 
 In the mighty sweep of angelic harps, 
 
 There's an unresponsive string; 
 But the note which the angels cannot wake, 
 
 The redeemed of the Lord can sing. 
 Shall we sing it together, you and I, 
 With the wondering angels standing by ? 
 Shall we sing it out in the courts above, 
 Heaven is ours through redeeming love ? 
 
 There's a joy the angels can never share. 
 
 While the endless ages roll ; 
 The joy of one who has been redeemed. 
 
 The joy of a ransomed soul. 
 Shall we share it together, you and I, 
 With the wondering angels standing by ? 
 Shall we share it there in the courts above. 
 The heaven gained thro' redeeming love ? 
 
 There's a story true, angels cannot tell. 
 
 Who have lived with God in heaven ; 
 'Tis the story sweet they alone can tell, 
 
 Who have sinned and been forgiven. 
 Shall we tell it together, you and I, 
 With the wondering angels standing by? 
 Shall we tell it out in the courts above, 
 That heaven is ours thro' redeeming love? 
 
 Copyright, 1895, by The Bigelow ct Main Co. 
 [Used by permission.] 
 
ON WINGS. 31 
 
 ON WINGS. 
 
 Oh, the happy things on wings, 
 IIow they flit and fly about, 
 All the summer, in and out ! 
 
 When a breeze 
 
 Rocks the trees. 
 There they sit, and swing and sing; 
 Hidden by the leafy screen, 
 There they lilt, and tilt between 
 
 Earth and sky, 
 While the happy days go by. 
 
 Oh, the pretty care-free things; 
 See them bend the grasses down ! 
 See the gold and blue and brown 
 
 Butterflies, 
 
 Rest and rise I 
 How that bee hangs there and clings ! 
 By what right, you ask, does he 
 Hang there quite so greedily ! 
 
 If you please. 
 Clover is for bumble bees. 
 
32 ON WINGS. 
 
 Oh, the joy of light and air I 
 This is living, this is life; 
 Tell me not of toil and strife, 
 
 I'm in tune, 
 
 Now, with June. 
 Deaf, and dumb, and blind to care, 
 Now my senses are unbound. 
 Gone joy-mad with wdiat they've found 
 
 While on wings, 
 With the happy summer things I 
 
 '-^p- 
 
IDEAL RECRKATION, 
 
 IDEAL RECREATION. 
 
 If life to thee seem one unbrokeu line 
 
 Of settled tasks, which shackle and confine. 
 
 Come down into these level lowland meads, 
 
 And find the remedy thy spirit needs: 
 
 Stand still, and let this grand old leafless tree 
 
 Teach something of its patient strength to thee. 
 
 How strong to wait — content in hopeful dream, 
 
 To hold its' empty l)oughs above the stream. 
 
 How still the water ! Has it aught to teach, 
 
 Yes; though no drop the ocean ever reach. 
 
 Its tranquil calm reflects a vaster sea. 
 
 Whose ships are worlds, which sail on endlessly; 
 
 Likewise in quiet lives, if true, may shine 
 
 Some faint reflection of the All-divine ; 
 
 And they best image Him, who, at His will, 
 
 Possess their souls in patience and are still. 
 
34 IDI^AL RECREATION. 
 
 When cares press hard, and ways and means perplex; 
 
 When voices jar, and petty trifles vex. 
 
 Seek such a place as this, by God kept sweet 
 
 And clean from soilure of the workPs rude feet. 
 
 Let the keen wind from off the snowy slope 
 
 Breathe into thee exhilarating hope. 
 
 This ice-bound stream would tell thee of its source, 
 
 Around what hindrances it cut its course 
 
 To find the sea, how joyously it ran, 
 
 And yet, would stay to serve the needs of man — 
 
 Xote these late leaves, that shiver as they cling; 
 
 How brave, to try to hold their own till spring ! 
 
 By everything, does Nature strive to speak 
 
 Wisdom and comfort, to the souls who seek; 
 
 Take that she gives so graciously, and then 
 
 CtO share her largess with thy fellow-men. 
 
 [By courtesy of The Connecticut Quarterly.] 
 
 ^'^r^ 
 
TIRED OF THE STRUGGLE. 35 
 
 TIRED OF THE STRUGGLE. 
 
 Grown tired of the struggle ? Then rest is near, 
 'Though you do not know what that rest will be; 
 It may be to slumber more peacefully 
 
 Than ever, than ever you can do here. 
 
 It may be to lean all your tired weight 
 
 Against some strong shoulder placed close to yours, 
 And to know, past doubt, that while life endures. 
 
 The burden of you will not grow too great. 
 
 It may be to carry the same old load. 
 
 With a brave new courage, which from above 
 Comes down from the great tender heart of Love, 
 
 To sustain your steps on the lonely road. 
 
 It may be to wait for a weary while. 
 
 With your hands tied fast, while the world goes on 
 With its long debates of the pro and con, 
 
 And its weak decisions to — frown or smile. 
 
 With the world's Ijliud measures of good or ill, 
 You may wonder what it will mete to you; 
 You may have to sit the long session through, 
 
 And then rest your cause on a higher will. 
 
36 ''BE-BK GOO-COO.'" 
 
 You need not mind idiat the rest will be, 
 
 YoY some way, and soon, rest will surely come; 
 The voice of complaint will grow mute and dumb. 
 
 And the voice of praise find its own sweet key. 
 
 So tired of the struggle ! How glad, how sweet. 
 When lips have forgotten their old sad cry. 
 Or remember it only as pain passed by. 
 
 When struggle is over and rest complete ! 
 
 " BE-BE GOO-COO." 
 
 TO B. F. G. 
 
 Who'll weave me fantasy out of the air. 
 As bright as the sunlight, as fine as a hair 
 That shines in a tress of the infantile fair, 
 For a dear little girl that I know ? 
 
 Who'll make me a melody out of the winds. 
 
 Of soft little cooings that come through the pines, 
 
 Of sweet-laden zephyrs atilt in the vines ? 
 
 Who'll paint me a picture in delicate dyes, 
 Of wild wind-tossed daisies and blue summer skies, 
 As l)lue, oh as blue — why, as blue as the eyes 
 ( )f a dear little girl that I knoAv ! 
 
" BK-BK (iOO-COO." 37 
 
 And I'll tell a story of nine little elves. 
 
 Who keep all their dainties on tiny leaf shelves, 
 
 To feast a wee fairy as gay as themselves. 
 
 List ! (tO tell the elhns in fairy-land dells. 
 From flower-stalk steeples to ring all the bells, 
 And draw up the nectar from mossy-rimmed wells, 
 For a dear little girl that I know ! 
 
 She will sail down on a moonlighted stream, 
 And land on a fern where the fireflies gleam, 
 And pay them a visit to-night in a dream. 
 
 She's going to sail in a slumber canoe — 
 Set the flower-bells ringing — hush — that will do ! 
 Make haste, little fays, for wee ^' Be-be Goo-coo," 
 She's a dear little girl you all know. 
 
 —^^p— 
 
38 IN PASSING TIIKOIGH THE WORLD. 
 
 IN PASSING THROUGH THE WORLD. 
 
 What are you letting the great world do ? 
 Stifle the conscience God gave to you, 
 Sully the thoughts that are pure and true. 
 And l)lur the beauty your childhood knew ? 
 Say — what are you letting the great world do 
 To that soul of thine, as you pass through? 
 
 What are you letting the great world say ? 
 
 Nay, not that it charms your soul away 
 
 Into the shadow, out of the day, 
 
 Out of the sunshine, into the gray; 
 
 Oh, what are you letting the great world say, 
 
 Not that it makes you forget to pray 2 
 
 What are you letting the great world know ? 
 
 Not all the trials you undergo. 
 
 Not all* your burdens of care and woe. 
 
 Not all the smart underneath the blow. 
 
 Hush — what are you lettiiig the great world know ? 
 
 These are the secrets of how souls grow. 
 
IN PASSING THROUGH THE WORLD. 8<) 
 
 What are you letting the great world see ? 
 Not what you do for sweet charity. 
 Not your poor efforts to set souls free 
 From their self -wrought chains of misery. 
 Ah, what are you letting the great world see, 
 Aught which belongs but to God, and thee? 
 
 What are you letting the great world fmd ? 
 This needy world with its ceaseless grind; 
 Each, in the passing, must leave behind 
 Either good or ill to his fellow-kind. 
 But what are you letting the great world And, 
 Dust or jewels from heart or mind? 
 
 What are you letting the great world do ? 
 Win you away from the good and true. 
 From the simple faith your childhood knew, 
 That was the birthright God gave to you. 
 Oh, see that you let not the great world do 
 A wrong to your soul, as you pass through ! 
 
40 A TOIL SONG, 
 
 A TOIL SONG. 
 
 If toil then we must, we will toil and slug- — 
 
 Oh, somewhere down in the meadow, 
 A daisy is ready for blossoming, 
 
 And a buttercup casts shadow ! 
 There's a fern just starting now in the wood. 
 Our world is so lovely, our God so good. 
 And to toil with gladness is as lie wills. 
 It is toil without him, that chafes and kills. 
 If we may not gather the sweet wild things, 
 Or follow the flight of each bird that sings, 
 The whole world is better that birds do sing, 
 And fairer because of each wee, wild thing; 
 And our toil is lighter, because we know 
 We live in a world that God brightens so — 
 To some, he gives leisure to seek their share. 
 To us, he gives sweetness that floats in air. 
 And if toil we must, we will toil and sing. 
 
 Life is made of lights and shadows, 
 But hope in our hearts will keep blossoming, 
 
 Bright as buttercups in meadows ! 
 
PILGRIMS FARING VALLEY-WARD, 41 
 
 PILGRIMS FARING VALLEY-WARD. 
 
 Lead Thou their steps, ever so gently, Father, 
 
 Down life's decline; 
 When earth's support shall fail them altogether, 
 
 Be quick with Thine ! 
 
 They have been strong — ^so full of hope and courage 
 
 'Twas joy to climb; 
 Now summit passed, strength spent, ah, they are weary 
 
 At evening time. 
 
 A little thing trips tired feet, my Father, 
 
 And trifles wound; 
 Then past the dangers, hurts and griefs, do lead them 
 
 A long way 'round. 
 
 And let them linger on the downward journey 
 
 In frequent rests. 
 And longer, longer be to us who love them. 
 
 Our dearest guests. 
 
 They sometimes tell us of a distant country 
 
 They call '' The Past," 
 Where lived the wee white soul-flowers, early taken 
 
 Where bloom will last. 
 
42 PILGRIMS FARING VALLEY-WARD. 
 
 They were too fair to live outside of heaven, 
 
 And yet they came. 
 Perhaps, to breathe the air of earth, and leave it 
 
 Not quite the same. 
 
 There was for them no passing down the valley, 
 
 No shadows gray, 
 They were transplanted, tender buds for blooming 
 
 In broader day. 
 
 Of such they tell, and some of us remember 
 
 A tiny mound, 
 Which makes to lis, the Past forever after 
 
 Seem hallowed ground. 
 
 These pilgrims bore us up Life's steepest places, 
 
 Now at our hands. 
 They shall receive the fullest, teuderest service 
 
 Love understands. 
 
 Be Thou their sure, unfailing staff of comfort. 
 Lead them, dear Lord; 
 
 But comfort us — our fathers and our mothers 
 Fare valley- ward. 
 
 "^'©^ 
 
THE WOULD WANTS A SONG. 43 
 
 THE WORLD WANTS A SONG. 
 
 ''A song, a song ! " cries the giddy world, 
 "• We are tired of psalms and prayers; 
 
 Give us a song that is light and gay. 
 We want to forget our cares ! " 
 
 Xot for the world in holiday dress, 
 
 All on tip-toe for good cheer, 
 Would I think to sing my minor strains 
 
 Expecting that it would hear. 
 
 I cannot sing for the world to dance — 
 
 My measures are all too slow ; 
 But some in the world are tired and lame, 
 
 They will understand and know; 
 
 There comes a time when the dance is done, 
 When the lights burn low and dim; 
 
 When the weary heart would rather hear 
 Just a plain old-fashioned hymn. 
 
 Like the one a mother used to sinsr 
 
 By the trundle-bed at night, 
 When she came to give the "• comfort-kiss "" 
 
 Before taking out the light. 
 
44 THE WORLD WANTS A SONG. 
 
 There comes a time when the crowd falls back. 
 And the world becomes estranged ; 
 
 When a mother"'s love, and the hymns she sung. 
 Are all that remain unchanged. 
 
 "A song, a song ! " cries the eager world 
 
 When young life is at its best; 
 But the world-worn heart begs for a hymn. 
 
 Just before it goes to rest. 
 
 Sing, you who may, for the world to hear, 
 
 Its ballads I do not know ; 
 I'll croon a hymn to the tired and old. 
 
 When the lights are burning low. 
 
 ■^^r^ 
 
WHAT DOES IT MEAN? 45 
 
 WHAT DOES IT MEAN ? 
 
 I. 
 
 It does not matter what it means, poor heart, 
 
 The dear Lord knows; to bear it is your part; 
 
 Nor think some strange thing happens unto you 
 
 Which He would not allow so if He knew. 
 
 He does know. In His all-wise Fatherhood 
 
 He knows it, and allows it for your good. 
 
 He is not hard, you do not think He is 
 
 When in the dark you find your hand in His ; 
 
 When it was light you tried to walk alone. 
 
 And thought the strength He gave you all your own. 
 
 You did not ask what that last blessing meant, 
 
 Just smiled and took it, satisfied, content; 
 
 You did not think it strange, you thought He knew. 
 
 And planned the sweet surprise which came to you. 
 
 Tried one, then do you take lifer's sweet and good, 
 
 Yet, cannot trust that tender Fatherhood, 
 
 But think it makes mistake whene'er it sends 
 
 Some hindrance, which your eager haste offends? 
 
 Or when He lets the wicked plot your harm. 
 
 And stir a whirlwind when you seek a calm; 
 
 You think it strange, this trial swift and keen, 
 
 And in your weakness ask, '■'■ What does it mean? '' 
 
46 - WHAT DOES IT MEAN? 
 
 II. 
 
 I think the language of God's heart would read — 
 
 " I love my child, I note his slightest need; 
 
 I long to prosper him in all his ways, 
 
 To give him quiet nights and peaceful days; 
 
 But if I do, he'll lose himself from me. 
 
 My outstretched hand he will not wait to see ; 
 
 I'll place a hindering wall before his feet, 
 
 There he will wait, and there we two will meet. 
 
 I do it not in wrath for broken laws 
 
 Or willful disobedience, but because 
 
 I want him nearer, and I cannot wait 
 
 For him to come, for he might wander late; 
 
 My child will wonder, will not understand. 
 
 Still half in doubt he'll clasp my outstretched hand; 
 
 But when at last upon my heart he leans. 
 
 He will have ceased to wonder what it means." 
 
TO MY MOTH Ell. 47 
 
 TO MY MOTHER ON HER SEVENTY-SIXTH BIRTHDAY, 
 APRIL 20, 1897, 
 
 What shall I say to thee, my best beloved? 
 
 What tender speech 
 Can I employ, to place my wealth of love 
 
 Within thy reach ? 
 
 Words never yet have told what loving hearts 
 
 Have felt and known ; 
 There is no need of any words of mine 
 
 Is there, my own ? 
 
 I used to think I loved thee, but more dear. 
 
 Tenderly dear, 
 Thou hast become in growing feebleness. 
 
 Each passing year. 
 
 My heart is full to breaking, when I think 
 
 That you must bear 
 Alone, the weary weight of your own years; 
 
 If you could wear 
 
 jVIy strength, I'd strip it olf, and wrap thee round 
 
 Fold ui)on fold; 
 Then spread a gift of all my happiest days, 
 
 Told and -untold. 
 
48 TO MY MOTiraR. 
 
 For yon to walk in, like a sunlit path 
 
 Leading away 
 From this dark path of pain and weariness. 
 
 Yon tread to-day. 
 
 I'd weave for you out of my sweetest joys^ 
 
 A gown of peace; 
 And make a couch of all my hours of ease. 
 
 Where pain would cease. 
 
 But ah ! Love never yet could so fulfill 
 
 Its lovingness; 
 It cannot reach its measure of desire 
 
 When it would bless. 
 
 But do lean harder on me, let me bear 
 
 All, everything ! 
 See; I am strong, I shall not fail, or faint 
 
 In comforting. 
 
 My life has never missed a single joy 
 Which you could give; 
 
 And shall yours miss a single comfort now ? 
 Not while I live 
 
 And have two eager hands to toil for you. 
 
 Glad eyes to see, 
 And one heart full of all-enduring love 
 
 To shelter thee. 
 
 It is not self-denial, mother mine; 
 
 No, no, for hear ! 
 I rather live together as we do. 
 
 Year after year ; 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 49 
 
 Seeing no face but yours, day after day, 
 
 Within our home, 
 Save those who for the love of you and me. 
 
 Do sometimes come. 
 
 I'd rather mother, though a thousand charms 
 
 Bid me away; 
 Busied in simple ministeries for you, 
 
 I'd rather stay. 
 
 Than visit those fair lands of which they tell 
 
 Beyond the seas; 
 Whose dim cathedrals echo all day long 
 
 With symphonies. 
 
 I'd rather hear a blessing from your lips, 
 
 Than be thrilled thro' 
 With any earthly music howe'er sweet. 
 
 Heard without you. 
 
 I'd rather shade the night-lamp carefully, 
 
 To suit thine eyes. 
 Than feast my own upon the sunniest 
 
 Italian skies. 
 
 My more than mother, I do not forget 
 
 Those early years ! 
 My father dead — my first clear memory 
 
 Is of your tears. 
 
 You were so brave, and yet withal so frail; 
 
 The mother's heart 
 Was stronger than the frame which shut it in. 
 
 You did the part 
 
50 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 Of two, and for a dozen years, and more, 
 
 I hardly knew 
 That you were struggling for your children's bread, 
 
 As fathers do. 
 
 And when I slipped my thoughtless childhood off, 
 
 And took my place 
 Among the wheels of toil, to help the wage, 
 
 (With such ill grace,) 
 
 I did not see how grieved you were for me; 
 
 I was so blind,' 
 I, for a little, thought our lot in life 
 
 Hard and unkind. 
 
 Forgive that brief rebellion of the past ! 
 
 It was all spent 
 In those first days — Life has been sweet to me. 
 
 I am content. 
 
 Denied my books, I've learned some needful things 
 
 Not taught in schools; 
 Lessons in life, the Master set for me, 
 
 And all His rules. 
 
 Have been laid down in kindness for my guide, 
 
 And now I see, 
 That first hard lesson of my early life. 
 
 Was good for me. 
 
 And mother, since the others died, and we 
 
 Were left alone, 
 Into a mighty tenderness for you. 
 
 My love has grown. 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 51 
 
 Make large demands upon it as you go — 
 
 Each grief of yours 
 Must be my grief, each joy my joy, 
 
 While life endures. 
 
 How poor and tame this multitude of words ! 
 
 Your heart and mine 
 Have felt each others' beating for too long 
 
 To need such sign. 
 
 Mother — God bless you, mother ! To His will 
 
 Be reconciled; 
 I thank him, that your lij)s to-day can say, 
 
 "■ God bless my child ! '' 
 
 ■^^r^ 
 
52 TWO WOMEN. 
 
 TWO WOMEN. 
 I. 
 
 '•'• I would I had the power/' she gaily cried, 
 ' ' Just to win hearts ; to win and throw aside ! 
 To hold them captive by a tender smile, 
 By all the witchery of Cupid's guile. 
 I'd bring proud hearts to bow before my shrine, 
 And hear Love's plea, ever withholding mine — 
 Oh, for the gift, the gift of power," she cried, 
 " Just to win hearts; to win and throw aside ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 ''Ah, for some grace, some gentle grace," she said, 
 
 "• To keep the love of him whom I may wed; 
 
 From other love I'd sacred hold apart. 
 
 The offering of one strong loyal heart — 
 
 'Tis highest honor manhood ever paid; 
 
 The costliest gift to woman ever made — 
 
 God give me grace to keep," she softly prayed, 
 
 "• This richest gift, upon Love's altar laid ! " 
 
SINGING BROOK. 53 
 
 SINGING BROOK. 
 
 [By courtesy of The Connecticut Quarterly.] 
 
 I thought I heard the singing of a brook 
 
 Mingled with murmurs, as though many trees 
 Were chanting all together from one hook 
 
 Whose leaves were turned by some sweet summer breeze. 
 The brook sang louder as I ran along 
 
 Across the fields, and in my eager haste 
 I stopped but twice — to hear a bluebird's song, 
 
 And pull a flower a butterfly had graced. 
 Then I went on, led by the singing brook, 
 
 Straight to an opening in a lovely wood. 
 The trees were chanting from an open book: 
 
 I peeped between the leaves — you see I could. 
 This is the brook; here is the very place. 
 
 These ferns and grasses whispered at my feet; 
 The water kissed the rocks before my face, 
 
 And at each kiss it sang, " So sweet, so sweet ! " 
 
54 SINGING BROOK. 
 
 You see the sunlight glinting down that tree ? 
 
 In in it I stood and fingered the rough bark 
 And thought how many seasons there must be 
 
 Etched into it, each leaving its own mark. 
 A little farther up the brook you see 
 
 Two slender maples, one on either side. 
 Leaning their boughs together lovingly 
 
 Above the stream, which cannot quite divide. 
 They make one think of how congenial souls 
 
 May some way miss each other at the start 
 To meet where no dividing current rolls, 
 
 When they no longer may be kept apart. 
 '■'• So dear, so dear ! " chanted the happy trees, 
 
 And one more leaf was turned in that glad wood; 
 'Twas held a half breath by the careless breeze. 
 
 So I could see. I read and understood. 
 And then I left the place and came away. 
 
 I've learned the chant the happy trees repeat; 
 I know the music of the water night and day, 
 
 Kissing the rocks and singing •' Sweet, so sweet ! " 
 
 1;#^ 
 
A PLEA TO THE WINTEK WINDS. 55 
 
 A PLEA TO THE WINTER WINDS. 
 
 O ye wintry winds from the icy mines, 
 
 Ye 're come with your cruel cold, 
 Driving snow and sleet up and down the street, 
 
 And far out across the wold ! 
 You ring at the dome of the palace home, 
 
 And tap at the rich man's door. 
 But enter instead, all un welcomed. 
 
 The homes of the wretched poor. 
 In your savage freaks you pinch the cheeks 
 
 Of poor little half-starved souls, 
 Who too well know why their pale mothers cry 
 
 As they count the scanty coals. 
 
 O ye winter winds, forbear to blow ! 
 
 Where the hearth is cold — sink low, sink low ! 
 
 Go battle about where the warmth shines out 
 
 In those great bright squares of light; 
 Go where children sleep instead of weej) 
 
 Through the long and dismal night; 
 Go whistle and roar at the double door, 
 
 Leap into the flame-fed flues. 
 For they have no fear of your fury here 
 
 Where the warm babe laughs and coos. 
 O ye wild winds bold from the land of cold. 
 
 Step softly, and turn about 
 From homes that are dark save the feeble spark 
 
 Cold children are watching out. 
 
 Oh ye winter winds, forbear to blow, 
 
 And where hearths are cold, sink low, sink low ! 
 
56 A PETAL FOR YOU. 
 
 A PETAL FOR YOU. 
 
 TO M. V. F. (Jr. 
 
 Long years ago, from hard unfriendly soil, 
 A tiny shoot* crept out into the sun; 
 
 'Twas what it sought, and after days of toil, 
 A few pale leaves unfolded one by one. 
 
 It had no beauty, but it lived and grew, 
 And every day looked upward to the sky; 
 
 Sometimes God spared it just a drop of dew, 
 
 Sometimes, for days. He left it parched and dry. 
 
 Kough winds passed over it, and bending low 
 Within the sheltering grass it hid away. 
 
 And lay concealed, contented to be so 
 
 Through many a dark and unpropitious day. 
 
 But yet again it lifted up its head ; 
 
 The sun it loved was pitiful and good. 
 And when its roots were warmed and comforted, 
 
 New leaves uncurled for very gratitude. 
 
 Some, passing near observed it carelessly, 
 Others passed on and never gave it heed ; 
 
 And some spoke almost rudely, going by 
 And seeing where it grew, called it a weed. 
 
 *My first verse.. 
 
A PETAL FOR YOU. 57 
 
 But there was one who knew its early strife, 
 And said, " It must not hide away and die; 
 
 It has a flower's roots, a flower's life, 
 Encouraged it will blossom by and by ! " 
 
 In time there came a sweet, refreshing shower; 
 
 A kind hand gently stirred the clinging soil. 
 Till root and stem rejoiced in secret power. 
 
 And it began anew to strive and toil. 
 
 And when the sun shone out it drank the light, 
 And when there came a dark and stormy day, 
 
 It waited, with its few leaves folded tight. 
 
 Lest some rude wind should tear them all away. 
 
 But as the season waxed it grew apace. 
 
 Till one and then another, giving heed 
 Would say, '' It surely lacks a flower's grace. 
 
 Yet after all it may not be a weed ! ' ' 
 
 Then there was seen, when time had rung the hour^ 
 
 A tiny calyx, scarcely half expressed; 
 And yet it took the true form of a flower. 
 
 With all a flower's desire to be confessed. 
 
 It had no fragrance, but it did not grow 
 In any garden where the flowers are fair ; 
 
 It lived its life with few to care or know, 
 And never thought with others to compare. 
 
 This falling petal shall be yours alone. 
 Because you owned it in its frailest hour; 
 
 While yet within the grass it lay unknown, 
 You were the first to sav it was a flower. 
 
58 FINDING THE FLOWERS. 
 
 FINDING THE FLOWERS. 
 
 I wonder how the dew knows where they are ! 
 There is no moon; the stars are faint and far; 
 I'll watch and see, I'll hide me in the grass 
 Close to a flower, and see what comes to pass. 
 
 A little chickweed by my garden grows, 
 Its tiny self, as anybody knows, 
 Might easily be missed, yet it is true 
 I found it yester' morning wet with dew. 
 
 At night I watched and saw a lovely thing; 
 White velvet moths went by, wing after wing; 
 The pretty things ! their life is but a breath. 
 By morning they may all be burned to death. 
 
 Around some light their death-dance will commence 
 Moths are so human in their want of sense ; 
 They singe their wings once at their shining goals, 
 Alas ! we mortals someti)nes singe our souls. 
 
 I watch the moths go by, and waiting there 
 A sweet moist fragrance steals upon the air; 
 The dew is near; 1 wonder if it will 
 Find mv wee flower — Hush. I must be still ! 
 
FINDING THE FLOWERS. 59 
 
 A sense of sometliiiig stirring in the dark, 
 Viewless, and soundless, though I stare and hark; 
 Then all at once, there came a firefly 
 And flashed his lantern in the chickweed's eye. 
 
 And right before my face the dew slipped up 
 And filled my tiny chickweed's hidden cup — 
 I could have laughed aloud there in the damp, 
 The dew had found it by the firefly's lamp. 
 
 Now, when I see on moonless summer nights. 
 The rapid twinkling of the fireflies' lights, 
 I know they're using all their brilliant powers, 
 Helping the evening Dew find her wee flowers. 
 
60 THE OLD EVEN-SONG. 
 
 THE OLD EVEN-SONG. 
 
 Who will sing me to sleep with the song sweet and low 
 That was sung by fond mother-lips long years ago ? 
 I am homesick to-night, and my heart is oppressed, 
 And I so long to know the full blessing of rest, 
 
 I have grown very tired, for the day has been long, 
 And I list for the notes of the old even-song, 
 In the calm twilight hush, when the world seems to wait. 
 Till they come, one by one, thro' the old cottage gate. 
 
 Is there no one to sing me the old evening hymn. 
 Do the voices all falter, the eyes all grow dim ! 
 Or has memory failed, and forgotten it quite. 
 Else why is it that no one will sing it to-night ! 
 
 Ah ! I'm sick among strangers, there's none left to know 
 Of the song which I loved in the sweet long ago ; — 
 I'm the last of my kindred — I'm sheltered and fed, 
 But the roof is a stranger's; the bread is his bread. 
 
 Never mind the song now, for I'm falling asleep, 
 With my eyelids too heavy and weary to weep ; 
 And don't fret in the morn, if I sleep after light, 
 For I might be resting so sweetly — Good-night ! 
 
^