%/ .'^^ j^-n^ .^^ M • jPv\ ^^^"^^ %^^' i9^^ ft- ^*»o* aO^ •••^' * ^-fr' ^^ ^O^ **'*^^^-' ^'"^'fk. V .*^\ V^' ^^-^^^ V* .'•. .oJL^ ^ ^-mhAi^ THE COLLECTED POEMS OF ' Amos R. Wells P'vir' /f "'i#l/ '/imn ,\rt ^M W' .^^ "M^i , .r't^iSMi* A RIOT OF MEADOWS. See the poem on page 7. The COLLECTED POEMS of AMOS R. WELLS THE CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR WORLD BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS COPYRIGHTED, 1921, BY AMOS R. WELLS JUL 27 '21 0)C!.A622334 -ft Dedicated to my dear wife who daily lives a far more beautiful poem than I can ever hope to write THE COLLECTED POEMS OF AMOS R. WELLS A RIOT OF MEADOWS. Meadows ! deep-reasoning meadows, philoso- pher friends, How you have welcomed the blundering steps of a man ! Broadened your green divan, Taught me your temperate ends. Counselled of patience and peace and the in- finite plan ! Tell me : out of what shadowy, mystic well Do you draw this flood of content, this tran- quil air? How are you constantly fair, Ever hopeful and smiling and sweet? Where did your grasses dwell Before they came to lay their grace at my feet? Whence did that tangle of vines Gather the cool and the calm it entwines? And where, O meadows, where Did you find the invincible gladness that sparkles and shines, Philosopher friends. As far as your fee extends? Rising, falling, the gentle contour unrolls Breathing of flower souls, Breathing of meadow-sweet, buttercup, Queen Anne's lace. Dear as a mother's face, Vocal with meadow-larks, yellowthroats, croon of the bee. Blithe as the children's glee. Momently pensive and grave where the cloud- shadows run, Steadily glad in the sun. Here is no schedule or system or scheme. Only a lawful disorder and riotous rule, Only the logic that lives in a dream. And the lore that mocks at a school ; Yet here what marvels are swiftly and silently done ! What imperial garments are spun, What buildings are reared with no tool, What chemlc empires are stanchly won. What battles are fought without the crash of a gun ! Unseen, unheard. In the dim green aisles of the grasses wind- ing afar. What governments are. Republics of moles and of ants and of brood- ing bird, Courts and diplomacies, treaties and balan- cing tribes. All without parchments or scribes ! Is it this that I feel As my spirit mounts from the meadows and ranges high Along the beckoning sweep of the kindly sky? This fulness of life Beating beneath me, outpulsing in shimmer- ing zeal From a world with godliness rife? Behold, O meadows, my friends, I am one with you ! Bound to your beauty, and joined to your firmness of law ; Stern outcropping of granite strong and true, Flowers without flaw. Dallying butterflies brightly afield with the breeze. Fatherly trees. Tender bourgeoning swells of the comrade grass. And the birds that pass. 8 EXCLUSIONS Friends, I am one with you all. I leave you here Through the round of the happy year ; Yet going, I bear you away, and wherever I roam My heart is your home. And blessedly there, even there. In the winter you still are warm and fair. The clouds float over your bosom still, The birds and the butterflies work their will. The trees are never bare. And Yonder — O meadows of earth ! I know, I know I shall have you happily still wherever I go. EXCLUSIONS. Thou Shalt love the Lord with all thy heart.- — Mark 12: 30. If I would talk with God, my hasty tongue Must hold itself for that high converse pure, As one who has appointment with a king Scorns gossip with a minion at the gate. If I would listen to the voice of God, I dare not hear the prattlement of men. The bargaining, the vaunting, the untruth. The words that crawl and sting ; for ears have room For somewhat, and no more. If I would walk Beside my God, Uis comrade and His friend, I must go His way. He will not go mine. If I would own the wealth of God, the gold. The gems of aflluent heaven, like the dross Of basest refuse I must hurl away The spoil of greed and all the miser's glut. If I would know the wondrous lore of God, What sciences I shall not dare to know I If I would wield the awful power of God, How I must sink myself in helplessness ! If I would revel in the love of God, What lesser loves must I disdain to serve ! O Infinite, O Lover, O Supreme, Father and Leader and unfailing Friend, What littles must I gladly lose for Thee, What nothings must I tread beneath my feet To reach Thy hand. Thy bosom, and Thy face ! THE REBUILDING. Except Jehovah build the house, they labor In vain that build it. — Ps. 127:1. My house is builded. Lord : build it anew I Once more the timbers hew ; And all the firm foundation lay again In love for Thee and men. Reset the window-panes, so wrinkled now. And make them clear- as Thou. Enlarge the hearth and magnify the door For strangers and the poor. Insert a closet dedicate to prayer That I may meet Thee there ; And build a workshop, wheresoe'er it be, That I may toil with Thee. The mansion of my building, let it fall, Unworthy, roof and wall ; And in its place, O heavenly Architect ! A better house erect. WHEN I READ THE BIBLE THROUGH. I supposed I knew my Bible, Reading piecemeal, hit or miss. Now a bit of John or Matthew, Now a snatch of Genesis, Certain chapters of Isaiah, Certain Psalms (the twenty-third!), Twelfth of Romans, First of Proverbs — I'es, I thought I knew the Word ! But I found that thorough reading Was a different thing to do. And the way was unfamiliar When I read the Bible through. O the massive, mighty volume ! O the treasures manifold ! O the beauty and the wisdom And the grace it proved to hold ! As the story of the Hebrews Swept in majesty along. As it leaped in waves prophetic, As it burst to sacred song. As it gleamed with Christly omens. The Old Testament was new. Strong with cumulative power. When I read the Bible through. Ah, imperial Jeremiah, With his keen, coruscant mind ; And the blunt old Nehemiah, And Ekekiel refined ! Newly came the Minor Prophets, Each with his distinctive robe, Newly came the Song idyllic. And the tragedy of Job ; Deuteronomy the regal To a towering mountain grew With the comrade peaks around it, When I read the Bible through. What a radiant procession, As the pages rise and fall : James the sturdy, John the tender, O the myriad-minded Paul ! Vast apocalyptic glories Wheel and thunder, flash and flame. While the church triumphant raises One incomparable Name. Ah, the story of the Saviour Never glows supremely true Till you read it whole and swiftl.v, Till you read the Bible through. THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON 9 You who like to play at Bible, Dip and dabble, here and there, Just before you Ivneel, aweary, And yawn through a hurried prayer ; You who treat the Crown of Writings As you treat no other book — Just a paragraph disjointed, Just a crude, impatient look — Try a worthier procedure, Try a broad and steady view ; You will kneel in very rapture When you read the Bible through ! OLD MR. GRUMPY. "Praise God ! Praise God !" the clover said, "for sunshine and the sky." And "Praise the Lord !"' the brooklet sung, "the rain is drawing nigh." "Thank God for frost," the squirrel chirped, "so kind to nuts and me." "For frost, that covers me with gold," chimed in the maple-tree. And "Praise the Lord for ripened seeds," the chattering sparrows cried. '•And for the wind," the seeds declared, "that bears us far and wide." 'Yes, praise the Lord I Oh, praise the Lord !" though skies were blue or gray. The hymn of earth and heaven rang through- out the happy day. Now none of this old Grumpy heard ; he's deaf as deaf can be. 'This weather 's vilest of the vile ! a beastly day I" said he. THE NEAR WONDERS. Not all the doming majesty above When midnight spreads her stateliness of stars More moves the soul than some imperial grove Where darkly silent rise the pillared pines. Their boughs withdrawn communing to the sky. Not all the lifted clouds that catch the sun And break its rays to glory, cardinal. Sapphire, the hue of spring, the flush of love. With that heaped splendor more delight the eye Than arbutus, the daughter of the snow, Couched in a cradle of the spring's first green. Warming her white with rose, her purity With graciousness. And not the hurricane That booms its terrors through the blackened air. Crashing a splintered world beneath its wrath. So awes the spirit as a golden day When, on the meadow prone, the listening ear Beats to the undertone of nature, vast. Resistless, loving, from her reservoirs Of solitude up-summoning the grass, The insects, and the flowers. Far or near, In mountains or a pebble, in the sweep Of ocean's tossed horizons limitless. Or in the cup of some bee-fretted bloom, See the same might, the same enchantment see ! For God is One ; or here or there, is One ; Beneath all surfaces, but yet the same; Within all voices, evermore the One ; Changing with infinite variety. Still in all changes His authentic Self, That loves the pansy as the Pleiades, Cares for the ant as for the universe. And close about the lowliest human lot Wraps all His power and ensphering love. THE BURDEN-BEARER. Lord, if Thy hand, with swift, indignant sweep. Drove them afar to some unholy deep — These foul, unconquerable shapes of woe That weigh upon my soul and shame me so ; Lord, if Thy loveliness, all perfect-fair. Might awe these blots to hell and leave them there, Thyself unscarred by any sin of mine. And I in wondering pureness left to shine ; If that could be ! But oh, the bitterness. My burdens on Thy radiant form to press, My foulness on Thy purity, my sin Upon Thy love, all glorious within ! This be my battle impulse when the host Of evil passions throng and tempt me most. The thought that one beneath my shame must bow, I, trembling, or, O Burden-Bearer, Thou ! THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. (On his death. He led the first regiment )f former slaves in the Civil War.) The regiment has waited long. Waited for the Colonel ; Dusky, patient, brave, and strong. Loyal to the Colonel ; Now, the weary furlough spent, (Jarland the commander's tent; Now the Freedmen regiment Has received its Colonel. See- him, young and quick and fair, (Ever young, the Colonel!) While the happy trumpets blare Welcome to the Colonel. See the shining of his face. And his eager, swinging pace, 10 JULIA WARD HOWE All the unforgotten grace Of the youthful Colonel. See the laughter in his eyes, (Ever-sprightly Colonel) Hear his greetings, merry-wise, Ready, like the Colonel. Age and pain and weakness past, Sorrow to oblivion cast. Back among his boys at last, Ah, the hero Colonel ! Heavy with the loss of him. Ever-kindly Colonel, We, though eyes are sadly dim, Would not keep the Colonel. From the armies of the skies. From the light that never dies. From the Wisdom endless wise, Who would hold the Colonel? JULIA WARD HOWE. Her eyes have seen the glory of the presence of the Lord ; was waiting in the garner where the fruits of life are stored ; was mindful of the warsong that was mightier than the sword : Of truth that marches on. He He She had seen Him in the turning of her ninety golden years. In the press of human struggle, human want, and human tears ; She had seen His kingdom growing in the midst of woe and fears. His day that marches on. She had read a gracious gospel writ in many a gracious life, — Toiler, statesman, trader, poet, hero husband, hero wife, — - She had found the peace eternal in the midst of mortal strife. Since God is marching on. Where He sounded forth His trumpet she would never call retreat ; Where he led His worn battalions in the weary dust and heat. How swift her soul to answer Him ; how jubi- lant her feet ! For God was marching on. In the beauty of the autumn, in the shining of the sea. She has found the great enfranchisement, the Christ of liberty. As He died to make men holy, so she lived to make men free : Her soul is marching on. TO A YOUNG COUPLE. By Half of an Old(ish) Couple. You think that all the world is fair ; (It's better all the time!) You live in bliss, you walk on air ; (It's better all the time!) You're eating manna from on high ; There's not a cloudlet in your sky ; But there's a better by and by : It's better ALL the time! Sometimes you own to half a doubt (There comes a doubting time) If married rapture Vill hold out Through all the coming time. But let a veteran banish fear : Love never knows a waning year ; When lives are knit and hearts are dear, It'8 better ALL the time! THE COMMON PROBLEM. "What shall I give this Christmas?" (Incidentally, "What shall I get?") "Mother and Father and Uncle, Harry and Flossie and Bet — Oh, and my friends by the dozen ; Dear ! what a worry and fret ! What shall I give this Christmas?" (Incidentally, "What shall 1 get?") THE SUFFICING BIBLE. When I am tired, the Bible is my bed ; Or in the dark, the Bible is my light ; When I am hungry, it is vital bread ; Or fearful, it is armor for the fight. When I am sick, 'tis healing medicine ; Or lonely, thronging friends I And therein. If I would work, the Bible is my tool ; Or play, it is a harp of happy sound. If I am ignorant, it is my school ; If I am sinking, it is solid ground. If I am cold, the Bible is my Are ; And it is wings, if boldly I aspire. Should I be lost, the Bible is my guide ; Or naked, it is raiment rich and warm. Am 1 imprisoned, it is ranges wide ; Or tempest-tossed, a shelter from the storm. Would I adventure, 'tis a gallant sea ; Or would I rest, it is a flowery lea. Does gloom oppress? The Bible is a sun. Or ugliness? It is a garden fair. Am I athirst? How cool its currents run ! Or stifled? What a vivifying air ! Since thus thou givest of thyself to me. How should I give myself, great Book, to thee ! GOALS 11 THE ROOM OVERHEAD. An Easter Thought. It's a dark and narrow stairway to the room overhead. But I am not afraid to go. There is room for only one on each winding, narrow tread, But I can feel the way, I Itnow. There are stirrings now and then in the room overhead. There are dear old feet upon the floor. They are setting forth my chair, they are making up my bed. They are waiting just inside the door. There are wide, wide views from the room overhead. And the heart of all home is there. 1 shall then begin to live, though men will call me dead. When I've mounted the narrow stair. HURRY AND SPEED. While Speed is filling the bottle, Hurry is spilling the ink ; While Speed is solving the problem. Hurry 's beginning to think. While Speed is hitting the bull's-eye, Hurry is stringing his bow ; While Hurry is marching his army. Speed is worsting his foe. Hurry is quick at beginning, Speed is quick at the end. Hurry wins many a slave, but Speed wins many a friend. THE SIXTY-SIX BOOKS. Sixty-six singers, singing sweet and true. And setting all the world to singing, too. Sixty-six soldiers, vigorous and strong. Valiantly attacking cruelty and wrong. Sixty-six judges, learned in the law. Uttering decisions free from fear or flaw. Sixty-six artists — wondrously they paint Kings and sages, common folk, angel, devil, saint. Sixty-six explorers, keen to search and find All the hidden secrets of life and death and mind. Sixty-six masons, marvellously skilled ; One majestic temple they unite to build. Sixty-six farmers, planting holy seed, Happily upspringing in holy thought and deed. Sixty-six teachers, keeping perfect school, Where faith the law is, and love the rule. Sixty-six doctors, knowing well to cure. Masters of a medicine healing swift and sure. Sixty-six sailors, bearing us away To a better country, to a brighter day. OLD GLORY. Sing for Old Glory a jubilant song. Lift up Old Glory and bear it along. Carry Old Glory with bravery strong, Live and die for Old Glory. Fair Is Old Glory on land and on sea ; Free is Old Glory, exultantly free ; Glad is Old Glory forever to be ; Live and die for Old Glory. Now for Old Glory a desperate fray ; Now is Old Glory's pre-eminent day ; Now for Old Glory to battle and pray, Live and die for Old Glory. Never in vain is Old Glory unfurled ; Deep in the conflict Old Glory is hurled ; Fight for Old Glory and flght for the world. Live and die for Old Glory. GOALS. Deep in the horrors of the North, With gleaming eyes and steady soul Heroes compel their passage forth To pierce the mystery of the pole. Superb their passion, bold their aim. But ah, what barren goals suflice ! — The echo of an empty fame. The conquest of a league of ice ! Comrades of clouds, along the air Speeding the way Columbus went. Oh, latest Argonauts, that dare The one unmastered element ! And yet what needless heroes they, Venturing life to find us wings. That men may have one other way To roam on fruitless wanderings ! With patient eyes, the long still night, Sages thi'ough starry jungles grope, Happy, if some new speck of light Fall on the fortunate telescope. Their name is catalogued with it. The sky has one more charted spot ; But no more lights on earth are lit, And star and sage are soon forgot. Ah, happy he whose ardent goal Within the human spirit lies. 12 PROFIT AFOOT Who in the regions of the soul Embarks on daring enterprise ! Dangers are there that arctic sea And tropic desert never know, Tempests of passion tierce and free, Waves of despair and gulfs of woe. And wings are there that soar and fly Above the snarling of the storm. To sunny reaches of the sky Where life is light and love is warm. And there are galaxies afar, World beyond world in endless range. Where never imperfections mar. And never gladness fears a change. Not in the realm of braggart gold And crowns that glitter to the eye, Are meeds that bless and joys that hold And purposes that satisfy. But happy he whose honest mind. With all he loves and all he can. Is dedicated to mankind. And seeks the common good of man. dozen PROFIT AFOOT. A jubilant reach of rolling road And a new-made morning sky, Masterful muscles that need no goad. And a spirit that dances high ! Then a-swing and a-plod through ; miles Of the fragrance of ferns and hay. Of woodsy shadows and meadow smiles And the sweet of the blossoming day ! Oh, what are the hea pings of pride and pelf, The sum of an emperor's bliss, W'hen a man may have the whole earth to himself On a glorious morning like this? I am knee deep now in the level gold. And eye-deep now in delight. And the prospect wide from the hill outrolled Is mine by imperial right. Riches and riches, and all of it mine ! The meadow's unmarketed goods', The river Golcondas that secretly shine. And the wealth of the opulent woods. No need to beg, for it presses hard And offers itself to me ; And happy the heart that is all unbarred To the lavishing ministry. So a-swing and a-plod through the opening day. And the joy of a virginal sun. While the air is unsullied and vibrant and gay, And the earth and the sky are at one ; Till the masterly muscles are blessedly worn, The miles are triumphantly trod, And the soiil is aglow with a benison, born Of vig(}r, and nature, and God ! "AGREE WITH THINE ADVERSARY QUICKLY." Life is too short for hatred : not a day Dare thou to throw away ; Not one brief hour remaining of thy life To waste in barren strife. Life is too short for love : the pleasure sweet Of comrade joys that meet. The comrade labor, comrade hopes and fears, And all the comrade years ! INSTANT BELIEVING. I will not ask Thee for the grace I need so much : I only look upon Thy face. Thy cross I touch. I will not stop to tell my sin. My failures name. Or cast a further glance within Upon my shame. I will not stay to plead Thy word Or urge my woe. Or ask a sign that Thou hast heard And wilt bestow. I do not seek to break my chain Endured so long. Or gauge the might of Satan's reign, His hold how strong. I praise Thee for the gift received Before I ask, And with the word, "I have believed," I take my task. I will forget the past abhorred. To faith be true. And only ask, "What wilt Thou, Lord, That I shall do?" THE DANGEROUS DOG. The dangerous dog in the drawing-room lay. And snapped at the houseflies that came in his way. "I'm a dangerous canine!'' he said. 'Beware how you trouble a creature of my " But his speech was cut short as he hap- pened to spy A bumble bee close to his head ! GREAT, STRONG, FREE, AND TRUE 13 CLOUD SONG. Clouds and I, clouds and I. Through the year together ; High and low, low and high. Fair and cloudy weather. Pouting now, smiling now. Lips of clouds and my lips ; Wrinkled sky, wrinkled brow. Eyes are wet and sky drips. Singing sky, singing soul. Thrushes sing and I sing ; Shafts of light through the whole Heaven and earth uniting. Clouds afloat, clouds a-heap, Clouds in dances changing ; Clouds and I, half asleep. Through the sweet sky ranging. Clouds of red, clouds of gray. Bursts of color-glory ; Rosy day, weeping day. Shifting human story. High and low, low and high, Fair and stormy weather ; Clouds and I, clouds and 1, Through the year together. PRAISE FOR GOD. I thank Thee for the stars that shine Supreme among the heavenly host ; Cut Thou dost lead the golden line, And for Thyself I thank Thee most. I thank Thee for the loveliness That decks the wood, the field, the coast ; But Thou, of all that Thou dost bless. Art fairest, and I praise Thee most. I thank Thee for majestic mind. The thought that seers and sages boast ; But Thou dost lead Thy creatures blind, And for Thyself I thank Thee most. I praise Thee for man's mastery. Each gain another starting-post ; But all he finds in finding Thee, And for Thyself I praise Thee most. ONE KIND OF LONG LIFE. For the busy worker Fleet the minutes run ; For the groaning sluggard Crawls a languid sun. Would you live a 1-o-n-g life? Live a lazy one ! NEW ENGLAND WOODS. New England woods are fair of face. And warm with tender, homely grace, Not vast with tropic mystery, Nor scant with arctic poverty. But fragrant with familiar balm. And happy in a household calm. And such, O land of shining star Hitched to a cart ! thy poets are, So wonted to the common ways Of level nights and busy days. Yet painting hackneyed toil and ease With glories of the Pleiades. For Bryant is an aged oak. Beloved of Time, and sober folk ; And Whittier, a hickory, The workman's and the children's tree; And Lowell is a maple, decked With autumn splendor circumspect. Clear Longfellow's an elm benign. With fluent grace in every line ; And Holmes, the cheerful birch, intent On frankest, whitest merriment ; While Emerson's high councils rise, A pine, communing with the skies. COBWEBS. Little fairy kerchiefs Spread on the grass to dry ; Little fairy hammocks Swinging in branches high. Funny fairy cables Stretched through the airy sea ; Funny fairy bridges Reaching from tree to tree. Dainty fairy ladders Scaling the garden wall. Dainty net to catch them. — // fairies ever fall ! Busy fairy workman. Spider of gorgeous hue. Should I steal your glue-pot. What would the fairies do? GREAT, STRONG. FREE, AND TRUE. [Written in the World War.] Great, my country, great in gold. Great in riches manifold. Great in store of vital grain. Great in trade's benign domain, Ever great in kindly deed, All your wealth for all that need. Strong, my country, armed in might, Bold in battle for the right. Ready for the testing hour. Knowing not to faint or cower, And your valor all possessed For the weaker and oppressed. Free, my country, nobly free. Gracious land of liberty. Free in word and free in thought. Freedom's fabric freely wrought. 14 FISHERS OF MEN Free to break the chains that bind Wretched millions of mankind. True, my country, grandly true To the task that calls for you. True in peril's dire despite To the challenge of the right, To the far ideal plan. Ever true to God and man. FISHERS OF MEN. Men can live where fishes are, Leave the mountain and the star, Leave the meadow shining fair. And the sunny reach of air. Sink into the cold and dark Regions of the eel and shark. Grovel in the weeds and slime And the wrecks of olden time. Lose the thought of warm and bright And the very sense of light, Grow them fins and horny scales And the twist of fishy tails, And at length forever be Fixed and lost within the sea. Fling abroad the gospel net ! We may save them even yet. Pull its kind, insistent folds Till it captures, till it holds, Till it lifts the fish again To the upper world of men. Till it places them once more In the life they knew before. What though waves are fierce and high. And the storm is in the sky. And our boat is far from land. And the harsh ropes tear the hand? Fishermen disciples we As of old in Galilee. Worn nfid weary, cold and wet, Cheerily we fling the net. Sweeping through the waves of woe : Men, our brothers, are below ! CHRISTMAS WATCHERS. Before wee Donald went to bed To Towser and to Puss he said, Softly, that no one else might hear, Whispering into each furry ear : "Towser ! Puss ! This very night A little man, dressed all in white, And with a monstrous great big pack Tied on his funny little back. Is coming down the chimney wide, Leaving his reindeer fast outside. He'll fill my stocking, top and toe, Then give a nod, and away he'll go ! O dear, what wouldn't I give to see The saint that fills the Christmas tree! But all the grown-up folks have said That I must go right off to bed. But Towser ! Puss ! they'll let you stay After they all have gone away ; So keep awake, my dears, and try The good St. Nicholas to spy. Find out for me, dears, if he looks Just like his pictures in the books ; His eyes, and nose, and mouth, and cheeks. The things he does, the words he speaks. His sleighhells' jingle down the street, The stamping of the reindeers' feet, And everything you hear and see, Remember it, my dears, for me." And so our Donald goes to bed. With thoughts of Santa in his head. While Puss and Towser, by the fire. With eager eyes that never tire. And curious, attentive ears. Are watching till the saint appears. THE LITERARY DRUDGE. I would not ride on Pegasus, I fear I am not able : Be mine a less ambitious joy, — To work about his stable. I'll feed him facts or fancies fine. And none shall cut them better ; Correctly I will curry him In slightest point and letter. His flowing mane in every line Shall be arranged precisely, His typographic crib and stall Shall aye be ordered nicely. Perhaps a poet, soaring high, A poet very kind. Some day, for just a little flight. Will take me on behind ! MEMORIAL DAY. The Day of Memories! — Remembering what? The cannon's roar, the hissing of the shot? The weary hospital, the prison pen? The widow's tears, the groans of stalwart men ? The bitterness of fratricidal strife? The pangs of death, the sharper pangs of life? Nay, let us quite forget the whole of these Upon our sacred Day of Memories. The Day of Memories ! — ^Remembering what ? The honored dust in every hallowed spot ; The honored names of all our heroes dead ; The glorious land for which they fought and bled; Our nation's hopes ; the kindly, common good ; The universal bond of brotherhood : These we remember gladly, all of these, Upon our sacred Day of Memories. I** ->i '^k% .T w fe^^i":- i> ^?'i^ M* lij THE SABBATH OF THE SNOW. The falling snow has drawn the heavens near. Priests of white purity, the trees stand still In woodland aisle or on cathedral hill, Chanting hushed anthems that the eye can hear. How do black limbs and level snow make clear Each other's tracings, as a man's dark will A woman knows to soften, yet fulfil ! How in this brooding season of the year The heads bow low of elm or bush or weed, The thoughtful world from hasty life with- drawn ! Too soon will come the waking up of greed ; Too soon will break red passion's torrid dawn. In this your Sabbath day, dear world, get power Of holy peace for that abhorrent hour. PROGRESS. He hadn't once called his committee To meet and consider its work ; He had no desire to do business, And only a purpose to shirk. The other committees reported As happy and proud as could be. He hadn't a thing to his credit. But "I report progress,"' said he. He hadn't once thought of the matter. Nor dreamed of it once in his sleep ; He wasn't ashamed of his conduct. He didn't feel worthless or cheap. He looked at the president calmly. He made no excuse and no plea ; He stood up as bold as a lion, And "I report progress," said he. AN APPLE BOUGH. Beneath its ruddy burden proudly bending, The happy bough sank lower day by day. Till with a crash it broke — ah, luckless end- ing ! — And on the ground a rotting ruin lay. Not thus the tree of life, with rich surprises Of heavy fruitage larger year by year : Upright and firm its greening tower rises. And bears its weightier burdens without fear. For see ! the fruit is winged ! and light and fairer The teeming tree exalts a statelier head ; For burdens nobly borne but lift the bearer, And only empty lives fall ever dead. IG REAL ESTATE REAL ESTATE. My real estate is birds and flowers. And sweeps of summer sky, Aurt shining holy morning hours, And breezes passing by. My most MJU'eal estate is dirt. With houses piled on top. Reckoned in figures bare and curt, And smelling of the shop. My real estate is never spent. Its titles all are clear. It pays a wonderful per cent By day and month and year. It needs no fence of iron or wood, No agent must be hired. Its price — that it be understood, Its tax — to be admired. While I am rich in real estate. Away with that inert Ignoble and degenerate Unreal estate of dirt ! DISCOVERERS. [Read at a meeting in memory of the Chris- tian Endeavorers who died in the World War, at the Buffalo Convention of 1919.] High glory his who walks where God alone The mystic way has known, Who pierces first the mountain solitudes, Treads first the echoing vaults of some vast caves. Conquers the rage of undefeated waves, Or daringly intrudes Where immemorial arctic stillness broods Above Death's timeless throne. Praise, praise to him whose gallant mind Knows how to find New roads of science, new domains of art. New avenues of kingly thought. New mines whence happy myriads have brought Balm to the senses, courage to the heart. Comforts to all mankind. But glory, praise, and honor nobler far To these whose guiding star Rose in the east, and pointed them the way To earth's most cruel fray. Supreme of horrors, blackest pit of night, War of the wrong and right. These also with exploring feet have trod Alone with God ; These also up to virgin heights have pressed, As ardent pioneers Have mastered fears, And learned the wilderness by paths un- guessed. These too have reached the pole, Have urged their dauntless soul Through unimagined silences of snow Where only nightsvinds go. Friendless and solitary and forgot In that unhallowed spot. No way that hero feet have trod alone Since the dim dawn of time, No venturing sublime. But these young souls invincibly have known. And they have found for us Domains all-glorious, Kingdoms of justice, empires of new good, Sweet realms of brotherhood. Yea, they have seen and caught God's very central thought, The truth of love supreme in sacrifice. And they have paid the price. The highest price wherewith the highest good is bought. Massed in their swarming millions, each has walked In lonely places ; Each in his own high solitude has talked With angel faces ; Each has a separate conquest, and as each returns His heart uniquely burns. As each returns — but ah ! we sing to-day Those who will not come back ; We drape our flags with black, And waft our mournful tribute far away. And yet — are they not here? For truth and freedom know not far or near, The world is one When glorious deeds are done, And death itself is slain By those that die a deathless end to gain. Not in the sacred sod Of battle-harried France alone with God Are they asleep, but here, with God alive. Their spirits gladly strive. Uphold their proud beloved ones, proudly see The world that they made free. By every broken chain. By every freedman, free man to remain. By every darkened nation led to light. By every baffled memory of wrong, By every new-born permanence of right. By every weakness learning to be strong. Our fallen heroes rise. Come from their graves with happy eyes. And join the welcoming throng. We clasp their comrade hands ; We catch from them the splendor of their mood ; Our spirit understands What they have tested and have found it good ; And ours shall bo with them henceforth to fight For God and man, for liberty and right. THE MINE 17 THE EVERLASTING PEACE. Sooner a shovelling dwarf the sea shall fill With star-dust hollowed from the eternal sky, Than one least letter of Jehovah's will The race of man shall blot or nullify. A thousand years with Him are but a day ; His is the patience of eternity ; He knows no haste nor shadow of delay, Resistless and imperial Peace is He. An hour is an eternity with Him, Full time to note the humblest widow's tear. Full time to note the smallest, hidden, dim Iniquity upon the farthest sphere. His anger flames and instantly consumes ; His justice weighs a sparrow's broken wing ; His clear and candid providence illumes The gloomy maze of man's imagining. O sovereign Pity, infinitely kind ! loving and indomitable Will ! I'erplexed and wander-weary, weak and blind, 1 reach Thy hand of comfort, and am still. A VALENTINE. White paper, white paper. Blush red in your pleasure ; I'm writing a letter To Lucy, my treasure ; To bright little Lucy, My treasure untold. As sweet as the sunlight. As precious as gold. White paper, white paper. Now clothe yourself over With scents of the meadow. Warm soil, a.n(t the clover ; With odor of violets Fresh from the dew, For the sweetest of maiden-hands Soon will hold you. White paper, white paper. Break out into smiling. With curves of the wild vine Her fancy beguiling. With sweeps of the swallow. With tricks of the tree. For the merriest of maidens You're going to see. White paper, white paper, Get eyes for the seeing Of Lucy, this dear little, Bright little being ! But if you are after The merriest bliss Get lips, my white paper. And ask for a kiss ! THE CRIPPLED BEGGAR SPEAKS. Yes, Peter was shaggy, his garments were coarse, He was rough in his fisherman ways, His voice was uncultured, and clumsy, and hoarse, But the voice that one always obeys. There was many a gentleman passing me by. Yet none was so gentle as he ; They were soft to the ear, they were fine to the eye. But Peter 's the prince for me ! Yet Peter was poor, and empty his purse ; Three years he was out of his trade ; And poverty 's surely a terrible curse. So how was he going to aid? Ah, many a rich man has tossed me his gold, A pittance flung out to a slave ; But not all the purses in Rome could hold The gift that the fisherman gave ! Why, look at me, stranger, alert as a hound ; And see me, how high I can leap ; And think of those thirty long years on the ground, A tortured and pitiful heap ! Why, Peter, he gave me the best that he had. And he gave in a brotherly way. And well you may guess I am wondrously glad That he hadn't a penny that day ! THE MINE. With a pickaxe strong and rude, I will mine for solitude. Rock as tough as any sin, I will sink a shaft therein, Down below the steady beat Of the horses' iron feet, Far below the street-car bell. Factory whistle, newsboys' yell ; Where the clatter of the dray Long ago dissolved away ; Where the faintest whir and hum Of the city never come. Deep, ah ! deep the shaft shall sink Where the tortured brain may think. Nevermore compelled to fear Pert frustrations of the ear. Far my eager pick shall press Galleries of quietness, 18 THE ROSE OF WAR Veins of silence to explore, Rich in many a precious ore. Ah, the thoughts I shall refine From the caverns of that mine ! Yet, alas ! I know full well In my subterranean cell I shall hardly have the time To achieve a single rhyme Till a rush, a roar, a din On that calm will clatter in. It will be the strain and stress Of the new Direct Express, By the antipodean way, From New York to Mandalay ! THE ROSE OF WAR. Its leaves are bright with the cannon-shine. Its shadow is dark with trembling fears. Its roots reach down to the deadly mine, It is watered with widows' tears. Its blood-red petals are beating lives. Anguish-dewed where the blossom parts ; Its thorns are the thrusts of angry knives Death-deep into human hearts. How fair it gleams in the lying light. In the flush of the glittering sun how fair ! But tarry not by the gallant sight, For the breath of the tomb is there. A COMPROMISE. Once two little gentlemen, very polite, Stepped up to a gate that was narrow — quite. The one (who was very well-bred and thin) Was plainly intending to pass within. The other (remarkably bland and stout) Was Just as surely resolved to pass out. Now what could the two little gentlemen do But say with a bow, "After you !" "After you !" And there they stood bowing, with courteous smile. Their hats in their hands, for a marvellous while ; For the thin little man was very well-bred. And the stout man had not a rude hair in his head. But there chanced that way a philosopher wise, Who sagely effected a compromise : That each in turn should go through the last ; Thus might the troublesome gate be passed. So first the courteous gentleman thin. With greatest reluctance passed within. And then the well-mannered gentleman stout, With polished obeisance made his way out, But sadly turned and went back that he Might share in the breach of courtesy ! Then the thin little man stepped out once more, Contentedly where he was before. And thus having settled the diflicult case, Each walked away with a jubilant face. ONE OF THE NINE. "Were not the ten cleansed? but where are the nine?" — Luke 17 : 17. I meant to go back, but well you may guess I was filled with amazement I cannot express, To think that after those horrible years. That passion of loathing and passion of fears. By sores unendurable eaten, defiled. My flesh was as smooth as the flesh of a child ! I was drunken with joy, I was crazy with glee, I scarcely could walk and I scarcely could see For the dazzle of sunshine where all had been black ; But I meant to go back, O I meant to go back ! I had thought to return, when my people came out. There were tears of rejoicing, and laughter, and shout ; They embraced me, — for years I had not known a kiss : Ah, the pressure of lips is an exquisite bliss ! They crowded around me, they filled the whole place. They looked at my feet and my hands and my face ; My children were there, my glorious wife. And all the forgotten allurements of life. My cup was so full I seemed nothing to lack ; But I meant to go back, O I meant to go back. I had started — yes, Luke, I had started to find The Healer so mighty, so tender and kind ; But work pressed upon me : my business, you know. For all of those years I was forced to let go ; I had tools to collect, I had orders to get. I found my poor family burdened with debt. My time was all taken with labor and care, The days went more swiftly than I was aware With the practical problems I had to attack ; But I meant to go back, I meant to go back. I never supposed He would wait my return — Just one of the ten, — and would linger, and yearn JUST RIGHT 19 As you tell me He did ; why, Luke, had I thought. There is no one on earth I would sooner have sought ; I'd have shown Him my body, all perfect and strong ; I'd have thanked Him and praised Him be- fore the great throng ; I'd have followed Him gladly forever and aye. Had I thought that He minded my staying away, — He so great, I so little and paltry ! — alack. Had I only gone back ! had I only gone back ! YELLOWTHROAT WITCHERY. Down by the swamp in the alder tangle, Brisk little dandy in raiment gay. Maker of ditties that daintily jangle, Maryland yellowthroat whistles all day. Smartly he pecks at the willows and birches, Smartly he sings at a silvery pitch Rollicking ballads unfitted for churches, "Witchery, witchery, witchery, witch!" Witchery truly, you dear little fifer. Watching us quaintly with curious eye ; Witchery more than a sage could decipher Under your carolling, jauntily spry. Black-masked face uncannily hidden. Breast aglimmer with golden bloom, Where is the mystical steed you have ridden, \Miere is your sly little witch's broom? Witchery, witchery all around you. Summer magic in blossom and tree. Summer spells in the rhythms that bound you, Shrill of the cricket and boom of the bee. Witchery most of all in your singing, Poet or vagabond, no one knows which, Over the meadows your canticle ringing, "Witchery, witchery, witchery, witch!" TO BILLY SUNDAY. Critics say you're getting rich — Big collections and all sich ; Send 'em — where it smells of pitch, Billy Sunday. Is a hundred cents or so For each creature saved from woe Overcharge? I'd like to know, Billy Sunday. Critics say your words are coarse, From a non-collegiate source ; But they never doubt their force, Billy Sunday. Critics say your mode is rough. And your methods simply tough ; But the devil 's smooth enough, Billy Sunday. Critics hate your notions most, — Devil, hell, and Holy Ghost ; But you're saving men, a host, Billy Sunday. And the thousands that you win From the lowest depths of sin Stick to you through thick and thin, Billy Sunday. THE SONNET ADDRESSES VERS LIBRE. If you. Free Verse, exult in broken chains. In flinging far the fetters of the past. The metric bonds that held your fancy fast And cabined you from bold adventurous gains. Think not, while passion pulses in your veins. You, only, venture forth into the vast. You, only, hear the challenge of the blast. And dare the beckoning of distant mains. Within the Sonnet's narrow bound austere Is room for life and death, for love and hate ; The mightiest souls have found full margin here For wit, for wisdom, and for keen debate. Why, Shakespeare, ranging thi-ough the hu- man sphere. Moored his rare spoil within my friendly strait. JUST RIGHT. Oh, would I were little, to dance with the leaves That flittingly, trippingly frolic so gay ; We'd roll down the roofs and we'd race through the eaves. And over the village we'd scamper away ; Yes, over the village we'd rustle away. And would I were bigger, to dance with the trees That bend to each other, so stately and fine ; I'd swing on their boughs with the rollick- ing breeze. And oh, for a partner the birch should be mine ; The dainty and delicate birch should be mine. But stay ! I believe I'll remain as I am. Just not very little and not very tall ; For now I can frolic with Susie and Sam, And that is far better, far better than all ; Far better than house-tops and tree-tops and all ! 20 SIDNEY LANIER SIDNEY LANIER. Tree-lover, bird-lover, lover of marsh and sea, Holding his heart to the meadow land, bar- ing his soul to the sun. He loved the world for man, and man the world for Thee, Creator, O beautiful One ! In flowing, out-flowing, over the tide's unrest Brooded his spirit on level wings, brooded, nor sank nor rose, — Unmoved by passion's wave, nor tossed on its frothy crest. Nor whelmed in its furrowed woes. Sea-swinging, cloud-sailing, lilt of the wren and leaf. Growing of grace in the morning sky, storm and the trees at strife, — He wove all sights and sounds and made him a net for grief. And joy, and the wings of a life. Clear-sighted, warm-hearted, spirit in poise, in tune. So was his life with beauty filled ; — touch, and a song overflowed. Alas, the summer bard, he died with his life at .June ; He died at the half of an ode ! A BIBLE-LOVER'S THANKSGIVING. God of the Book ! Its Way, its Truth, its Life ! The Way that leads through all its fruited realm ; The Truth irradiant from every page ; The Life that holds it young for evermore ! I thank Thee that it was not from the skies Through riven clouds these heavenly writings fell. But from the trembling fingers of Thy men. On paper crumpled with humanity ! Thy Book, the meeting-place of God and men ! Our Book, the meeting-place of men and God ! For Abram's faith and Abram's faithless fear. For Jacob's vision and his trickery. For David's odes and Davids deadly sin, Elijah's courage and his cowardice, Peter confessing and denying too. And Paul the martyr persecuting Christ — I thank Thee for the record of it all. The best in man, the craven worst in man. Because through all our blest Redeemer shines. Lifting and loving sinners to Himself ! I thank Thee, wondrous Author, for the gleams Of paradise, the glorious eloquence. The prophecies and parables and psalms. The splendid march of heroes and true kings, For kindly proverbs and for wingfed prayers, The Bible's amplitude and loveliness ; But more for Him, oh, endless more for Him, Thy Son, who binds these volumes to one Book ; Who walks through all its chapters, hinted here And there disclosed ; whose voice is heard afar In Horeb's thunder, and divinely near Upon the Horns of Ilattln ; thanks for Him Whose purjjose wrote the Book ere Moses' came, Whose guidance drew the Book through hun- gerings Of groping ages to the Easter dawn ; Whose presence in the Book re-hallows it Through His unfolding years for evermore. It mirrors us that it may mirror Him Beside us. It repeats our waverings That it may show His constancy. It lives Because He lives, and longs to live in us. Oh, highest praise to God for what He Is ! Oh, praise to God for what we may become ! RHODE ISLAND. The State of country byways, quaintly lined With bush and brake and fragi-ances thick- set ; The State of ancient villages refined : Above their streets the arching elms have met For many generations, till they seem The corridors of some long-brooding dream. Grim granite elbows through the shallow soil, The fields are fenced with gray and massive stone ; The little farms will answer sturdy toil And careful thought, but answer those alone ; No region this of generous-giving leas. Of ready harvesting and languid ease. Yet many berries glimmer in the wood, The wild grape hangs in many a fruited bower. The gnarled apple orchards bend with food. The waysides gleam with many a splendid flower. The hills are delicate with laurel blooms, And rhododendron lights the forest glooms. This land is loved by ocean ; far and deep The long bays reach among the sloping fields. And tenderly the shining waters creep Where waiting marsh a silent welcome yields. And slow brown currents in the shadows run, And thick-ranked sedges glitter in the sun. How strangely to this realm of ancient peace The factory folk, swart faces, foreign tongue. ANTICIPATION Caught in their clattering tasks that never cease. The curse of Cain, so old. yet always young. Here, to these groping, restless, fiery men, Spirit of Roger Williams, come again ! "STATISTICS PROVE." "Statistics prove" so many things : The size of towns, the height of kings. The age of children in the schools. The skull development of fools, The salaries that parsons get. The number of abodes to let, The wealth of lucky millionaires, The price of hens and mining shares — All things below and things above, It seems to me, "statistics prove." But no ! statistics never yet Appraised a single violet. Measured the glances of an eye. Or probed the sorrow of a sigh. Statistics never caught the gleam That dances on a meadow stream, Or weighed the anthem of a bird In forest aisles devoutly heard. Statistics never proved a soul, In high or low, in part or whole, Sin, beauty, passion, honor, love — How much statistics cannot prove ! THE "OTHER MAN." If every man would do the things the "other man" should do, Attack the hoodlum, catch the thief, and watch the rascal crew. We'd have a perfect city, and a perfect coun- try, too, A sober land, an honest land, where mea are good and true ; There'd be no more misgovernment nor graft nor mobs to rue. If every man would do the things the "other man" should do. If we forgot the talents by the "other man" possessed. And never thought to envy him the feathers of his nest, And only thought to grasp from him this chance to do the best, To dare the deed, and meet the need and stand the fiercer test. We'd have a model country, north, south, and east and west. If we forgot the talents by the "other man" possessed. If every man would think himself to be the "other man," Become his own reformer on a self-respecting plan. And calmly, boldly, set himself to do the thing he can, Nor wait to find some other chap to push into the van, The world's entire iniquity we'd put beneath the ban, If every man would think himself to be the "other man." "EVEN SO, COME, LORD .JESUS." The world is a welter of blistering sorrow. All is an anguish of infinite pain. Where are the once happy hopes of to-morrow ? Under the festering heaps of the slain. Where are the songs of the Bethlehem chorus? Mocked in the battle, defeated and dumb. Yet is one hope, and one promise, before us : Even so, even so, Comforter, come ! Come, though the nations are reeling and falling ; Come, though the sages are silent in dread ; Come, though the mothers are sobbing and calling Over the graves of the beautiful dead. Deeper and darker our limitless error. Louder the crash of the hurrying drum ; Wilder the maddening rush of our terror. Even so, even so, Counsellor, come ! Come, while the impious rage and