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 1897 
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CORN TASSELS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM REED DUNROY 
 
 DONE INTO PRINT AT 
 THE IVY PRESS 
 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA 
 MDCCCXCVII 
 
^ 
 
 <g\1 
 
 
 V? 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1897 BY 
 WILLIAM REED DUNROY 
 LINCOLN NEBRASKA 
 
TO THE STATE I LOVE 
 
 NEBRASKA 
 
 AND TO HER PEOPLE - 
 THESE RHYMES ARE 
 DEDICATED - WILLIAM 
 REED DUNROY . . 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 The fugitive rhymes between the covers of this 
 book have appeared in such publications as the 
 Midland Monthly, Ram's Horn, Pathfinder, 
 Youth's Companion, Lotus, Clack-Book, Ish- 
 mcelite, Everywhere, Home Monthly, Sigma 
 Alpha Epsilon Record, Inter-Ocean, and many 
 Nebraska papers. I have found them copied 
 widely in papers and periodicals. I have 
 gathered together this jumble of moods and 
 fancies of the last few years, for the perusal 
 of those who care for them 
 
 W. R. D. 
 
A TABLE OF THE CONTENTS OF 
 CORN TASSELS 
 
 Nebrasky, n 
 
 The Rain on My Face, 12 
 
 A Prairie Night, 13-14 
 
 Violets, 14 
 
 Come, Soothing Sleep, 15 
 
 A Westland Song, 16-17-18 
 
 The Pessimist, 18 
 
 Hate Me for a While, 19-20 
 
 I Know a Place, 21 
 
 Today is Best, 22 
 
 Mother's Rag Carpet, 23-24 
 
 Resignation, 25-26 
 
 The Rose in Her Hair, 27 
 
 Unsatisfied, 28-29 
 
 Christ is Walking, 30-31-32 
 
 The Sunflower, 32 
 
 To a Mummy, 33-34 
 
 Blind Man's Buff, 34 
 
 The River Platte, 35-36-37 
 
 Conventionality, 38 
 
 Alone, 39-40 
 
 The Old Unrest, 40 
 
 Adagio, 41 
 
 The Wheel of Fate, 42 
 
 Resurrection, 43 
 
 Than in Nebraska, 44 
 
 I Walked in the Wood, 45 
 
 As I Sat Cowering, 46 
 
 Experience, 47 
 
 The Days, 48 
 
 To Live is Enough, 49-50 
 
 Lococo, 51-52 
 
 Prairie Pictures, Dawn, 53; 
 Noon, 54; Night, 55 
 What is Love, 56 
 Wind of the West, 57-58-59 
 A Prairie View, 59 
 A Corn Lullaby, 60-61 
 God's Heart, 61 
 One of these Days, 62-63 
 The Sweetest Music, 64-65 
 Life, 65 
 
 To a Skeleton, 66-67 
 The Land of Corn, 68-69 
 Palmistry, 69 
 
 The Veil of Distance, 70-71-72 
 The Years, 72 
 The Use of it All, 73 
 A Prayer, 74 
 We'll Meet Again, 75-76 
 Purple Asters, 76 
 Our Father, 77-78 
 Night, 79-80-81 
 A Love Lyric, 82 
 Le Roi Est Mort, Vive le Roi, 
 83-84-85 
 Nelia, 85 
 
 A Place of Peace, 86 
 Dead Leaves, 87 
 Rest, 88 
 
 Antonio Maceo, 89-90 
 Toil, 90 
 
 The Way of the World, 91 
 My Guest, 92 
 
A Kodak, 93 
 
 The Modern Poem, 94 
 
 Marguerites, 95 
 
 The Poster Girl, 96 
 
 Life's Circles, 97 
 
 The Crazy Quilt, 98-99 
 
 All is Good, 100-101-102 
 
 Lines to L. A. Sherman, 102 
 
 A Prairie Lullaby, 103 
 
 Mystery, 104 
 
 On the Fan, 105-106 
 
 A Wreath, O Years, 107 
 
 Frost Fancies, 108-109 
 
 A Gray Day, 110-111 
 
 The Dance, in 
 
 Nebraska in Autumn, 112 
 
 Pansies from Colorado, 
 
 113-114 
 
 Pansies, 114 
 
 Little Sunshine, 115-116 
 
 A Queer Race, 117-118 
 
 The Prairies, 119 
 
 The South Wind, 120 
 
 Hunting the Eggs, 121-122 
 
 The Two Ways, 
 
 123-124-125-126 
 The Young Violinist, 127-128 
 Lillian, 128 
 
 The S. A. E. Boys, 129-130 
 A Nebraska Hero, 131-132 
 It Must Be True, 133 
 A Complaint, 134 
 The Shadow Service, 135 
 The Dance is Done, 136 
 
Is love but a spider's thread 
 
 That one rude blast may sever? 
 
 Nay, 'tis a cable, iron-strong 
 
 God-wrought, to last forever. 
 
NEBRASKY 
 
 ZL WIDE, wide stretch of level land 
 
 With here an' thar a town, 
 An' broad flat rivers, sluggishly 
 An' slowly flowin' down — 
 An' that's Nebrasky. 
 
 A coverin' of th' bluest sky, 
 
 That smiles, an' smiles, an' smiles, 
 An' lovin' winds, that bend th' grass, 
 
 Fur miles, an' miles, an' miles — 
 An' that's Nebrasky. 
 
 Great fields of emerald bladed corn, 
 
 That swishes in th' breeze; 
 An' here an' thar, are little clumps, 
 
 Of supple wilier trees — 
 An' that's Nebrasky. 
 
 To Eugene O. Mayfield. 
 
THE RAIN ON MY FACE 
 
 f^\ THE rain on my face in the night, 
 
 And the wind's strong arras about me, 
 A tempest of rage and grief within, 
 The tempest and storm without me. 
 
 O the rain on my face in the night, 
 And the stars all blotted and hidden, 
 
 The great black scowling sky o'er head 
 And the earth by wild winds ridden. 
 
 O the rain on my face in the night, 
 And a light in the window before me, 
 
 A glimmer of hope in the murky dark, 
 That sheds its soft beams o'er me. 
 
 O the rain on my face in the night, 
 And love's dear arms about me, 
 
 My head on the breast of one I love 
 And the tempest and storm without me. 
 
A PRAIRIE NIGHT 
 
 TH E sun has set. Across the prairies creep 
 Deep shadows, dark forerunners of the 
 night. 
 The burning West fades out to ashen gray; 
 The smiling day frowns into austere night; 
 A solemn brooding hush bends o'er the earth, 
 O'er farm and prairie land. One brilliant star 
 A pendant jewel hangs amidst the folds 
 Of fragrant dark. O night, O prairie night, 
 How close thou bendest to the earth, how sweet 
 Thy hand upon my head; O mother night 
 Thou art the nurse upon whose breast all men 
 Lie down to rest. Thy kiss hath power to 
 
 soothe 
 The tempest in the heated brain, to quell 
 The deep tumultuous storms that wrack the 
 
 heart; 
 
14 Violets 
 
 The giants Doubt and Care are bound with 
 
 chains 
 As soft as silken threads, and stalk no more 
 To fright the soul. O night, oh prairie night, 
 When sky and earth as lovers meet, I leave 
 The haunts of men and seek a spot unmarred 
 By sound of human play or pain, and dream 
 The dreams that reach to heaven through the 
 
 dark. 
 
 VIOLETS 
 
 \7 IOLETS, violets everywhere, 
 
 Violets in her braided hair, 
 At her throat, and O surprise 
 Violets in her velvet eyes. 
 
COME SOOTHING SLEEP 
 
 f~*0 M E soothing sleep, soft sandalled thro' 
 
 the halls 
 Of night and drop thy poppy-dews upon 
 Mine eyes, and blot the great round world 
 
 from sight; 
 Come muffle up mine ears with silence till all 
 The grating sounds that mar the day shall hush, 
 Give surcease from the carking care that 
 
 haunts 
 My brain; strew seeds of dreams 
 That soon or late will grow and burst to 
 
 roseate bloom. 
 Come healer of all wounds — soother of all pain, 
 And bring thy balm for broken hearts. 
 O scatter dew upon my fevered brain so full 
 Of wild unrest. Come sweet forgetfulness — 
 Oblivious silence — transient death, and give 
 My troubled soul an hour of peace. 
 
A WESTLAND SONG 
 
 THEY sing grand songs of the booming sea 
 Of its foam-flecked, moon-drawn tides, 
 
 Of its storm-lashed waves, that plunge the 
 the reefs; 
 Of its calmer moods when slides 
 
 The playful sea on the sallow beach, 
 Whereon the seaweed rides. 
 
 They sing of the mountains frowning bold, 
 
 Their awful peaks held high, 
 Enfleeced with clouds, their changeless heads 
 
 Relentless piercing the sky; 
 In far inaccessible heights and crags 
 
 The eagles wheel and fly. 
 
 But the sea is treacherous, cold, and deep, 
 It sends it maddened waves, 
 
A West land Song 17 
 
 To overwhelm, and its lovers find 
 
 In its deeps their wandering graves, 
 
 And the white ships manned by skeleton crews 
 Find ports in mermaid caves. 
 
 And the mountains are wild and full of death, 
 
 They hurl their rocks below, 
 And crush the humans who climb along 
 
 Their ribs to reach the snow, 
 And shake their angry sides, deep scarred 
 
 Where torrents lunge and flow. 
 
 But sing me a song of the prairies wide, 
 That are boundless, wild, and free, 
 
 Where the grasses wave in stormless tides 
 And the winds sing loud in glee, 
 
 As over the emerald floors they trip 
 In a dance of witchery. 
 
 A flower-jewelled, grass clothed land, 
 With never a roof but the sky, 
 
 No shade but the moving shade of the clouds 
 Whose gloom soon hurries by, 
 
 No storms save those of the western winds 
 That bluster awhile, then die. 
 
1 8 The Pessimist 
 
 O sing me a song of the westland wild, 
 Where the buffalo grave plots lie, 
 
 Where the tramping cattle shake the sod 
 And the cranes and curlews fly, 
 
 Where the slinking coyote skulks and scuds 
 Through the sage brush gray and dry. 
 
 A song of freedom, of unrestraint, 
 
 Of life, deep, full, and free, 
 Of no death lurking seas that moan 
 
 And make my soul grow sad, 
 Or mountain heights whose frowning fronts 
 
 Unpitying drive me mad. 
 
 THE PESSIMIST 
 
 |-| E SEES the heavens mirrored in the 
 
 muddy puddle at his feet 
 And deems the reach of his dust-blinded eyes 
 The whole extent; the feeble beatings of his 
 
 shrivelled, cankered heart, 
 To him are echoes of the heart of God. 
 
HATE ME FOR A WHILE 
 
 [ ' M sick of love, oh hate me for a while, 
 
 Draw thy full lips in two thin lines of 
 red, 
 And let the smouldering in thine eyes leap 
 In flames of fire from thy head. 
 
 Upon thy placid brow let wrinkled lightnings 
 
 play, 
 
 And let a fury snarl thy too smooth hair, 
 
 While o'er thy bosom let blue ropes of blood 
 
 Unlesh deep passion from its sleepy 
 
 lair. 
 
 Thy sea-shell nails, so pearly pink and white, 
 Must purple, and thy fingers clinch and 
 
 claw, 
 
20 Hate Me for a While 
 
 Like tiger fingers when a vandal steals her 
 cubs 
 And leaves her feverish breasts un- 
 sucked and raw. 
 
 Attune thy lisping tongue to harsher sounds, 
 And hiss my name between thy click- 
 ing teeth, 
 
 Beyond the bounds of reason let thy rage 
 
 Volcanic-like, untrammel from beneath. 
 
 I'm sick of love, oh hate me for a while, 
 
 And spurn me, cowering at thy furious 
 feet, 
 For when the rage is spent, and calm returns 
 Our love will be ten thousand times 
 more sweet. 
 
I KNOW A PLACE 
 
 [ KNOW a place where violets blow, 
 
 Where ferns and grasses freen and grow, 
 Where the big white lilies lightly rest 
 Their waxy bowls on the river's breast. 
 
 I know a place where the soft waves beat 
 Like the sound of a kiss at the violet's feet; 
 Where the sun by day, and the moon by night, 
 Weaves tangled webs of changeful light. 
 
 I know a place where the thrushes nest, 
 Where the breezes rock the birds to rest, 
 Where the nightingale conies at night to sing 
 In the twisted loop of the grape-vine swing. 
 
 I know a place where a fallen tree 
 Lies close where the ferns and violets be, 
 And over it stretches a roof of leaves 
 The glossy green of the oak tree weaves. 
 
 I know a place — ah, 'tis a lone retreat 
 Where love, and the birds, and I may meet, 
 And drift and dream o'er far away seas 
 To the water's murmuring melodies. 
 
TODAY IS BEST 
 
 TODAY is best, the past is dead and gone, 
 Its joys and sorrows are but dreams, 
 
 But idle fantasies we may as well 
 
 Forget; they are but threadbare themes 
 
 Too childish for this day; too crude 
 
 To mingle with our present schemes. 
 
 Today is best, beyond our mortal ken 
 
 The future all too dimly lies; 
 Tomorrow with its hoped-for roseate dawn 
 
 May never flush upon our eyes; 
 Our blazing sun may now be hurrying down 
 
 The west, to never more arise. 
 
 Today is best, 'tis close at hand, its skies 
 
 Bend o'er us as a lover might, 
 We feel no dread uncertainty — we know — 
 
 And feel — and are — no fear nor fright 
 Of what has been, or what may come — we hold 
 
 Today our own — tis ours — till night. 
 
MOTHER'S RAG CARPET 
 
 VEW ma)' talk of your carpets so fine, 
 
 Made of velvets, an' brussels, 'an sich, 
 
 With ther fine fancy shadin's and hues, 
 An' ther patturns so purty an' rich, 
 
 That jest shows ther fine costly weavin' 
 Through every richly wove stitch, 
 
 But fur me, I'd fur rather hev, 
 
 That strip of old carpet, as laid 
 
 On th' old kitchen floor, long ago, 
 
 Th' carpet thet mother hed made 
 
 From th' rags she sewed in th' evenin's 
 
 While us childrun run roun' her and play'd. 
 
 Fur I know every stripe as is in it, 
 I could tell yew a story, thet run 
 
 Jest like a thread clear through it, 
 
 From beginnin' till all of its done, 
 
 A story of smiles an' sum sorrers, 
 
 Of shadders, an' spots of bright sun. 
 
24 Mother's Rag Carpet 
 
 Thar was fust, a small piece of her dress, 
 Of th' one she hed made when she wed, 
 
 An' th' one that's next to it's made 
 
 Of a dress of her sister's thet's dead, 
 
 An' thar close by is a stripe of 
 Th' very fust trousers I hed. 
 
 Thar's a stripe of father's old shirt, 
 An' it's mixed with old army blue 
 
 An' here an' thar — yes I am sure 
 
 Are spots of red blood shinin' through; 
 
 An' away down thar in th' corner 
 
 Is a piece of th' red white an' blue. 
 
 Thet carpet is made out of rags, 
 
 Out of rags, jest rags an' no more, 
 
 But th' warp is a warp of dear memories, 
 An' I'd rather hev it here on th' floor 
 
 Than all of th' brussels an' velvets 
 
 Yew could bring through that big open 
 door. 
 
RESIGNATION 
 
 \\/ HEN across the rose-strewn path that we 
 had hoped to tread, 
 
 Some rude, unlooked-for barrier lifts its wall, 
 From out our heavy grief we are wont to weave 
 
 For the whole wide world a sable pall. 
 
 When on our brows the thorns of disappoint- 
 ment press 
 
 And circumstances drive us in a stony path, 
 We rail against the world and scoff at hope, 
 
 And blame high heaven in our fretful wrath. 
 
 But though the disappointments come and 
 
 smarting thorns, 
 And all our hopes lie as a broken wreck, 
 
 Yet must we learn that in the sorrow of this 
 world 
 One heart's sorrow is but a tiny fleck. 
 
26 Resignation 
 
 For there have been, since first the human 
 heart 
 Began to beat its own soft muffled knell, 
 Great sorrows that have reached to heaven 
 itself, 
 And down to the very gates of hopeless hell. 
 
 But only one amidst the multitude has died 
 Because His sorrow burst His human heart, 
 
 And He it was who on the blood stained cross 
 Tore death's black veil of gloom apart. 
 
 And so when sorrow lays a heavy hand upon 
 your head 
 And circumstances lash you with a scourge 
 of pain, 
 Know that your lot is but the common lot of 
 men, 
 A part of the world's great solemn alto strain. 
 
THE ROSE IN HER HAIR 
 
 THERE'S a scarlet rose in my lady's hair 
 
 And her gown is silken white, 
 On her cheek there's a delicate rosy glow 
 Like the birth of a ruddy light. 
 
 There's a pale white rose in my lady's hair 
 And her gown is leaden white, 
 
 Her cheeks are pale and her slender hands 
 Are clasped together tight. 
 
 There's a phantom rose in my lady's hair, 
 And her gown is misty white, 
 
 I see her no more in all the world, 
 Save in my dreams at night. 
 
UNSATISFIED 
 
 f*) N E day I wandered through the mossy 
 wood, 
 
 In search of fragrant flowers; 
 I found them, wet with dew, and rich with scent, 
 
 Amidst the tangled bowers. 
 
 But I soon grew weary of their lovliness, 
 
 For, high above my head, 
 Amidst the crags, I saw a poppy flaunt 
 
 Its crown of wanton red. 
 
 I dropped the paler flowers at my feet, 
 
 My one supreme desire 
 Was but to gain the gorgeous painted bloom, 
 
 That glowed with amorous fire. 
 
Unsatisfied 29 
 
 At last, with hands all scarred, and bruised, 
 and torn, 
 
 I grasped the brilliant flower; 
 When lo ! its petals fell upon the rocks, 
 
 A scattered useless shower. 
 
 And thus along life's way bright pleasures 
 bloom, 
 But those that nearest lie 
 We scorn; we think that those beyond our 
 reach 
 Alone will satisfy. 
 
 But when we have them in our eager grasp, 
 
 The pleasures they implied, 
 But fade, and mock our deep desires, and we 
 
 Are still unsatisfied. 
 
 To Leonard H. Robbins. 
 
CHRIST IS WALKING 
 
 I HKIST is walking through our streets, 
 Looking in each face He meets: 
 Tenderly; 
 Not only in the church He stands 
 Where suppliants kneel with folded hands, 
 Not only in the closet where 
 He lifts the load of human care, 
 But in the busy haunts of life, 
 And in the midst of toil and strife, 
 
 Walks He with His bleeding feet. 
 Walks He where the people meet, 
 But they scorn Him, pass Him by 
 And in their hearts they madly cry 
 Crucify ! 
 
 Christ is walking through the shops, 
 By each worker meekly stops: 
 Patiently; 
 
Christ is Walking 31 
 
 He would lift the heavy load, 
 
 He would clear the thorny road, 
 
 He would take each sooty hand, 
 
 Smooth the wrinkles from each brow, 
 
 Kiss the wounds, but none allow. 
 
 Walks He with His bleeding feet, 
 Walks He where the people meet, 
 But they scorn Him, pass Him by, 
 And in their hearts they madly cry 
 Crucify ! 
 
 Christ is walking through the slums, 
 
 With His cross and thorns He comes: 
 Wearily; 
 
 Pleading with the wrecks of men, 
 
 Bidding them take heart again, 
 
 Kneeling in the dens of shame 
 
 Seeing things too vile to name, 
 
 Yet with heart filled full of love 
 
 Bids each sinner look above. 
 
 Walks He with His bleeding feet, 
 Walks He where the people meet, 
 But they scorn Him, pass Him by, 
 And in their hearts they madly cry 
 Crucify ! 
 
32 The Sunflower 
 
 Christ is walking everywhere, 
 
 With His face deep marked with care: 
 
 Painfully; 
 But the people turn their eyes, 
 Far away toward the skies, 
 Knowing not that near them stands 
 Christ the Lord with pierced hands, 
 Beckoning them toward His breast 
 Where all the weary may find rest. 
 
 Walks He with His bleeding feet. 
 Walks He where the people meet, 
 But they scorn Him, pass Him by 
 And in their hearts the3^ madly cry 
 Crucify ! 
 
 THE SUjNFLOWER 
 
 T H E sun has photographed upon the fields 
 A myriad golden pictures of his face, 
 
 A myriad lesser suns, that wheel and watch 
 His glowing course throughout the azure 
 space. 
 
TO A MUMMY 
 
 fHOU crouching figure wrapped 
 In silence deep and vast, 
 
 Unseal thy dry, dumb lips, 
 
 And tell me of the past. 
 
 Tell me what lover sighed 
 
 His love-vows in thine ear, 
 
 So fiercely, softly faint, 
 
 That thou alone couldst hear. 
 
 What arms about thy neck 
 
 Were passionately thrown, 
 
 What lips in fervid love 
 
 Were pressed against thine own, 
 
 How beat that heart of thine 
 
 With joy supremely sweet, 
 
 As low thy lover knelt 
 
 In suppliance at thy feet. 
 
34 Blind Man's Buff 
 
 What were thy joys, thy fears, 
 
 What caused thee smiles or sighs, 
 
 What laughter didst thou have 
 
 What tears bedewed thine eyes? 
 
 Thy lips move not, and yet 
 
 I know thy joy and pain, 
 
 This human heart of mine 
 
 Hath made thy story plain. 
 
 BLIND MAN'S BUFF 
 
 E GROPE blind-folded through the 
 dreadful days, 
 A slow, continual knell rings muffled in our 
 
 ears, 
 The earth beneath our feet deep-scarred by 
 
 myriad graves, 
 At last we fall and leave a legacy of empty 
 
 years. 
 
THE RIVER PLATTE 
 
 THE broad old Platte, with shifting isles of 
 
 shallow sand, 
 Enwinds like a silver ribbon blotched with 
 
 spots of gold 
 Throughout the grass-paved floors of marshy 
 
 prairie land, 
 
 In summer, low the grasses bend, 
 Emerald, tinged with gold, they dip 
 And fringe along the marge, and send 
 A shadow in the depths, that makes 
 A'_boundless dome, beneath the bed, 
 Through which the river's waters wend. 
 
 And in the rank tall grass that grows 
 Along the bank, the blackbirds build 
 Gray nests, and lay, and tender shows 
 
36 The River Platte 
 
 The pale blue egg against the gray. 
 And where the water shallower flows, 
 The bittern wades and catches frogs 
 Found basking where the sunlight glows. 
 
 On either side the river lie 
 Vast fields of emerald nodding corn, 
 And waving seas of wheat and rye; 
 And in between are willow groves 
 And humble homes set high and dry, 
 With straw-built sheds and stacks of hay, 
 And droves of cattle grazing by. 
 
 Like jewels strewn upon the ground 
 The wild flowers shine amidst the green; 
 The air is ravished with the sound 
 Of bird song. The waters lisp and kiss 
 The banks; with murmurings profound 
 They pour along toward the sea, 
 Through boundless prairies reaching 
 round, 
 
 And when the summer on her bed 
 
 Of death lies down, and autumn comes, 
 
The River Platte 37 
 
 The wild ducks by some instinct led 
 From realms of air drop down and swim 
 In big black arrows on the spread 
 Of waters, till the flock to flight 
 Is put, by showers of flying lead. 
 
 Then all the prairies change, behold 
 The sun with Midas-touch transforms 
 The grass and corn, and fold on fold 
 Gay Autumn's garments trail across 
 The level lands. The river bold 
 With silver, cuts its onward way 
 Through fields of amber and of gold. 
 
 In winter sober gray the grass, 
 The bird's nests empty, leprous like 
 The river, scarred and scaled the mass 
 Of ice, wounded here and there 
 With bars of sand, and yet like glass 
 In places, smooth and clear, the sun 
 Reflecting like a shield of brass. 
 
CONVENTIONALITY 
 
 TH E giant stoops and walks with mincing 
 steps 
 To suit the pattern custom has decreed, 
 While pigmies strive with dwarfish strides 
 
 To ape the fashion of a larger breed; 
 For great and small must fit convention's 
 mold, 
 Must crush the ego, so the world may 
 read 
 A printed page all lettered with one style of 
 type; 
 And they who dare the accepted form 
 exceed 
 Become the laughing stock of mere machines 
 Who scoff at all that does not fit their 
 creed. 
 
ALONE 
 
 ALONE in the night when all is dark, 
 And the house is hushed and still, 
 When a brown leaf blown on your window 
 pane 
 Sets all your nerves athrill. 
 
 Alone in the night when all is dark, 
 And your heart is a lump of clay, 
 
 And your feet are bound, and palid flowers 
 Upon your breast decay. 
 
 Alone in the night when all is dark, 
 And your bones lie in the ground, 
 
 When the gnawing of worms in your coffin lid 
 Is the only ghost of a sound. 
 
4-0 The Old Unrest 
 
 Alone in the night when all is dark, 
 
 And the caverns that held your eyes 
 
 Are filled with dust and clods of clay 
 And your headstone forgotten lies. 
 
 THE OLD UNREST 
 
 C\ H T H E old unrest comes back tonight, 
 
 A vague, sweet, half-forgotten pain, 
 With these dead violets in my hands 
 
 And my eyes mist-filled with a hint of 
 rain. 
 
 I seem to hear that old mad song, 
 
 That old heart-breaking, passioned strain, 
 You sang that night — a memory 
 
 And these dead violets for me remain. 
 
ADAGIO 
 
 THE coming night has wrapped theGweary 
 world 
 
 In a robe of solemn ashen gray, 
 And as the light dies out across the sky, 
 
 Take down your violin and play. 
 
 But do not strike a major chord I pray, 
 But touch a mystic minor strain, 
 
 To fill my soul with pleasure vague and sweet, 
 A pleasure nigh akin to pain. 
 
 Let no strong passion mar the gentle strain, 
 But weave a melody of dreams, 
 
 As soft as silence, as sweet as sleep, 
 
 As tender as the moon's pale beams. 
 
 And bring to me dear dead days, 
 
 The days deep buried in my heart, 
 
 And cause from out the misty land of dreams, 
 The faces of my dead to start. 
 
THE WHEEL OF FATE 
 
 THE wheel of fate forever turns its slow, 
 relentless round, 
 
 And some cling laughing to its upper sun- 
 washed bound, 
 
 While others grovel neath its ponderous weight 
 upon the ground. 
 
 But they who laugh must some day feel its 
 
 crushing, ruthless weight 
 And take their places writhing on the ground, 
 
 but soon or late, 
 The wheel brings uppermost the broken ones, 
 
 for such is fate. 
 
RESURRECTION 
 
 C~}U T of the soil of discontent, 
 
 Spring lilies of peace with hearts of gold, 
 Out of the night of deep despair 
 
 The hope-white wings of dawn unfold. 
 
 Out of the storm and stress of hate, 
 
 The meek-eyed dove of calm is sent, 
 
 Out of our senseless rage and grief 
 Is born at last a deep content. 
 
 Out of the wrinkled and withered husk 
 
 The germ of life seeks warmth and light, 
 
 Out of the noisome house of death, 
 
 The soul takes wing for its endless flight. 
 
THAN IN NEBRASKA 
 
 THERE may be homes as dear, 
 
 But none are dearer, 
 There may be skies as clear, 
 
 But none are clearer, 
 Than in Nebraska. 
 
 There may be days as rare, 
 
 But none are rarer, 
 There may be lands as fair, 
 
 But none are fairer, 
 Than in Nebraska. 
 
 There may be skies as blue, 
 
 But none are bluer, 
 There may be hearts as true, 
 But none are truer, 
 Than in Nebraska. 
 
I WALKED IN THE WOOD 
 
 [ WALKED in the wood one summer day 
 And heard a wild bird singing, 
 
 His tender notes through forest glades 
 Exultantly were ringing. 
 
 I said in my heart, " That bird must be 
 
 Happy beyond all measure, 
 I will seek the bird and take him home, 
 
 He will always give me pleasure." 
 
 But alas ! I found a cruel thorn 
 
 In the breast of the bird was driven, 
 
 And all that wondrous melody 
 
 Was from such anguish given. 
 
 I took the thorn from out his breast, 
 
 But the wild bird's song ceased ringing, 
 The thorn in his breast had been the cause 
 Of all his tender singing. 
 
AS I SAT COWERING 
 
 A S I sat cowering in my chamber in the 
 
 dark, 
 There came a knocking at my door, 
 Loud, loud. 
 And some one cried that which I feared to 
 
 hear, 
 "She is dead," and all grew black, and I 
 forgot. 
 
 I sit and run my fingers through 
 
 Her tawny hair. I press my cheek against 
 
 Her cheek, but feel no answering caress 
 
 Her eyes are dim — the hollow orbs 
 
 Will soon hold crawling worms, 
 
 And in the roses of her lips will creep 
 
 The slimy things. She I loved 
 
 Must mould and mildew to decay. 
 
 Oh, envious death ! Could not you spare 
 
 This one wild flower to me? 
 
EXPERIENCE 
 
 I'VE held a bauble in my hands, 
 
 One fleeting day, 
 To ashes have I seen it turn, 
 
 And blow away. 
 
 I've worn a flower on my breast, 
 
 A budding rose, 
 That drooped and died ere time had let 
 
 Its heart unclose. 
 
 Prate not to me of heaven or hell, 
 
 By bitter cost 
 I've known their ecstacies and woes — 
 
 I've loved and lost. 
 
THE DAYS 
 
 THE days like priceless jewels fall 
 
 Into the casket of the past, 
 And I with memory's golden key 
 
 Kneel down and lock them sure and fast. 
 
 And when my heart is sad and lone 
 I ope the casket's precious lid 
 
 And count the garnered jewels o'er 
 
 And view all things that e'er I did. 
 
 I find some days all crusted o'er, 
 
 With joy's bright jewels, rich and rare, 
 
 And some are black and onyx-like 
 With touches of a deep despair. 
 
 But one and all they make for me 
 
 These priceless jewels that I love 
 
 The splendid diadem of hope 
 
 To crown me for the life above. 
 
TO LIVE IS ENOUGH 
 
 JUST to live is enough — to see the blue- 
 domed sky 
 Unclouded on a dreamy summer day; 
 To view the earth, wrapped in its robe of 
 green; 
 The changing sea, now blue, now green, 
 now gray; 
 To see the silver rivers lace the lands; 
 
 The frowning mountains capped with 
 gleaming snow; 
 The jeweled prairies, shadowless and bright; 
 The opalescent dawn, the sunset glow; 
 To live and see is enough. 
 
 Just to live is enough — to hear the torrents leap, 
 Untrammeled from the overhanging wall; 
 To hear the surging and the sobbing sea; 
 
5<d To Live is Enongh 
 
 The thunders roar, the avalanches fall; 
 The twitter of the wren at early morn; 
 
 The sighing of the breeze as the eve grows 
 late; 
 The peal of laughter from the light of heart; 
 
 The gentle talking of the lover to his 
 mate; 
 To live and hear is enough; 
 
 Just to live is enough — to smell the rose at 
 dawn; 
 To feel the rain upon your face at night; 
 To brush the dew from hedge and jeweled 
 lawn; 
 To watch the skylark in its heavenward 
 flight; 
 To drift and dream upon the river's flow; 
 
 To listen to the cooing of the dove; 
 To hold a tender rose-leaf hand in yours; 
 To kiss the dewy lips of one you love; 
 To live and love is enough, 
 
LOCOCO 
 
 T O C O C O lives on Lightsome street 
 Hard by the fount of laughter, 
 
 His house is built of blocks of fun 
 From floor to topmost rafter, 
 
 And by the door a gurgling brook 
 The sunshine chases after. 
 
 Lococo sits and suns himself 
 The happy hours beguiling, 
 
 No matter when you see the youth 
 You'll always find him smiling, 
 
 With tangled sunshine in his hair 
 He sits the shades reviling. 
 
 Lococo warbles all day long, 
 His songs are so entrancing 
 
52 Loco co 
 
 That when the children pass that way, 
 He sets them all to dancing, 
 
 And when the dashing steeds go by 
 He sets them all to prancing. 
 
 Lococo knows no carking care, 
 
 He never knew a trouble, 
 He views the world as though it were 
 
 An irridescent bubble, 
 Drawn through the air by butterflies 
 
 That fairies harness double. 
 
 Lococo lives on Lightsome street 
 Hard by the fount of laughter, 
 
 His house is built of blocks of fun 
 From floor to topmost rafter, 
 
 And by the door a gurgling brook 
 The sunshine chases after. 
 
PRAIRIE PICTURES 
 
 DAWN 
 
 T\ AY DAWN, a tender sky, 
 Gray; stabbed with rose ; 
 
 Birds, dewy winged that fly, 
 
 A wind, new born that blows. 
 
 A floor of flooded gold, 
 
 Unmarred by shade or gloom, 
 Dashed with colors bold 
 
 Of fireweed's gaudy bloom. 
 
 A gray lark on a weed, 
 
 A passionate trill, 
 A winged sudden speed, 
 
 Then all is hushed and still. 
 
54 Prairie Pictures 
 
 The sun above the grass, 
 
 The sky a boundless blue, 
 
 The plain a jeweled mass, 
 Diamonded with dew. 
 
 NOON 
 
 High noon, a sky of brass, 
 
 Flaming winds, that fiery run, 
 
 Endless reach of shrivelled grass 
 Beneath a burning sun. 
 
 A whitened heap of bones, 
 
 A skull with caverned eyes 
 
 A torpid snake ensconces 
 As ghastly white it lies. 
 
 A bird's nest on the ground, 
 Two eggs, the sky as blue, 
 
 A stillness, vast, profound, 
 
 Where sleep, on silence grew. 
 
Prairie Pictures 55 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 Sundown, the shadows creep 
 On gloomy prairies gray, 
 
 The night winds lisp and sweep 
 And swallows dart away. 
 
 Sod house, grassy, old, 
 
 Doorless, dark, forlorn, 
 
 Glassless windows staring bold 
 Like sockets, eyeless torn. 
 
 Lonely mound, cross of wood, 
 Crumbling to decay, 
 
 Mute reminder, understood, 
 Man has passed this way. 
 
 Silence, shadows, doom and blight, 
 Blackness, deep despair, 
 
 Flowerless earth, starless night, 
 Boundless, birdless air. 
 
WHAT IS LOVE 
 
 "T OVE is a crown," the maiden lisped, 
 
 "Whose glittering orb my brow 
 adorns." 
 The years went by and she cried in grief, 
 
 " 'Tis a crown indeed, but a crown of 
 thorns." 
 
 " Love is a solace," the mother cried, 
 
 " To bind up the wounds of broken 
 years;" 
 
 But her idol vanished one somber day 
 And left a legacy of bitter tears. 
 
 Then what is love? Ah, who may tell? 
 
 'Tis bitter and sweet, 'tis loss and gain, 
 A flower with thorns, a laugh with tears, 
 
 A sunlit day with a night of rain. 
 
WIND OF THE WEST 
 
 W A N D E R I N G wind of the west, 
 
 Come in at my window and be my guest; 
 You must be tired, come in and rest, 
 Tell me a story of what you have seen 
 While flying the earth and sky between 
 O'er many a changeful western scene. 
 
 "As down the mountain side I came 
 When all the eastern sky aflame 
 With dawning fires was, I saw 
 The night her gloomy curtains draw 
 And hide her stars before the sun 
 His glowing circuit had begun. 
 I played awhile in an eagle's nest 
 And plucked a feather from her breast 
 And took it with me down below 
 And dropped it in the river's flow. 
 
58 Wind of the West 
 
 " I darted through a waterfall 
 
 And dashed its spray against the wall; 
 
 I tore a rainbow into shreds 
 
 And from a spider's silken threads 
 
 I made a hammock which I hung 
 
 The fragile mountain flowers among. 
 
 " Across the plains where lonely stand 
 The brown sod houses in the sand, 
 I idly soared, and through the doors, 
 I came and played upon the floors; 
 I played on graves where slanting stood 
 Plain crosses made of rough pine wood; 
 I danced on heaps of whitened bones 
 On neshless naked skeletons. 
 
 " I wandered through deserted fields 
 Where barren soil by scarcely yields 
 The wandering thistle and ugly weeds 
 That grow from careless vagrant seeds. 
 
 " I played with ghosts of long ago 
 
 Of Indian and of buffalo. 
 
 I heard the warrior's mournful songs, 
 
Wind of the West 59 
 
 I heard the tramp of shaggy throngs 
 Across the level dusk-bathed plain, 
 Then all grew calm and still again. 
 And now I nestle in your breast, 
 The day is done, I'll stop and rest!" 
 
 A PRAIRIE VIEW 
 
 AFAR, afar in endless levels, 
 
 The prairies reach from my sod-house 
 door, 
 Afar, the winds hold madcap revels 
 Along the grassy, sod-paved floor. 
 
 Beyond the aching eye's deep straining, 
 
 Yet other levels, boundless lie; 
 And farther still, is yet remaining, 
 
 A floor which meets the bending sky. 
 
A CORN LULLABY 
 
 T-I A R K to the summer rain in the corn, 
 
 Hush to sleep my baby! 
 As faint as the call of an elfland horn, 
 
 Hush to sleep my baby! 
 The winds blow fresh from the rosy west, 
 The birdie swings in his little brown nest, 
 'Tis time for baby to go to rest; 
 
 Hush to sleep my baby! 
 
 Hark to the crash of the hail in the corn, 
 
 Hush to sleep my baby! 
 It leaves the stalks all stript and shorn, 
 
 Hush to sleep my baby! 
 The birdie is under the downy breast 
 Of the mother-bird, whose beaten crest, 
 The hail drives hard, by storm winds pressed; 
 
 Hush to sleep my baby! 
 
A Corn Lullaby 61 
 
 Hark to the sigh of the wind in the corn, 
 
 Hush to sleep my baby! 
 The storm is dead and the calm is born. 
 
 Hush to sleep my baby! 
 Now snuggle up close to mother's breast, 
 And ride away through dreams in quest 
 Of the silent, stormless lands of rest; 
 
 Hush to sleep my baby! 
 
 To my Mother. 
 
 GOD'S HEART 
 
 rZ D ' S heart is like a mother's heart, 
 He loves His wayward children best, 
 
 And those who wound Him sorest 
 
 He holds the closest to His breast. 
 
ONE OF THESE DAYS 
 
 f~\ WE'LL all have plenty to eat and to 
 drink, 
 
 One of these days, 
 And coins in our pockets to clink and to 
 chink, 
 
 One of these days, 
 The skies will be blue, and our loves all be 
 
 true, ■ 
 And we'll laugh and we'll love the merry year 
 through, 
 
 One of these days. 
 
 O we'll all find our Klondikes shining with 
 gold, 
 
 One of these days, 
 Our hearts all be ravished with blisses untold; 
 
 One of these days, 
 
One of These Days 63 
 
 We'll sing and we'll dance while merry eyes 
 
 glance, 
 And life be as gay as a wedding in France, 
 One of these days. 
 
 the clouds will all melt and vanish away, 
 
 One of these days, 
 And the sky be as fair as a morning in May, 
 
 One of these days, 
 Our hearts will grow light and the world will 
 
 grow bright, 
 And all of our sorrows will vanish from sight, 
 
 One of these days. 
 
 O we'll all find a haven of unbroken rest, 
 
 One of these days, 
 Have peace and content and an untroubled 
 breast, 
 
 One of these days, 
 Our strife all be done, our battles all won; 
 And we'll all go home at the set of the sun, 
 
 One of these days. 
 
THE SWEETEST MUSIC 
 
 THERE'S a music in the patter of the rain 
 As it drips so gently downward through 
 the night, 
 Just a soothing, quiet, sleepy, soft refrain, 
 
 A lullaby to put your wakefulness to 
 flight. 
 
 There's music in the soughing of the breeze, 
 Just a singing hardly louder than a sigh, 
 
 As it lazily goes humming through the trees, 
 Fanning coolly on your forehead as you 
 lie. 
 
 There's music in the babble of the brook, 
 
 As it ripples brightly onward in its flow, 
 
 Where the ferns and modest violets bend and 
 look, 
 In the limpid, lisping waters down below. 
 
The Sweetest Music 65 
 
 There's music in the piping of the thrush, 
 
 Just as sweet as any sound you ever heard, 
 
 And you listen and you wish all else would 
 hush 
 Save the singing of the russet-coated bird. 
 
 There's music in the cooing of the dove 
 
 As he struts around his nest-mate in the 
 
 shade, 
 But the music in the voice of one you love 
 
 Is by far the sweetest music ever made. 
 
 LIFE 
 
 [ I F E is but a tragic tale, 
 By countless players told, 
 
 Birth begins it, marriage next, 
 Then death — the play is old. 
 
 Laughter and joy to some, 
 
 To others, sorrow and shade, 
 Two dates carved on a stone, 
 And the play is played. 
 
TO A SKELETON 
 
 |F I could clothe thy naked bones with flesh 
 And give to thee the breath of life once 
 more, 
 If I could call thy soul from out the vast 
 Mysterious realms, where now it roams or 
 
 sleeps, 
 I wonder if thou'dst smile or frown at me? 
 For who may tell from what lethean calm, 
 Or yet what sleep of ravishing dreams, 
 I'd waken thee? And if thy lips should break 
 The long continued silence of the past, 
 And speak to me, I wonder what first word 
 Would strike the eager listening of mine ear? 
 I wonder if the questions I have asked 
 Through many weary years would answered be ? 
 If thou wouldst tell me the ones I loved, 
 Who left me long ago, were waiting me 
 In some fair land beyond the mists and dark, 
 
To a Skeleton 67 
 
 Or yet were wrapped in some deep sleep that 
 Naught should ever break? But O thou 
 
 answerest not; 
 Unbroken silence dost thou hold to me 
 As though thou hadst a hideous secret locked 
 Beyond my longing reach. Though I should 
 
 hang 
 Rich gems and gold, and robes of silk and lace 
 Upon thine awful form; though I should heap 
 A glittering treasure at thy feet, yet thou 
 Wouldst never ope thy rigid jaws to speak. 
 Away, thou hideous figure, from my sight! 
 Thou art a fearful thing that ever stands 
 To tell me I at last must stare and grin 
 In hideous silence at a questioning world! 
 
 To Edward Maggi. 
 
THE LAND OF CORN 
 
 CAR inland from the raging sea, 
 And its boom and rush and roar, 
 
 There lies a land, wide, wide and green, 
 As flat as a dancing floor — 
 
 'Tis Nebraska, the land of corn. 
 
 The sun just seems to love the land, 
 
 For it shines the whole year through, 
 
 And the skies smile down upon her plains, 
 Serenely, calm and blue — 
 
 O'er Nebraska, the land of corn. 
 
 And the prairies are clad for many a mile 
 With the tossing plumes of corn, 
 
 And the fields of wheat wave like a sea 
 Of green, on a summer morn — 
 In Nebraska, the land of corn. 
 
The Land of Corn 69 
 
 A man may wander far way, 
 
 From the old Nebraska home, 
 
 But his heart will long by night and day 
 Wherever he dares to roam — 
 For Nebraska, the land of corn. 
 
 We love that land with fervent love, 
 
 All we who tread her soil, 
 And we pray God's blessing upon the heads 
 
 Of the men who live and toil — 
 In Nebraska, the land of corn. 
 
 PALMISTRY 
 
 CHE read the lines in the palm of my hand 
 And she read me a cruel fate, 
 
 She read "You will love, but alas! alas! 
 Your love will come too late." 
 
 I could"hot see her face, and yet, 
 I knew she had read my fate. 
 
THE VEIL OF DISTANCE 
 
 \%J HEN viewed at closer range, the chasmed 
 
 mountains, bleak and bare, 
 Lose all their beauty. Stern, forbidding and 
 
 severe they rise, 
 The playgrounds where the gods have tossed 
 
 the boulders, here and yon 
 In giant playfulness. But out beneath the 
 
 prairie skies, 
 When back we turn to view the towering 
 
 domes, a misty haze, 
 A softened tender mist, blots out the wounds, 
 
 and glorifies 
 The ancient heavenward lifting peaks. The 
 
 distance weaves a veil 
 That hides the scars, revealing naught but 
 
 beauty to our eyes. 
 
 And so it is in life. The rough and jagged 
 path takes on 
 
The Veil of Distance 7 1 
 
 A glory born of time, a haze that hides the 
 
 bitter pain — 
 The disappointments once so hard to bear — 
 
 the cross of want — 
 The loneliness — the sharpest thorn ingratitude 
 
 — the stain 
 Of some great sin — the broken heart — the 
 
 open grave — the scars 
 That mar our lives; and back we look from 
 
 out our present plain, 
 And see a glory in the years gone by, forget- 
 ting that 
 Though veiled by distance-woven mists, the 
 
 jagged rocks remain. 
 
 The dull today, monotonous with its petty 
 round of cares, 
 
 Its uneventful hours, with its blinding dust of 
 little things, 
 
 That dims our vision of the beauties close at 
 hand — the clouds 
 
 That hide the vaulted heavens from our faith- 
 less view — the stings 
 
 Of scourges made of many tiny knotted cords 
 of daily strife — 
 
72 The Veil of Distance 
 
 These, too, will pass away, and in the light 
 
 that distance brings 
 We'll see the present glorified, these level 
 
 desert plains 
 Transformed and full abloom, be jeweled with 
 
 eternal springs. 
 
 THE YEARS 
 
 A B I T of sun, a bit of cloud, 
 
 A wreath of flowers, a snowy shroud, 
 And the year is done. 
 
 A bit of hope, a bit of fear 
 We bring to greet the coming year 
 And the year's begun. 
 
THE USE OF IT ALL 
 
 \%J H A T is the use of it all, 
 
 The anguish, the grief, the strife, 
 
 The struggle with shades, the fight with fate, 
 The battle for paltry life? 
 
 What is the use to fight for fame, 
 
 To cringe to ambition's demands, 
 
 And grasp the chaplet of bay at last 
 With stiffening, dying hands? 
 
 Is it not enough to have striven and toiled? 
 
 The pursuit is more than the prize, 
 To have loved and suffered is much, 
 
 To have lived is more than we realize. 
 
A PRAYER 
 
 fj H to be drunk with success, 
 
 Just for a day, 
 To hear the applause of the whole wide world 
 
 And to feel on my brow the bay; 
 And then — to die. 
 
 Oh to be drunk with success, 
 
 With the world at my feet, 
 To dance but a moment on the dangerous 
 height 
 Where gods and mortals meet; 
 And then— to die. 
 
 Oh to be drunk with success. 
 
 One hour — one moment — Oh God — 
 To live — to suffer — at last be forgot 
 
 As a worm on the sod; 
 
 And then — to die. 
 
WE'LL MEET AGAIN 
 
 \%J E ' L L meet again, dear heart, fond heart, 
 
 Beneath less ominous skies, 
 And then instead of grief I'll see 
 
 A gladness in your eyes; 
 Though circumstances now have built 
 
 A barrier grim and high, 
 Love tells me we shall meet, and be 
 
 United by and by. 
 
 We'll meet again, dear heart, fond heart, 
 
 Be brave and do not weep; 
 The world is vast I know, and far 
 
 I sail the wandering deep, 
 But distance cannot lessen love, 
 
 Nor make our vows less sweet, 
 As sure as skies bend o'er us love 
 
 Somewhere, sometime, we'll meet. 
 
76 We'll Meet Again 
 
 We'll meet again, dear heart, fond heart, 
 
 There is no adverse fate, 
 However black it looks today 
 
 Our hearts can separate; 
 Though seas and deserts stretch between 
 
 And years their rounds complete, 
 In after years, somewhere, sometime, 
 
 God means that we shall meet. 
 
 THE PURPLE ASTER 
 
 C~\ N autumn's withered bosom 
 
 There rests but one bright bloom, 
 
 The purple aster alone hath braved 
 
 The frost's white, blighting doom. 
 
 This one small flower, forgot 
 
 By summer, as she went away, 
 
 A small memento in the weedy fields 
 To recall a brighter day. 
 
OUR FATHER 
 
 "C^) ^ ^ Father which art in heaven," 
 The little child in perfect trust 
 
 Looks up and prays, her steadfast eye's 
 
 Unflinching gaze into the skies. 
 
 'Tis not because she feels she must 
 
 But gladly asks a boon from One 
 
 Who freely gives both rain and sun. 
 
 "Our Father which art in heaven," 
 
 The careless maiden prays, her lips 
 All wreathed in smiles, her heart so gay 
 She scarcely knows for what to pray, 
 
 And as life's joys she calmly sips 
 She turns her joy-lit eyes on high, 
 And prays to God, she knows not why. 
 
78 Our Father 
 
 "Our Father which art in heaven," 
 
 The woman, bent, and wan, and gray, 
 
 With troubled heart and man5' needs 
 
 Kneels down and with her God she pleads; 
 It is the close of life's short day, 
 
 Her weary way is almost o'er 
 
 She prays with childhood's faith once more. 
 
 "Our Father which art in heaven," 
 
 A whisper soft, 'tis but a breath, 
 From lips that suddenly grow white 
 And cease to move in the silent night, 
 
 There stands the great white angel, 
 Death, 
 'Tis the end of toil and strife and care 
 The soul hath no further need of prayer. 
 
NIGHT 
 
 P R O M my couch at dead of night I rise, 
 and wide 
 
 I throw my window. The shimmery, silvery 
 tide 
 
 Of moonshine floods the room with lustrous 
 light, 
 
 A glorious gift to me from the hand of peace- 
 ful night. 
 
 The shadows of the trees in tremulous out- 
 lines fall, 
 
 In phantom pictures on my moonlit chamber 
 wall, 
 
 The myriad shadow-leaves with noiseless 
 movements slow 
 
 In phantom, breathless breeze blow to and fro. 
 
8o Night 
 
 Below me lies the city wrapped in soothing 
 
 sleep; 
 No sound comes up to mar the silence calm 
 
 and deep; 
 The streets resound no more with hurrying 
 
 feet; 
 No passersby their fellows warmly greet; 
 No laughter rings in merry chimes upon mine 
 
 ear, 
 No sound of weeping nor of wrath I hear, 
 Soft sleep hath had her unmolested will 
 And bade all harsh, discordant sounds be 
 
 still. 
 
 Then Memory, the voiceless singer of the 
 
 night, 
 Stands by my side in shimmering robes of 
 
 white, 
 With lyre in hand she sings to me of other 
 
 days, 
 With hand in mine through bygone paths she 
 
 strays, 
 And lo, the night seems peopled with the 
 
 loved ones gone, 
 
Wight 8 1 
 
 And I no longer stand in the softened light 
 alone. 
 
 In the night with God, and memory and silence, 
 
 I feel 
 A reverence deep, and solemnly I kneel 
 And stretch my hands out through the silvery 
 
 air, 
 And lift my soul to heaven in one great silent 
 
 prayer. 
 While through the night I seem to see great 
 
 altar stairs 
 That reach from earth to heaven — my cares, 
 A heavy load, I take, and slowly climb, 
 And lay them on the great white altar for a 
 
 time. 
 
A LOVE LYRIC 
 
 f^\ H that she would deign to speak, 
 
 That her lips might touch my cheek, 
 Would it still this wild unrest 
 That surges in my breast? 
 
 Oh that her bright eyes would glance, 
 Where I wait and long, perchance, 
 
 It might still this wild unrest 
 
 That surges in my breast. 
 
 Oh that her soft hands might press, 
 Hand of mine in shy caress, 
 
 Could it still this wild unrest 
 
 That surges in my breast? 
 
 Oh 'twere worth both life and death, 
 To feel upon my cheek her breath, 
 
 It would still this wild unrest 
 
 That surges in my breast. 
 
"LE ROI EST MORT, VIVE LE ROI" 
 
 "THE king is dead, long live the king;" 
 With pomp and slow funereal pride 
 
 We march beside the dead old year; 
 
 The portals of the grave yawn wide, 
 
 The crumbling clods of musty clay 
 
 Must soon his lifeless body hide. 
 
 We chant a hymn of fond farewell, 
 
 He's been a friend, this dead old year, 
 
 He brought us sorrow it is true, 
 
 And yet he also brought good cheer, 
 
 And at his passing 'tis but meet 
 
 We turn aside for one swift tear. 
 
 All hail the new, farewell the old, 
 
 The wheels of time turn swift and sure, 
 All things are fleeting — God alone 
 
 And hope and love, may aye endure. 
 
84 "Le Roi est Mort, Vive Le Roi" 
 
 He had his faults, and who has not? 
 
 He gave us bitter with the sweet, 
 He spread some roses in our way, 
 
 And sometimes thorns that hurt our feet; 
 He gave, and then he took away, 
 
 He's dead — we'll not his faults repeat. 
 
 The midnights and the dawns he gave, 
 We'll cherish, nor in haste forget 
 
 The dear experiences he brought, 
 
 We're almost glad he's gone, and yet 
 
 Somehow we feel a tugging at 
 
 Our heartstrings of a fond regret. 
 
 A new king sits upon the throne, 
 
 He holds out gifts in lavish hands, 
 
 Of good and ill, but what for us? 
 
 The riddle, ah! who may understand? 
 
 We hope he'll be as good a king 
 
 As he beside whose grave we stand. 
 
 Farewell and hail, one goes, one comes; 
 
 "The king is dead, long live the king;" 
 
Nelia 85 
 
 The cradle touches with the grave, 
 
 As life and death must ever spring 
 
 From one great source — our welcome and 
 Our funeral hymn, today we sing. 
 
 All hail the new, farewell the old, 
 
 The wheels of time, turn swift and sure, 
 All things are fleeting, God alone 
 
 And hope and love, may aye endure. 
 
 NELIA 
 
 r*AMEO faced, with great gray eyes 
 Tender and sweet as dawn, 
 
 Wide, wide open, mystery filled, 
 As the eyes of a startled fawn. 
 
 Marble browed and crowned with hair 
 Black as the starless night, 
 
 With lips like rosebuds pouting red, 
 Parted by dazzling white. 
 
THE PLACE OF PEACE 
 
 fi TRAVELLER searched through many 
 weary years for rest, 
 
 In vain he sought, 
 In every land beneath the shining blue-domed 
 sky 
 
 But found it not. 
 
 At last came Death, in silence touched his 
 tired brain 
 
 And brought release. 
 Tread softly, for in yonder grassy bed, he 
 found 
 
 The place of peace. 
 
DEAD LEAVES 
 
 HIKL, dead leaves, whirl, 
 In your withered waltz of death, 
 Whirl to the dirging music piped 
 By Autumn's sighing breath. 
 
 Whirl, dead leaves, whirl, 
 
 Dance with the ghostly breeze, 
 Over the bare brown earth, 
 
 Under the naked trees. 
 
 Whirl, dead leaves, whirl, 
 
 And drift in a dreary dance, 
 
 Like our own short lives 
 
 Blown here and there by chance. 
 
REST 
 
 Y mother earth, upon thy fragrant breast 
 Tired, I throw myself full length to rest; 
 My heart beats close against thy mighty heart, 
 The tears long frozen, from my eyelids start; 
 The grasses kiss and cool my fevered cheeks, 
 And in mine ear the soothing southwind 
 
 speaks, 
 And spent at last with the passion and pain 
 
 of life, 
 Mine eyelids close, and I forget the strife, 
 The struggle, and all my vain complainings 
 
 cease, 
 And like a child upon its mother's breast 
 Weary with wailing, sink at last to rest, 
 Hushed in thy great arms to dreamless peace. 
 
ANTONIO MACEO 
 
 T\ E A D in the Cuban swamps, his heart 
 Pierced through by a traitor's knife, 
 
 On his country's altar he offered up 
 The sacrifice of a noble life. 
 
 Dead, and his countrymen yet not free, 
 Shall no avenger God-sent arise 
 
 And out of this night of dread defeat 
 
 Set hope's white star in Cuban skies? 
 
 Dead, and his heart-wrung warriors fled, 
 And he bound fast in endless sloth; 
 
 But his blood and the soil he loved so well 
 Are plighted still in eternal troth. 
 
go Antonio Maceo 
 
 Dead, and unavenged his kinsmen lie, 
 
 In bloody graves by where they fought, 
 
 And shall this shedding of hero blood 
 
 Be counted vain, a thing of naught? 
 
 Nay, out of this blood-bathed soil will rise 
 A dauntless heroism, strong as fate, 
 
 And Maceo's dream be realized, 
 
 Although for him, it comes too late. 
 
 TOIL 
 
 T PRAYED, 
 
 And the winds blew my words hither and 
 thither, 
 Blew them away, I knew not whither; 
 When my prayer was done. 
 
 I toiled, 
 
 And my life was filled with a wonderful 
 blessing, 
 Sweet peace and content my heart was 
 possessing, 
 When my toil was done. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 T N youth his heart beat high with hope, 
 With a dashing hand he wrote his rhymes, 
 
 He courted Fame with a winsome smile, 
 
 But she snubbed the youth a thousand 
 times. 
 
 In later years, in grief and pain 
 
 He sang to the world his hopes and fears, 
 But Fame still held herself aloof 
 
 Nor deigned to heed his prayers and tears. 
 
 Fame came at last when he was old, 
 And cried, "To win my favor, thou 
 
 Must write in thine heart's blood thy thought — 
 Then will glory wreathe thy brow." 
 
 At last with death-dulled ears he heard 
 Too late, the peoples' loud acclaim, 
 
 His blinded eyes saw not the place 
 
 Whereon Fame carved his deathless name. 
 
MY GUEST 
 
 THERE stood beside my bed last night, 
 
 A grim and ghastly shape, 
 With hollow eyes rimmed round with fire 
 
 And heavy lips agape. 
 
 His hands were taloned like a hawk, 
 
 He grasped his livid breast, 
 And tore it, and I saw the heart 
 
 Of my blood-freezing guest. 
 
 'Twas black and withered, and it hung 
 
 As heavy as a stone, 
 I shrieked with fear, and cowering lay, 
 
 The heart it was my own. 
 
 The gruesome shape passed out the door; 
 
 I awoke and rubbed my eyes, 
 And swore a solemn binding oath 
 
 To eat no more mince pies. 
 
A KODAK 
 
 T-I I S knickerbockers are purple cloth 
 With yellow run down each seam, 
 
 His sweater is gorgeous under his coat, 
 With stripes of scarlet and cream. 
 
 His stockings are checkered with blue and red 
 And turned at the top with care, 
 
 A golf cap of orange, blotched with black 
 Surmounts his chrysanthemum hair. 
 
 And doubtless }^ou think him a poster man, 
 Built on a Beardsley scheme, 
 
 You're mistaken of course, he's a quarter back 
 On a college foot ball team. 
 
THE MODERN POEM 
 
 H E wrote a poem with intricate rhymes 
 With care, it was cunningly wrought, 
 
 Embellished with words of delicate sound 
 And filled with ennobling thought. 
 
 But the editor man sent it hurrying home 
 
 With a note of much culture and grace, 
 
 Saying: "Write me a poem just two inches 
 long 
 I need it to fill some spare space." 
 
 So he wrote a few lines of meaningless rot 
 
 And sent it post-haste through the mail, 
 
 And he found it next month at the foot of a 
 page, 
 'Twas just the right length for a sale. 
 
MARGUERITES 
 
 \xl E E marguerite, dainty flow'r 
 
 Delicate an' sweet, 
 Liftin' oop your modest head 
 
 Sae near my feet. 
 
 Braw little ray o' sunshine, 
 
 Shinin' i' th' grass, 
 Greetin' me \vi' gentle nod 
 
 When I maun pass. 
 
 I like th' rose an' I ween 
 
 Th' violet too, 
 But my ain pure marguerite 
 
 I love but you, 
 
 Gin I had my choice o' flow'rs 
 
 T' gie my lady fair 
 I gie her pale marguerites 
 
 For her dark hair. 
 
THE POSTER GIRL 
 
 f KNOW a maid with scarlet hair 
 
 And cheeks of a livid hue, 
 Her lips are crimson touched with fire, 
 
 She has vivid eyes of blue. 
 
 Her gown is yellow, barred with tan, 
 And 'broidered with red and gray, 
 
 Her sleeves are large like great balloons 
 And her shoes are orange and gay. 
 
 She stands on a bank of green and brown, 
 'Neath a violet stretch of sky, 
 
 The flowers that spring neath her tiny feet 
 Are the queerest I ever did spy. 
 
 She stares at me and I stare at her, 
 But she never stirs nor speaks, 
 
 The reason is this — she's a poster maid, 
 One of those Beardsley freaks. 
 
LIFE'S CIRCLES 
 
 A S widening circles in placid waters grow 
 And in their outward ripplings meet and 
 
 touch, 
 So have the circles of our lives in such 
 
 An outward rippling seemed to meet and flow. 
 
 And as the circles when they once have met 
 Seem more and more to grow as one, 
 
 so pray 
 The circles of our lives may day by day 
 
 More closely merge till life's last sun is set. 
 
 And when our little circles break at last 
 
 Against the shining sands of heaven's 
 
 beach, 
 May then our friendship, bound by no 
 small reach, 
 In one eternal circle then be cast. 
 
 To C. C. Wescott. 
 
THE CRAZY QUILT' 
 
 Q RAND MOTHER sits in her rocking 
 
 chair 
 Where the sunlight kisses her snowy hair, 
 And stitches and sews the whole day long 
 And croons to herself a quaint old song. 
 
 The gray old cat lies close by her feet, 
 The geraniums bloom in the window seat, 
 And up overhead the canary bird swings, 
 And chirps and flutters and cheerily sings. 
 
 'Tis a curious thing that grandmother makes, 
 And the stitches are queer that she carefully 
 
 takes, 
 'Tis a dream of gay colors, of shadow and 
 
 shade, 
 A quilt of odd pieces of silk, deftly made. 
 
 There's a piece of a gown brocaded and gay 
 That grandmother wore on her wedding day, 
 
 \ 
 
The Crazy Quilt 99 
 
 And near it a bit of the old fashioned tie 
 That grandfather wore in the years gone by. 
 
 There are bits of doll dresses, all faded and 
 
 old, 
 And once white ribbons, as yellow as gold, 
 There are touches of crepe and violet pale 
 That tell but faintly a sorrowful tale. 
 
 There are pieces of dresses the children once 
 
 wore, 
 And bits of velvets and satins galore, 
 Irregular fragments of ball dresses proud, 
 And tiny faint bits of a yellow-white shroud. 
 
 Each piece has a story that grandmother 
 
 knows, 
 And she smiles and she sighs as she busily 
 
 sews, 
 And sometimes her glasses are dim with her 
 
 tears, 
 As she stitches together these fragments of 
 
 years. 
 
ALL IS GOOD 
 
 THANKS, thanks, for love and life, for all 
 
 they bring, 
 For love that shines amidst the shadows like 
 The sun, dispelling night and dark. For life 
 Swift pulsing through the veins, glad life, full 
 
 life, 
 That soars aloft like some grand song among 
 The arches of a vast cathedral; yea 
 And thanks for death, for peace, for sleep, a 
 
 lull 
 An interlude between the sounding throbs 
 Of life's great orchestra. 
 
 We pour our thanks 
 Like swollen rivers in the spring, for all 
 That comes, for every flitting picture limned 
 Against the paling or the blushing sky, 
 For every song of bird that thrills the dawn 
 
All is Good 101 
 
 Or soothes the dying day; for every flow'r 
 That lifts its painted cup and spills its wine 
 Of fragrance on the ravished air. And too 
 For every low of cattle on the hills, 
 For every cry that stabs the silence with 
 A shaft of quivering sound, for every leaf 
 That trembled in the breeze and now lies dead 
 And brown among the gray old grasses, 
 
 combed 
 By harsh November winds. 
 
 For every thought, 
 No matter whether bright or dark; for peace 
 Or yet for pain, for pleasure or for sting 
 Of some great lash of sorrow; all, yea all, 
 That made the sum of days that now are past, 
 The dear, dead days, safe held in memory's urn 
 Amidst the sweet rosemary of regret. 
 And for the sordid present, prized the least 
 Of all, because so near, we lay our thanks 
 Like offerings on an altar. But, 
 Far above our gratitude for past 
 Or present, rise our thanks for days to come; 
 The clouded future, hidden from our eyes 
 
102 All is Good 
 
 Whose roseate skies, effulgent with the light 
 Of one great trembling star of hope, we see 
 But in our dreams. 
 
 To Elia W. Peattie. 
 
 LINES TO L. A. SHERMAN 
 
 T N stature small, a Zaccheus in height 
 
 Grave cohtenanced, yet kindly faced withal ; 
 A man whose soul shines within his eyes and 
 
 speaks 
 Kind things to every one whose need is great. 
 In stature small, but giant in his soul 
 And intellect, whose gentle Christ-like mind 
 Gives not a thought of self or selfish aims, 
 But spends itself as freely as the air 
 To benefit his needy fellow men. 
 In stature small, but, ah! his great white sou 
 Uptowers like a mountain peak, bright dashed 
 With sunlight — in this murky world he stands 
 And sheds reflected rays of God's great love. 
 
A PRAIRIE LULLABY 
 
 HUSH little baby, lie still and swing, 
 
 Hear the cornleaves softly sing; 
 The gopher is down in the cool damp ground 
 Under the dome of his freshly made mound, 
 The birds are all still, the sun says 'tis noon, 
 Hush little baby, sleep will come soon, 
 Hush, hush, hush and swing, 
 Swish, swish the cornleaves sing, 
 Hush, swish, swing. 
 
 Hush little baby lie still and sleep 
 The west winds over the cornfields sweep 
 The flowers all drowsily hang their heads, 
 The cattle stand deep in the marshy beds, 
 Even the crickets know it is noon, 
 Hush little baby sleep will go soon, 
 Hush, hush, hush and swing, 
 Swish, swish the cornleaves sing, 
 Hush, swish, swing. 
 
MYSTERY 
 
 I SAW a bird fly through the air, 
 
 From out the sky I know not where 
 It swiftly came, and whence it flew, 
 I could not tell, nor ever knew. 
 
 I saw an arrow flash through space 
 It flew so swift that I could trace 
 Its flight but dimly, and 'twas gone, 
 From whence to whence, to me unknown. 
 
 And so are we; from whence we come 
 Or whither go is dark, the sum 
 Of all we know — we are — and lo 
 Are not — like shades, we come and go. 
 
 The cradle, then the dreamless bed, 
 From dread to grim mysterious dread, 
 A darkness calling unto dark 
 An arrow shot at an unknown mark. 
 
ON THE FAN 
 
 [ KNOW the daintiest maiden 
 With coils of blue-black hair, 
 
 Pinned high on the top of her head 
 With pins and jewels rare. 
 
 She has the fairest complexion 
 
 Like the pink that lines the shell 
 
 That ocean throws on the sand 
 When stormy surges swell. 
 
 Her feet are the very smallest 
 
 That peep from under her gown, 
 
 She has curious rings in her ears 
 And eyes that are big and brown. 
 
106 On the Fan 
 
 Her dress is of gauzy fabric 
 
 Airy and fairy and thin, 
 As though some dreamer had woven 
 
 His gossamer thought therein. 
 
 She sits there always disdainful 
 
 Her voice I never have heard, 
 Eternally gazing forward 
 
 At a great big scarlet bird. 
 
 She treats me so very coldly, 
 
 Although I have known her for years, 
 The maid on the Japanese fan 
 
 With curious rings in her ears. 
 
A WREATH, O YEARS 
 
 RlND me a wreath for my brow, O years, 
 
 But not of flowers alone, 
 Bind it of weeds, and grass, and thorns, 
 
 The things that I most have known. 
 
 Give me no passive joy, O years, 
 
 Where my days pass sweetly by, 
 
 Give me the joy to fiercely live 
 And let me as fiercely die. 
 
 Give me no unearned glory, O years, 
 No swift fading wreath of a day, 
 
 But bind from the dead leaves of my life 
 The victor's wreath of bay. 
 
FROST FANCIES 
 
 THE frost-king came from his home in the 
 north, 
 
 And busily while I slept, 
 The magic touch of his ice-tipped brush, 
 
 Over my window he swept. 
 
 The wraith-like scenes of his northern home 
 
 In spectral lines he wrought, 
 The aerial touch of his cunning hand 
 
 Outlined each subtle thought. 
 
 The crystal caves, where the icy winds, 
 
 In deep recesses hide, 
 And feathery pines, and hemlocks tall, 
 
 With branches reaching wide. 
 
Frost Fancies 109 
 
 And ice-bergs fast in frozen seas, 
 
 And branching reindeer horns, 
 And quaint and whimsical elfin gnomes, 
 
 And lions and unicorns. 
 
 And castles white, with gleaming tow'rs, 
 
 And fanciful, fragile walls, 
 With loop-holes and ports of curious shapes 
 
 And strange, mysterious halls. 
 
 But the jealous sun, when day had dawned, 
 Gazing hard at the frost-king's work, 
 
 Erased with his burning, fiery glance 
 Each queer and freakish quirk. 
 
 And castles and trees, and frozen seas 
 All vanished, I know not where, 
 
 Like the phantom shapes of my fairest dreams, 
 As frail and fleeting as the air. 
 
A GRAY DAY 
 
 A GRAY day, a gray sky, 
 
 And gray, so gray within my heart; 
 The fates have thus decreed 
 
 That thou and I must part. 
 
 The mists creep, the clouds sweep, 
 
 And clouds and mists within my way, 
 
 That hide thee from my sight 
 For many a dreary day. 
 
 There's rain near, there's rain here, 
 
 And rain, sad rain within my eyes, 
 
 Because that thou and I 
 
 May meet no more beneath these skies. 
 
A Gray Day in 
 
 The storms grow, the storms blow, 
 
 And storms, fierce storms within my 
 breast 
 
 That surge, and surge, and rise 
 And will not come to rest. 
 
 A gray day, a gray sky, 
 
 And mists and rain and storms o'er all, 
 For thou from me must part 
 
 And thou art all in all. 
 
 THE DANCE 
 
 F H E western wind with nimble feet 
 Trips out a curious dance 
 
 To the music piped by a bobolink 
 
 Perched near on a willow lance. 
 
NEBRASKA IN AUTUMN 
 
 AMBER fields and amber sky, 
 
 Sun-bathed lands where amber lie, 
 Cornfields dipped in amber dye. 
 
 Wind-swept tracts of amber grass, 
 
 Tumbled o'er by tangled mass 
 
 Of tumble weeds, that swiftly pass. 
 
 Amber spikes of golden rod, 
 
 Sun flowers tall, that bend and nod, 
 
 Standing on the amber sod. 
 
 In great arrows, up, up, high, 
 Wild geese, wildly, swiftly fly, 
 Through the amber autumn sky. 
 
 Amber fields and amber sky, 
 Amber all the lands, and dry, 
 Where Nebraska's farm lands lie. 
 
PANSIES FROM COLORADO 
 
 [ OPENED a letter this morning 
 And out from its perfumed fold, 
 There fell a shower of pansies, 
 Of purple and white and gold. 
 
 They came from a far distant country 
 Where white crested mountains rise, 
 
 And cast there shadows forever 
 
 Where the sheltering valley lies. 
 
 As I gazed on their dainty colors, 
 It seemed that I caught a view 
 
 Of the place where God had painted 
 Their petals of varied hue. 
 
 From the sunset, the golden color, 
 
 From the shadows, the purple shade, 
 
 And then from the snows capped mountains, 
 The pure white spots were made. 
 
114 Pansies From Colorado 
 
 I saw in a vision before me 
 
 A scene 'neath far western skies, 
 
 Where God had piled up His glories 
 To gladden our wondering eyes. 
 
 To C. F. Bell. 
 
 PANSIES 
 
 PURPLE for shadows, gold for sunshine, 
 White for the clouds on high, 
 
 Brown for the earth which gave them birth, 
 And blue for the azure sky. 
 
LITTLE SUNSHINE 
 
 P Y E S like pansies, deep and blue, 
 Lilied brows, unmarred by care, 
 
 Cheeks that rival roses new, 
 
 Tangled sunshine in thy hair. 
 
 Silvery voice like chiming bells, 
 
 Rippling laughter, all day long, 
 
 Oh what happiness there dwells 
 In the lilting, laughing song! 
 
 Sunshine in a world of night, 
 
 Strayed from heaven's shining strand, 
 Making darkest days seem bright, 
 
 Untold joys in thy wee hands. 
 
1 1 6 Little Sunshine 
 
 Golden hair 'gainst father's gray, 
 
 Tiny arms about his neck, 
 Heartsease for the saddest day, 
 
 Harbor for the tossed heart's wreck. 
 
 Blessings on thy sunkissed head, 
 
 Follow thee through the coming years, 
 
 Fortune kiss thy cheeks, rose red, 
 Keep thine eyes unused to tears. 
 
 To Little Mistress Alice Lorena Bixby. 
 
A QUEER RACE 
 
 [ SAW the queerest race today 
 
 Out at the county fair, 
 The riders all were tiny tots, 
 The racers all were rare. 
 
 I saw a little winsome maid 
 With flying yellow hair, 
 
 Hold fast and ride around a ring 
 Upon a big brown bear. 
 
 Another one laughed loud in glee 
 And raced around the track 
 
 And she was seated fearlessly 
 Upon a lion's back. 
 
 And one rode on a tiger fierce, 
 Another on a deer, 
 
n8 A Queer Race 
 
 While others rode on prancing steeds 
 Without a sign of fear. 
 
 And round and round the track they rode 
 
 All at a rapid pace, 
 And no one beat, tho' all tried hard, 
 
 To win the funny race. 
 
 At last the racers came to rest, 
 The music ceased to sound, 
 
 And all the little tots went home 
 And left the merry-go-round. 
 
 To Mistress Faith Schwind. 
 
THE PRAIRIES 
 
 [ LOVE the wide, wide prairies, 
 Where the western breezes blow, 
 
 Where amidst the tremulous grasses 
 The fragile wild-flowers grow. 
 
 Where the gopher whistles shrilly, 
 Beside his fresh made mound, 
 
 Where over the level distance 
 The cry of the crane resounds. 
 
 Where the curlew and the plover 
 
 Build their nests on the tufted sod 
 
 And the meadow-lark, upsoaring, 
 Sings morning hymns to God. 
 
THE SOUTH WIND 
 
 COUTH wind, south wind, cease your 
 
 blowing 
 Let your hell-blasts cease their glowing, 
 
 Shut your torrid furnace doors. 
 See the cornfields seered and blasted, 
 
 Pitifully burned and blasted, 
 
 Writhing in the fiery burning, 
 From deep green to yellow turning; 
 See the prairies thirsty panting, 
 Hot and scorching, hot and panting, 
 
 Shut your torrid furnace doors. 
 See the farmers deep dejected, 
 All their fields are sad, neglected, 
 All their hopes are blasted, blasted, 
 By thy hot breath burned and blasted, 
 
 Shut your torrid furnace doors. 
 South wind, south wind, cease your blowing 
 Let your hell-blasts cease their glowing 
 
 Shut your torrid furnace doors. 
 
HUNTING THE EGGS 
 
 AWAY up high in the old hay-mow, 
 
 Where the spiders had arched and 
 groined with gray 
 The underside of the steep old roof, 
 
 I used to climb at the close of day, 
 And search high and low for the fresh laid 
 eggs 
 In the fragrant heaps of new mown hay. 
 
 I climbed the cross beams strong and rough 
 And balanced myself for a moment 
 there, 
 Then leaped far out on the heaps of hay, 
 
 And the rush through the fragrant, dusty 
 air 
 Made me feel akin to the swallows outside, 
 That circled and wheeled through the 
 summer air. 
 
122 Hunting the Eggs 
 
 I searched and found the nesting place 
 
 Of the yellow-legged hens, and in my 
 hat 
 I put the thin shelled globes of white, 
 
 And down from the mow like a dusty 
 rat, 
 With my hat in my mouth I backward climbed 
 To the floor below with its hay strewn 
 mat. 
 
 I'd give the world if I might go 
 
 Back to that dusty hay-mow gray 
 
 And hunt the eggs, and leap and roll, 
 And be as happy and free and gay 
 
 As I was in that long past happy time 
 
 When I hunted the eggs in the fragrant 
 hay. 
 
THE TWO WAYS 
 
 TWO ways confront each one who enters 
 life, 
 
 The one leads upward to success, 
 The ether downward through a devious way 
 
 At last to anguish and distress. 
 And every one may choose which way he will, 
 
 May toil and struggle up the steeps, 
 Or loiter idly down a flowery path, 
 
 That leads to endless, hopeless deeps. 
 
 The upward way is steep, and hard to climb, 
 
 And he who chooses it must strive 
 With great discouragements, his hands must 
 grasp 
 The jagged rocks, the thorns must drive 
 Their bitter points, and bloody foot-prints 
 mark 
 
124 The Two Ways 
 
 His way long the mountain side; 
 For he must carve the steps by which he climbs 
 With his own hands, or woe betide. 
 
 And up the toilsome journey now and then, 
 
 The clouds may for a moment lift, 
 And through the fogs that lower on the way 
 
 The sun may make a tiny rift, 
 And it, perchance may be, that some brown 
 bird 
 
 May cheer his soul with tender song, 
 Or, growing near his feet, a violet, 
 
 May cheer him, as he plods along. 
 
 The flowers of friendship, blooming by the 
 way, 
 Hold much the homesick heart to cheer, 
 The sympathy of fellow travelers on the way, 
 
 Dries many a bitter heart wrung tear. 
 The hard pressed journey upward through 
 the night 
 Is lighted by the starlit eyes of love, 
 
The Two Ways 125 
 
 And when the goal is reached at last, 'tis 
 found, 
 God's cloudless skies stretch out above. 
 
 The downward road is easy of descent, 
 
 Its way is paved with idle hours, 
 The senses swoon amidst the smothered scent 
 
 Of earth's most fair and rarest flowers, 
 The sound of song and laughter fills the air, 
 
 And Music gaily leads the way 
 With dancing feet that tread the gleaming 
 light, 
 
 For on this road, 'tis always day. 
 
 The birds sing ever in the glittering trees, 
 
 The brooks leap lightly in the sun, 
 And never a cloud obscures the azure sky, 
 
 And never a bar of shade may run 
 Across the placid waters of the lakes, 
 
 Whose wavelets glow like new pressed 
 wine, 
 As red as rosy blood of fresh crush grapes 
 
 That grow along the castled Rhine. 
 
126 The Two Ways 
 
 A siren sings to woo each wayward heart, 
 
 And everything invites to sloth, 
 Fair pleasure holds a veil before the eyes, 
 
 And blinded, like a fluttering moth, 
 The loiterer seeks kaleidoscopic sweets 
 
 Till youth is fled and night conies on, 
 Then wakes to find his life an idle dream, 
 
 A wasted flower, its perfume gone. 
 
 Then choose today, before it is too late, 
 
 While Hope still sings her lusty song, 
 The guide posts have been set by noble souls 
 
 As warnings as they passed 'along, 
 The pitfalls have been pointed out by they 
 
 Who toiled before us, up the way; 
 There is no need that we should fall or fail, 
 
 Two ways confront you, choose, and choose 
 today. 
 
 To Mary Wescott. 
 
THE YOUNG VIOLINIST 
 
 A DREAMER with ear attuned 
 
 To catch the echoes from far away lands; 
 The melody of harps soft twanged 
 By unseen hands. 
 
 A dreamer, mystery-eyed, 
 
 Moved by passion from within, 
 
 Clasping as a lover might his love, 
 Thy violin. 
 
 Thy youth sits lightly on thy head, 
 
 Then whence the passion in thy strains? 
 
 Who taught the life, 
 
 Its ecstasies and pains? 
 
 Does Genius, mad with heavenly fire, 
 
 Like a lover, whisper in thine ear? 
 
 Or what grand melody of whirling worlds, 
 Dost hear? 
 
128 The Young Violinist 
 
 A dreamer with ear attuned 
 
 To catch the melodies our deaf ears 
 miss; 
 A priestess, interceding between that world 
 of dreams 
 And this. 
 
 A dreamer, with ear attuned 
 
 To catch the echoes from far away lands, 
 The melody of harps soft twanged 
 
 By unseen hands. 
 
 To Miss Silence Dales. 
 
 LILLIAN 
 
 A N aureole of gold above a brow, 
 
 As smooth and fair as the lily's lining; 
 Two eyes, serene and deeply, calmly blue; 
 
 The azure of the skies outshining. 
 Her cheeks are tinted like the prairie rose, 
 
 Soft penciled by some fairy fingers, 
 Her lips are like twin rosebuds dipped in dew 
 
 Where smiles and laughter love to linger. 
 
THE S. A. E. BOYS 
 
 PlGHT here while you're a talkin' 
 
 Lemme say a word er two, 
 An' this one thing I'll promise 
 
 That what I say'll be true — 
 Ef you're lookin' fur jolly fellers 
 
 Thet er good clean thru an' thru, 
 Why them air S. A. E. fellers 
 
 Er jest th' boys fur you. 
 
 Ther hearts er th' very biggest, 
 
 An' they mean jest what they say, 
 They don't treat you good at one time, 
 
 An' then th' very nex' day 
 Turn roun' an' treat you shabby, 
 
 But by your side they'll stay, 
 Ad' ef you git inter trouble 
 
 They'll see thet you git fair play. 
 
130 The S. A. E. Boys 
 
 They're not very fond of braggin' 
 
 An' ther words sumtimes er rough, 
 But then ther outer actions 
 
 Is only a little bluff, 
 Fur down in ther hearts ther tender 
 
 An' good an' righteous enuff, 
 They're like a hard old walnut, 
 
 Th' shell alone, bein' tuff. 
 
 Right here while you're a talkin' 
 
 Ef you're lookin' fur a helpful friend, 
 One that'll stick close by you 
 
 Even to th' very end, 
 An' one thet is alius ready 
 
 You're name an' cause to defend, 
 Why one of them S. A. E. fellers, 
 
 Is one in which to depend. 
 
 To Lambda Pi Chapter Sigma Alpha Epsilon. 
 
A NEBRASKA HERO 
 
 The following editorial appeared in the Omaha World-Herald, 
 May 24, 1896: "Herman Fowler, of Ashland, Nebraska, aged n 
 years, was drowned in the Wahoo while attempting to rescue a com- 
 panion. It is a short and simple story. A little heart touched by the 
 sight of a friend's distress, a daring resolve, quickly made, a brave 
 effort to save a life, a brief death struggle in a swollen stream — and 
 another name added to the list of heroes. ' Foolish to attempt the 
 impossible,' the cold and calculating may say, perhaps, and yet the 
 scroll of fame would be robbed of many of its brightest ornaments if 
 only those deserved a place who stopped to measure the value of the 
 effort made. Who gives his life, gives all, whether by his service he 
 saves a nation, or, impotent to aid, dies by the side of those whom he 
 would help. Herman Fowler did what he could, and did it nobly. 
 No historian may record the achievments of his life, no poet may em- 
 balm his deeds in lasting song, but he deserves to have inscribed upon 
 his tomb the epitaph 'Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay 
 down his life for his friends.' " 
 
 "THERE lies a hero" — awestruck the 
 
 gaping throng 
 Goes by and hopes to see a warrior knight, 
 Clothed in armor, austere of visage, calm and 
 
 cold, 
 Wreathed by laurel won by his great might, 
 But finds instead a little child, an infant, 
 Wreathed about with silken curls, wan and 
 
 white, 
 
132 The Nebraska Hero 
 
 He lies, held fast in death's calm thrall, 
 Yet still a hero by divinest right. 
 
 A humble child — no storied marble shines 
 To mark his calm, sequestered resting place; 
 No world's great singer pens his words of fire 
 To spread this sleeping hero's praise; 
 But humble hearts his heroism note, 
 And humble singers sing their lays 
 To honor him, while every one hears the tale 
 Will in his heart some high memorial raise. 
 
 The bravest warrior the world has ever known 
 Could do no more, he gave his life to save 
 His friend, with no great throng to nerve him 
 
 on 
 To noble deeds, he braved the turbid wave 
 And found beneath the maddened cruel tide 
 That knew no hero's worth, a hero's grave. 
 "There lies a hero" bring out your wreath of 
 
 bay 
 And crown him there, the bravest of the 
 
 brave. 
 
 To Lambda Pi Chapter Sigma Alpha Epsilon. 
 
IT MUST BE TRUE 
 
 • 
 
 T T must be true that somewhere lies 
 Beyond the reach of human eyes, 
 A place where all our heartaches cease, 
 Where all our restless souls find peace. 
 
 It must be true that somewhere lies 
 
 Beneath some fair eternal skies, 
 
 A harbor where uncaptained wrecks, 
 Will find a master on their decks. 
 
 It must be true that somewhere lies, 
 A land where sunlight never dies, 
 
 Where on our blinded eyesight falls, 
 
 A glory from celestial walls. 
 
 To Mother Winslow. 
 
A COMPLAINT 
 
 A S day from night bursts forth 
 
 And swiftly burns, 
 So man, from dark is born, 
 
 And to dark returns. 
 
 The day is yet half night, 
 
 The full orbed day, 
 A few short hours, then shades 
 
 Make evening gray. 
 
 We learn to live, and lo! 
 
 'Tis time to die, 
 The dawn and night too close 
 
 Together lie. 
 
THE SHADOW SERVICE 
 
 T N the gray old church when the twilight 
 
 falls, 
 * The shadows file in for prayers, 
 And a phantom priest comes in from the dark, 
 And stands on the altar stairs. 
 
 The acolytes glide through misty doors, 
 
 With censers in their hands, 
 And a choir of echoes of songs once sung, 
 
 In the shadowy choir-loft stands. 
 
 The priest lifts up his wavering hands 
 And blesses the kneeling throngs, 
 
 While the phantom incense seems to rise 
 And mingle with phantom songs. 
 
 Then priest, and people, and acolytes troop, 
 
 Adown the aisle to the door, 
 And the dark comes in with a noiseless tread, 
 
 When the service of shades is o'er. 
 
THE DANCE IS DONE 
 
 THE dance is done, put out the lights, 
 And muffle harp and violin, 
 
 Forsake the house, put out the lights, 
 And let the silent shadows in. 
 
 The dance is done, the flowers dead, 
 The laughter ended in a sob, 
 
 The kisses silenced, the flowers dead, 
 Amidst the echoed music's throb. 
 
 The dance is done, the door is shut, 
 
 The house all dark, the curtains drawn . 
 
 Alas, alas, the door is shut 
 
 And silence greets the livid dawn. 
 
 Thirty