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Compiled and 
 
 Published by 
 
 Mrs. Hubert Childe 
 
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 UURARY of CCN< 
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 MAY 19 1903 
 ~zo£3 6<T 
 
 Copyrighted November, 1907 
 
 Copyrighted May. 1908 
 
 by 
 
 Mrs. Hubert Childe 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 • * 
 « « • 
 
 Designed and Printed by 
 The Armstrong Printing Co. 
 Wichita, Kansas 
 
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 V 
 
 In launching this little book upon the 
 sea of public opinion, I wish to say that 
 its contents have taken years in the 
 gathering and have been collected from 
 various sources. Some of the selections 
 are by authors unknown to me, while 
 others are familiar to everyone. As the 
 years passed by, the reading of this 
 collection at odd times has afforded 
 many an enjoyable moment to me, and 
 that it may do the same for you, my 
 reader, is the sincere wish of the compiler, 
 
 MRS. HUBERT CHILDE 
 
 Wichita, Kansas 
 
Poetry comes nearer the vital truth than history. 
 
 - Plato 
 
GOOD-BYE 
 
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 LIFE AND SONG 
 
 F life were caught by a 
 
 clarionet, 
 And a wild heart throbbing 
 
 in the reed 
 Should thrill its joy and trill 
 
 its fret, 
 And utter its heart in every 
 
 deed, 
 
 Then would this breathing clarionet 
 Type what the poet fain would be ; 
 
 For none o' the singers ever yet 
 Haa wholly lived hia minstrelsy; 
 
 Or clearly sung his true, true thought; 
 
 Or utterly bodied forth his life. 
 Or out of life and song has wrought 
 
 The perfect one of man and wife: 
 
 Or lived and sung, that Life and Song 
 Might each express the other's all, 
 
 Careless if life or art were long, 
 
 Since both were one to stand or fall : 
 
 If life were caught by a clarionet, 
 
 And a wild heart throbbing in the reed 
 
 Should thrill its joys and trill its fret, 
 And utter its heart in every deed. 
 
 So that the wonder struck the crowd. 
 Who shouted it about the land : 
 
 His song was only living aloud, 
 His work, a singing with his hand I 
 
 — Sidney Lanier 
 
Six Life and Song 
 
 ONCE IN A WHILE 
 
 Once in a while the sun shines out, 
 
 And the arching skies are a perfect blue ; 
 
 Once in a while, 'mid clouds of doubt, 
 
 Hope's brightest stars come peeping through. 
 
 Our paths lead down by the meadows fair, 
 Where the sweetest blossoms nod and smile, 
 
 And we lay aside our cross of care 
 Once in a while. 
 
 Once in a while within our own 
 
 We clasp the hand of a steadfast friend ; 
 
 Once in a while we hear a tone 
 
 Of love with the heart's own voice to blend ; 
 
 And the dearest of all our dreams come true, 
 And on life's way is a golden mile. 
 
 Each thirsting flower is kissed with dew 
 Once in a while. 
 
 Once in a while in the desert sand 
 We find a spot of the fairest green ; 
 
 Once in a while from where we stand 
 The hills of paradise are seen ; 
 
 And a perfect joy in our hearts we hold, 
 A joy that the world cannot defile ; 
 
 We trade earth's dross for the purest gold 
 Once in a while. 
 
 — Nixon Waterman 
 
 And well we know that since the world began 
 The heart was master in the world of man. 
 
 — T. W. Parsons 
 
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 MUSIC 
 
 Full many souls there are whom harmony 
 
 Of interwoven sounds fills with a peace 
 
 So comforting that, though the music cease, 
 
 Its blessing lingers in the memory 
 
 Like a dear hand's caress. But I in vain 
 
 Seek here for rest ; for always in the song 
 
 Are whispers of a language sweet and strong, 
 
 Half-heard, elusive, and I know the pain 
 
 Of one who can but understand in part, 
 
 Who sleeps, and, hearing voices, knows he dreams, 
 
 Yet cannot wake, until at times it seems 
 
 Some sudden chord may well-nigh break my heart. 
 
 And is this all? Or will Death's gentle hand, 
 
 Laid on mine ears, help me to understand ? 
 
 — Averic Standish Francis 
 
 CONTENT 
 
 If I should miss thee when the twilight came, 
 And, holding forth my hand, no pressure kind 
 Should meet my own, I still should know thou wert 
 Not far away, for love's own sense divines 
 The close companionship of souls that meet. 
 With some it matters not what space divides, 
 What oceans roll between. 
 
 The meeting still 
 May be close, real, and every way complete. 
 So if I see thee not, I know thou art 
 Still with me, love, and, reaching forth my hand, 
 I grasp thine own, and then I am content. 
 
 — Helen N. Packard 
 
 Give me that man 
 That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him 
 In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart. 
 
 — Shakespeare 
 
Eight Life and Song 
 
 THE SOUL'S SOLITUDE 
 
 There is a mystery in human hearts, 
 And though we are encircled by a host 
 Of those who love us well and are beloved - 
 To every one of us, from time to time, 
 There comes a sense of utter loneliness. 
 
 Our dearest friend is stranger to our joy, 
 And can not realize our bitterness. 
 "There is not one who really understands — 
 Not one to enter into all I feel;" 
 Such is the cry of each of us in turn. 
 
 We wander in a solitary way, 
 No matter what or where our lot may be ; 
 Each heart, mysterious even to itself, 
 Must live its inner life in solitude. 
 
 THE CORONATION 
 
 Red leaves are fluttering down the forest ways ; 
 
 And silence deep is brooding over all, 
 
 Save when, at times, some lonely wood-bird's call 
 
 Comes fraught with memories of vanished days. 
 
 Along the lane the sumac torches blaze; 
 
 From orchards ripe the sumac torches fall ; 
 
 And eastward, far away, a mountain tall 
 
 Looms through the blue, its summit capped in haze. 
 
 I know not why, but autumn's golden prime, 
 
 When corn-lands brown are set with stacks of sheaves, 
 
 And beech burrs spill their nuts upon the ground, 
 
 Seems, evermore, that sweet fulfillment time 
 
 When Nature's kindly hand a chaplet weaves 
 
 Wherewith, at last, the waning Year is crowned. 
 
 — Eugene C. Doleon 
 
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 Shad - ow8 ris - ing on you and 
 
 " THIS, TOO, WILL PASS AWAY " 
 
 We long for something in our selfish pride. 
 Perhaps a bauble that may glitter bright, 
 Some foolish thing we think is good and right 
 
 For us to have ; and though God may decide 
 
 That it is best that we should be denied, 
 
 We murmur at His will ; our sin-blind sight, 
 Impatient, cannot see it in His light, 
 
 And so we spend our lives unsatisfied. 
 
 In every life there must be light and shade, 
 
 And joy and sorrow. A jewel in the dark 
 Will shine as in the sun, a quenchless spark, 
 
 Emblem of hope whose light shall never fade. 
 
 O heart, be strong ! though it may storm today. 
 Be patient, and "this, too, will pas« away! " 
 
 — Henry Coyle 
 
 Today 
 
 Well lived — makes every yesterday 
 
 A dream of happiness, 
 
 And every tomorrow a vision of hope. 
 
 UNWRITTEN MUSIC 
 
 There is unwritten music. The world is full of it 
 I hear it every hour that I wake; and my waking sense 
 is surpassed sometimes by my sleeping, though that is a 
 mystery. There is no sound of simple nature that is not 
 music. It is all God's work, and so harmony. You may 
 mingle, and divide, and strengthen the passages of its great 
 anthem; and it is still melody, — melody. 
 
 «^N. P. Willi* 
 
Fen Life and Song 
 
 I CANNOT TELL 
 
 I cannot tell — 
 
 If all these fever'd longings 
 For something that today's walks do not hold, 
 
 Would be stilled in having them, or weary 
 When the tinsel gins to show beneath the gold. 
 
 Or mayhaps when our mind's scope may be wider 
 Our noblest thoughts these yearnings will dispel — 
 
 And read a brighter message in the stars, 
 
 — I cannot tell. 
 
 I cannot tell — 
 
 Yet if beyond life's shadows 
 Some sweet hope may lie; 
 
 Or if the eyes we love will beam the brighter 
 
 When the tears they weep for us be dry ; 
 Or when this day has died away in shadows 
 
 And naught in all our future does seem well; 
 Will tell our hearts, "Ah, yesterday was fair ! " 
 
 — I cannot tell. 
 
 I cannot tell — 
 
 If the sweet wild roses 
 That fling their fragrance 'round my path today, 
 
 Would be as sweet if some one did not love me, 
 And turned the offerings of my heart away. ' 
 
 Or, if some one whispered her more softly, 
 And broke the magic of my love's sweet spell, 
 
 My heart would turn in scorn or break in anguish, 
 
 — I cannot tell. 
 — G. W. Ogden 
 
 Know well, my son, God's hand controls 
 Whate'er thou fearest; 
 Round him in calmest music rolls 
 Whate'er thou hearest. 
 
 — Whittle* 
 

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 and me; 
 
 And music, too, dear music ! that can touch 
 Beyond all else the soul that loves it much, 
 
 Now heard far off, so far as but to seem 
 Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream. 
 
 — Thomas Moore 
 
 FRIENDS OF MY CHILDHOOD 
 
 Where are they — the friends of my childhood enchanted, 
 
 The clear, laughing eyes, looking back in my own; 
 And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted, 
 As when we raced over pink pastures of clover 
 
 And mocked the quail's whirr and the bumble-bee's 
 drone ? 
 
 Have the breezes of time blown their blossoming faces 
 
 Forever adrift down the years that have flown ? 
 Am I never to see them romp back to their places, 
 Where over the meadow, in sunshine and shadow, 
 The meadow-larks trill and the bumble-bees drone? 
 
 Where are they ? Ah ! dim in the dust lies the clover ; 
 
 The whippoorwill's call has a sorrowful tone. 
 And the dove's — I have wept at it over and over — 
 I want the glad lustre of youth, and the cluster 
 
 Of faces asleep where the bumble-bees drone. 
 
 — James Whitcomb Riley 
 
 Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd ! 
 Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd : 
 You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 
 
 —Thomas Moore 
 
Twelve Life and Song 
 
 A TURNED- DOWN PAGE 
 
 There's a turned-down page, as some writer says, 
 
 In every human life — 
 A hidden story of happier days — 
 
 Of peace amid the strife. 
 
 A folded leaf that the world knows not — 
 
 A love dream rudely crushed; 
 The sight of a face that is not forgot, 
 
 Although the voice be hushed. 
 
 The far-distant sounds of a harp's soft strings, 
 
 An echo on the air; 
 The hidden page may be full of such things, 
 
 Of things that once were fair. 
 
 There's a hidden page in each life, and mine 
 
 A story might unfold ; 
 But the end was sad of the dream divine — 
 
 It better rests untold. 
 
 — J. E. Bennett 
 
 I THINK OF THEE 
 
 I think of thee! and suddenly the cloud 
 That has enwrapt my spirit like a shroud 
 Is all dispelled and vanished from sight, 
 As darkness flees before the dawning light. 
 I think of thee! 
 
 Like blossoms drooping in the summer rain. 
 That, when the storm is o'er, refreshed, again 
 Lift their sweet faces to the sun's warm rays, 
 My hopes revive ; I dream of brighter days. 
 I think of thee ! 
 
 Though crushed by sorrow and oppressed by fate, 
 Thy presence makes my heart less desolate. 
 Oh, dearest love ! Be thine the gentle power 
 To comfort me; for in my darkest hour 
 I think of thee 1 
 
 — Martha A. Kidder 
 
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 MUSIC 
 
 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! 
 
 Here will we sit, and let the sound of music 
 
 Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night 
 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 
 Sit, Jessica; look how the floor of heaven 
 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; 
 
 There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, 
 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims; 
 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls; 
 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 
 Doth grossly close it in, we can not hear it. — 
 
 Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn: 
 
 With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, 
 
 And draw her home with music. 
 
 Jes. I'm never merry when I hear sweet music. 
 
 Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive; 
 For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 
 Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, 
 Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud — 
 Which is the hot condition of their blood — 
 If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound. 
 Or any air of music touch their ears, 
 You shall perceive them make a mutual stand ; 
 Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze, 
 By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet 
 Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; 
 Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, 
 But music for the time doth change his nature. 
 The man that hath no music in himself, 
 Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds. 
 Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; 
 The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
 And his affections dark as Erebus: 
 Let no such man be trusted. 
 
 — Merchant of Venice. 
 
Fourteen Life and Song 
 
 I SHALL FIND REST 
 
 A little further on — 
 There will be time — I shall find rest anon: 
 Thus do we say, while eager youth invites 
 Young hope to try her wings in wanton flights, 
 And nimble fancy builds the soul a nest 
 
 On some far crag ; but soon youth's flame is gone — 
 Burned lightly out, while we repeat the jest 
 With smiling confidence, — I shall find rest 
 
 A little further on. 
 
 A little further on 
 
 I shall find rest ; half -fiercely we avow 
 When noon beats on the dusty field and care 
 Threats to unjoin our armor, and the glare 
 Throbs with the pulse of battle, while life's best 
 
 Flies with the flitting stars : the frenzied brow 
 Pains for the laurel more than for the breast 
 
 Where Love soft-nestling waits. Not now, not now, 
 With feverish breath we cry, I shall find rest 
 
 A little further on. 
 
 A little further on 
 I shall find rest : half-sad, at last, we say, 
 When sorrow's settling cloud blurs out the gleam 
 Of glory's torch, and to a vanished dream 
 
 Love's palace hath been turned, then — all depressed, 
 Despairing, sick at heart — we may not stay 
 Our weary feet, so lonely then doth seem 
 
 This shadow-haunted world. We, so unblest, 
 Weep not to see the grave which waits its guest, 
 And feel around our feet the cool, sweet clay : 
 We speak the fading world farewell and say : 
 Not on this side — -alas! — I shall find rest 
 A little further on. 
 
 Make life a ministry of love, and it will always 
 be worth living. 
 
 — Browning 
 
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 Wheel - ing out on a wind - y sky 
 
 PASSION IN TATTERS 
 
 [This exquisite little bit of poetry was written by a gray- 
 haired patient in the Longview Insane Asylum.] 
 
 What is love, that all the world 
 
 Talks so much about it ? 
 What is love, that neither you 
 
 Nor I can do without it? 
 
 Love's a tyrant and a slave, 
 A torment and a treasure ; 
 
 Having it we know no peace, 
 Lacking it, no pleasure. 
 
 Would we shun it if we could ? 
 
 Sooth, I almost doubt it. 
 Faith, I'd rather bear its pain, 
 
 Than live my life without it. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF SILENCE 
 
 When you leave the city and flee away, 
 
 To rest in some country solitude, 
 It is not to hear the low brook play, 
 
 Or the wood-bird's musical interlude. 
 It is not to hear the fantastic strains 
 
 Of the symphony played by the wind on the trees, 
 The hum of insects, the patter of rains, 
 
 For there is a music more soft than these. 
 
 Go, stand on the crest of a lonely hill 
 
 When the landscape lies in a sunset hush ; 
 When man is absent, and nature still. 
 
 And the west is bathed in a tender flush; 
 Let the notes of silence arise and meet, 
 
 And fill your soul with their ecstacy, 
 With a silent music, soft and sweet, 
 
 With a grand and moving melody. 
 
 — Harry Romaine 
 
Sixteen Life and Song 
 
 TWILIGHT 
 
 I love thee, Twilight! as thy shadows roll, 
 The calm of evening steals upon my soul, 
 Sublimely tender, solemnly serene, 
 Still as the hour, enchanting as the scene. 
 I love thee, Twilight 1 for thy gleams impart 
 Their dear, their dying influence to my heart, 
 When o'er the harp of thought thy passing wind 
 Awakens all the music of the mind, 
 And joy and sorrow, as the spirit burns, 
 And hope and memory sweep the chords by turns 
 While contemplation on seraphic wings, 
 Mounts with the flame of sacrifice, and sings, — 
 Twilight! I love thee; let thy glooms increase, 
 Till every feeling, every pulse, is peace. 
 Slow from the sky the light of day declines, 
 Clearer within, the dawn of glory shines, 
 Revealing, in the hour of nature's rest, 
 A world of wonders in the poet's breast; 
 Deeper, O Twilight ! then thy shadows roll. 
 An awful vision opens on my soul. 
 
 — James Montgomery 
 
 ON THE BATTLEFIELD 
 
 The sun rose over a field of wheat, 
 
 And warmed the breath of an early spring ; 
 
 The smiling flowers made the morning sweet. 
 And there were caroling birds to sing; 
 
 And by the brook were children at play, 
 
 Planning their childish games for the day. 
 
 But the sun sank over a field of red, 
 
 Leaving no wheat nor a farmhouse there. 
 
 Only the ghastly lines of the dead, 
 And blackness and ruin every where; 
 
 And along the brook, instead of play, 
 
 Were the silent forms of blue and gray. 
 
 — F. H. Sweet. 
 
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 bye, 
 
 Sum - mer, good - bye, good - bye, 
 
 THE LOST SONG 
 
 I plucked a wild flower from the river's brim, 
 
 And drank awhile its faint but fragrant breath, 
 Then cast it forth upon the wave a-swim, 
 And watched it, as I fancied, drift to death. 
 "Tis lost," I said ; but far adown the tide 
 A tempted maiden saw its dainty hue; 
 She snatched it, kneeling at the water-side, 
 
 And vowed : "I will be pure, sweet flower, like you.' 
 And I, I never knew. 
 
 — George Horton 
 
 REST 
 
 If all the skies were sunshine, 
 
 Our faces would be fain 
 To feel once more upon them 
 
 The cooling plash of iain. 
 
 If all the world were music, 
 
 Our hearts would often long 
 For one sweet strain of silence 
 
 To break the endless song. 
 
 If life were always merry, 
 
 Our souls would seek relief 
 And rest from weary laughter 
 
 In the quiet arms of grief. 
 
 — Henry Van Dyke 
 
 I love thee, dear, with love that stays. 
 
 With love that knows no bound ; 
 
 I love thee, dear, with love that prays 
 
 Thy life a peaceful round. 
 
 Nor joy, nor grief, nor deep, nor high. 
 
 Can measure all my love ; 
 
 I love thee, love thee, and deny 
 
 Its peer below, — above! 
 
 — Owen Meredith 
 
Eighteen Song and Lif 
 
 WITH THEE 
 
 If I could know that after all 
 
 These heavy bonds have ceased to thrall 
 We, -whom in life the fates divide, 
 Should sweetly slumber side by side — 
 
 That one green spray would drop its dew 
 
 Softly alike above us two, 
 
 All would be -well ; for I should be 
 At last, dear, loving heart, with thee I 
 
 How sweet to know this dust of ours, 
 Mingling, will feed the self -same flowers — 
 
 The scent of leaves, the song-bird's tone, 
 
 At once across our rest be blown, 
 One breath of sun, one sheet of rain 
 Make green the earth above us twain; 
 
 Ah, sweet and strange, for I should be 
 
 At last, dear, tender heart, with thee. 
 
 But half the earth may intervene 
 
 Thy place of rest and mine between — 
 
 And leagues of land and wastes of "waves 
 
 May stretch and toss between our graves. 
 Thy bed with summer light be warm, 
 While snow drifts heap, in wind and storm, 
 
 My pillow, whose one thorn will be, 
 
 Beloved, that I am not with thee. 
 
 But if there be a blissful sphere 
 
 Where homesick souls, divided here, 
 
 And wandering wide in useless quest, 
 Shall find their longed-for haven of rest, 
 
 If in that higher, happier birth 
 
 We meet the joys we missed on earth. 
 All will be well, for I shall be, 
 At last, dear, loving heart, with thee. 
 
 — Elizabeth Akers Allen 
 
 'Love is but a lasting pain and ever goes with grief." 
 
 — Moorish Literature 
 
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 Good - bye, Sum - mer, good - bye. 
 
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 Music has charms to soothe a savage breast, 
 To so hen rocks, or bend a knotted oak; 
 I've read that things inanimate have moved, 
 And, as with living souls, have been inform'd 
 By magic numbers and persuasive sound. 
 
 — Congreve 
 
 Man is his own star; and the soul that can 
 Render an honest and a perfect man 
 Commands all light, all influence, all fate. 
 Nothing to him falls early, or too late, 
 Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 
 Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. 
 
 — John Fletcher 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society, where none intrudes, 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before, 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 
 
 — Byron 
 
 Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 'Tis woman's whole existence. 
 
 — Byron 
 
 The love of music seems to exist for its own sake. 
 
 -Herbert Spencer 
 
Twenty Life and Song 
 
 Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
 More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 
 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. 
 And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
 
 — Campbell 
 
 Like as a plank of driftwood, 
 Tossed on the watery main, 
 Another plank encountered 
 Meets — touches — parts again, 
 So tossed — and drifting ever, 
 On life's unresting sea 
 Men meet and greet and sever, 
 Parting eternally. 
 
 — Hindu Peace 
 
 Dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
 But man cannot cover what God would reveal. 
 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
 And coming events cast their shadows before. 
 
 — Campbell 
 
 Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, 
 But leave — oh! leave the light of hope behind! 
 
 -Campbell 
 
 A little learning is a dangerous thing; 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring; 
 There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 
 And drinking largely sobers us again. 
 
 — Pope 
 
 Our little lives are held in equipoise 
 By opposite attractions and desires, 
 The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, 
 And the far nobler instinct that aspires. 
 
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 LAST NIGHT 
 
 Kjerulf 
 
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 Last night the night - in - gale 
 
 >ke 
 
 me, 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Say over again, and yet once over again, 
 
 That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated 
 
 Should seem a "cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it, 
 
 Remember, never to the hill or plain, 
 
 Valley and wood, without her cuckoo strain 
 
 Comes the fresh spring in all her green completed. 
 
 Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
 
 By a doubtful spirit voice, in that doubt's pain 
 
 Cry: "Speak once more — thou lovest!" Who can fear 
 
 Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll — 
 
 Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year? 
 
 Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll 
 
 The silver iterance! — only minding, dear, 
 
 To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 
 
 — Elizabeth Barrett Browning 
 
 "IF!" 
 
 If you were sitting talking to me there. 
 
 There — in that chair; 
 If I were watching your dear face — your face 
 
 So passing fair; 
 Holding your hands in mine, my joy would be 
 
 A perfect thing; 
 And my glad heart within my breast would 
 
 Thrill and lilt and sing; 
 As some sad bird who thinks her nestlings 
 
 Gone, flutters and cries, 
 Then finds them *neath a hiding place of 
 
 Leaves, and sorrow dies, 
 The while her clear song rises to the sky 
 
 In ecstacies! 
 
 — All the Year Round 
 
 
 J 
 
Twenty-two Life and Song 
 
 THE WEB OF LIFE 
 
 I'm weaving a web, this day in July; 
 
 I'm weaving a web, and the hours slip by; 
 
 I'm weaving a web in the warm sunlight, 
 
 Spinning and weaving from dreams that were bright, 
 
 And many a happy hour of the past 
 
 Is woven in here, and the threads hold fast, 
 
 And the little white clouds this summer day, 
 
 Floating along to be caught in the way, 
 
 But add to the strength of the woof I weave 
 
 And add to the strength of the faith we believe. 
 
 I've woven all morning, the hours too soon 
 Have brought me the glare of a summer noon. 
 The air grows heavy and wearies me so — 
 But webs once begun, must not be, we know, 
 Left unfinished to lie by the way 
 For children to see, as they stop in play ; 
 And never can threads once broken, 1 ween, 
 Be twisted or tied, but the knots will be seen ; 
 And so I weave on, though the chill of night 
 Will follow the morning so warm and bright. 
 When I have finished I'll know I have won 
 The rest that he gives when life's work is done. 
 
 — Georgie McCoy 
 
 The infinite always is silent ; 
 
 It is only the finite speaks. 
 Our words are the idle wavecaps 
 
 On the deep that never breaks. 
 We question with word or science, 
 
 Explain, decide and discuss, 
 But only in meditation 
 
 The mystery speaks to us. 
 
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 night, when 
 
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 Music exalts each joy, allays each grief. 
 Expels diseases, softens every pain, 
 And hence the wise of ancient days adored 
 One god of physics, melody and song. 
 
 — Armstrong 
 
 THE THREE SELVES 
 
 This truth I see : Each soul is armed by Fate, 
 
 With thronging possibilities of good and ill; 
 One self is known of love, and one of hate, 
 
 And one unknown remains in conscience still. 
 His face is fair I love, and yet a spark 
 
 Of hidden lightning shows where clouds may be 
 Within the shadow of those eyes so dark, 
 
 May lurk another spirit few can see — 
 One that I fear. And yet I know that love 
 
 And kindness rule that life with ready hand, 
 Though lightning striking from the clouds above 
 
 May mar the fairest castle man has planned. 
 Yet doubt I not what good I know to be. 
 
 Nor value less when heaven sends it me. 
 
 — Sarah Palmer Byrnes 
 
 Oh, think not I could forget you — 
 
 I would not though I could ; 
 I see you in all about me — 
 
 The trees, the night, the wood ; 
 The flowers that slumber so gently, 
 
 The sky above the blue — 
 Oh, heaven itself is praying — 
 Is praying, my darling, for you — for you. 
 
Twenty-four Life and Song 
 
 THE HEAVY MISTS 
 
 The heavy mists trail low upon the sea, 
 And equally the sky and ocean hide, 
 As two world-wandering ships close side by side 
 
 A moment loom and part; out o'er the lee 
 
 One leans, and calls, " What, ho ! " Then fitfully 
 A gust the voice confuses, and the tone 
 Dies out upon the waters faint and lone, 
 
 And each ship all the wide world seems to be. 
 
 So meet we and so part we on the land, 
 
 A glimpse, a touch, a cry, and on we go 
 As lonely as one single star in space, 
 Driven by a destiny none understand, 
 
 We cross the track of one *t were life to know, 
 Then all is but the memory of a face. 
 
 — M. J. Savage 
 
 Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in 
 
 passing, 
 Only a signal shewn, and a distant voice in the darkness ; 
 So, on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another, 
 Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. 
 
 — Longfellow 
 
 A SUPPLICATION 
 
 Let me but hold thy hand, 
 And, through the valleys, dark with toil and care 
 And disappointment, I would pass with stride 
 That faltered not, and I would count as naught 
 The doubts and fears that now assail me, fraught 
 With whispers of False Hope — twin brother of Despair. 
 I'd scale Ambition's peaks unterrified 
 
 Could I but hold thy hand. 
 
i » fc* * j) 1 h h _h i jt J* 
 
 w 
 
 sang 
 
 9' 9 
 th 
 
 gold 
 
 en moon - light, 
 
 A MODULATION 
 
 Translucent, trembling, exquisite with life, 
 The fair night-blooming cactus-flower awakes; 
 A fragrant wonder of white loveliness 
 That crowns its rough and hairy stem, so brief 
 A space we hardly capture its delight 
 Before it withers and is gone again. 
 
 So, from the somber stem of minor keys, 
 Burst forth those few sweet major harmonies, 
 A lovely flower of tone that, palpitant, 
 Entranced the sense till, all too soon again, 
 It shrank within its own strange, dusky stem, 
 But left the air still perfumed and the soul 
 Illumined still with lambent memory. 
 
 — Amy S. Bridgman 
 
 THE POET 
 
 Let me go where'er I will, 
 
 I hear a sky-born music still ; 
 
 It sounds from all things old, 
 
 It sounds from all things young, 
 
 From all that's fair, from all that's foul 
 
 Peals out a cheerful song. 
 
 It is not only in the rose, 
 
 It is not only in the bird, 
 
 Not only where the rainbow glows, 
 
 Nor in the song of •woman heard, 
 
 But in the darkest, meanest things, 
 
 There alway, alway something sings. 
 
 'Tis not in the high stars alone, 
 
 Nor in the cups of budding flowers, 
 
 Nor in the redbreast's mellow tone, 
 
 Nor in the bow that smiles in showers, 
 
 But in the mud and scum of things 
 
 There alway, alway something sings. 
 
 — Emerson 
 
Twenty-six Life and Song 
 
 LOVE'S WHISPERS 
 
 Though seas divide, and mountains intervene, 
 And long, cold wastes of dreary years between 
 
 Two hearts stretched desolate, 
 Yet shall the one unto the other call 
 Some day, and it shall hear and answer all 
 
 The pleadings of its mate; 
 Content to let the mighty hand of love 
 Control its wild pulsations — and so prove 
 
 The boundless power of fate. 
 
 And though death takes some night the heart that calli 
 And bears it gently to a land where falls 
 
 No cloud of unbelief, 
 And though it sings with other hearts sweet songs, 
 Yet shall one note creep in that e'er belongs 
 
 Unto the songs of grief, 
 
 And unto only them : Then that strange tone 
 Shall wander to the heart that waits alone, 
 
 And comforting relief 
 Shall take the place of its unanswered pain, 
 In knowledge that true love doth live again. 
 
 - Olla P. Toph 
 
 THE IDLER 
 
 Has he wrought well ? I know not. Nay, I know 
 Things without number that he leaves undone ; 
 
 The things that vex the little people so 
 Who, blinded by the sun, 
 Walk ever in vast meditation 
 
 Upon the many motes the sunbeams throw. 
 
 But he lives certain things. He has a way 
 Of gleaming wonder. When a little wing 
 
 Beats by, he listens. He can chant the day 
 To rhythms of the dusk, and dim things sing 
 To him when no one knows their awakening. 
 
 Has he wrought ill ? I know not who shall 6ay. 
 
 — Everybody's Magazine 
 
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 From out 
 
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 wood - land hill 
 
 DON'T LET THE SONG GO OUT OF 
 YOUR LIFE 
 
 Don't let the song go out of your life 
 
 Though it chance sometimes to flow 
 In a minor strain, it will blend again 
 
 With the major tone, you know. 
 
 What though shadows rise to obscure life's skies, 
 
 And hide for a time the sun ; 
 They sooner will lift, and reveal the rift 
 
 If you let the melody run. 
 
 Don't let the song go out of your life ; 
 
 Though your voice may have lost its trill, 
 Though the tremulous note should die in the throat, 
 
 Let it sing in your spirit still. 
 
 There is never a pain that hides not some gain, 
 
 And never a cup of rue 
 So bitter to sup but in the cup 
 
 Lurks a measure of sweetness, too. 
 
 Oh, why should we moan that life's Spring-time 
 has flown, 
 
 Or sigh for the fair Summer-time ? 
 The Autumn hath days filled with paeans of praise 
 
 And the Winter hath bells that chime. 
 
 Don't let the song go out of your life ; 
 
 Let it ring in the soul awhile here, 
 And when you go hence, it shall follow you thence, 
 
 And sing on in another sphere. 
 
 Then do not despond, and say that the fond 
 
 Sweet songs of your life have flown, 
 For if ever you knew a song that was true, 
 
 Its music is still your own. 
 
 — Kate R. Stilea 
 
Twenty-eight Life and Song 
 
 ABSENT 
 
 Sometimes, between long shadows on the grass, 
 The little truant "waves of sunlight pass, 
 My eyes grow dim with tenderness, the while, 
 Thinking I see thee smile ! 
 
 And sometimes, in the twilight gloom, apart, 
 The tall trees whisper, whisper heart to heart, 
 From my fond lips the eager answers fall, 
 Thinking I hear thee call! 
 
 — Catherine Young Glen 
 
 THE MANTLE OF MERCY 
 
 All day long at the loom of love 
 
 A beautiful angel sat and wove. 
 
 The woof was of silver threads of light, 
 
 The warp was of gossamer, dainty white, 
 
 Beaded with dew from the tender skies 
 
 That lay in the depths of the angel's eyes. 
 
 Alone, in silence, the angel wrought 
 The secret of her holy thought ; 
 Something was needed down there below, 
 In the struggling world of death and woe, 
 To hide from the sight of earth and heaven 
 The stains of sin by heaven forgiven — 
 
 Something to hide the faults of men 
 From the vulture's eyes, whose greedy ken 
 Hunted them out, by night and day, 
 That human souls might be its prey. 
 To meet this want the angel wove 
 That wonderful web in the loom of love. 
 
 And she fashioned a mantle, with sweeping train, 
 
 That nothing of earth could ever stain; 
 
 A mantle for Mercy's hands to take 
 
 And backward bear, for love's dear sake, 
 
 And cast, wherever a soul doth lie 
 
 In shame, a sport for the passer - by. 
 
dolce.\ 
 
 I o - pen'd my win - dow so gen - tly 
 
 P U J) J) 1 i> 
 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony, this universal 
 
 frame began; 
 From harmony to harmony through all the compass of the 
 
 notes it ran, 
 The diapason closing full in man. 
 
 The heart that has truly loved never forgets. 
 
 But as truly loves on to the close, 
 As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets. 
 
 The same look which she turn'd when he rose. 
 
 — Thomas Moore 
 
 OH, HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE 
 OF OUR OWN 
 
 Oh, had we some bright little isle of our own, 
 
 In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, 
 
 Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, 
 
 And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers; 
 
 Where the sun loves to pause 
 With so fond a delay, 
 
 That the night only draws 
 A thin veil o'er the day. 
 Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, 
 Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give. 
 There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, 
 We should love as they loved in the first golden time; 
 The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, 
 Would steal to our hearts and make all summer there. 
 
 With affection as free 
 
 From decline as the bowers, 
 
 And with hope, like the bee, 
 Living always on flowers, 
 Our life should resemble a long day of light, 
 And our death come on, holy and calm as the night. 
 
 •— Thomas Moore 
 
Thirty Life and Song 
 
 DESTINY 
 
 Lachesis spins; 
 
 And from her fatal distaff flows 
 
 A pitchy thread — the warp of woes 
 That are to be, the woof of sin 
 
 Predestined to enmesh the soul 
 
 Of man. Full thrice accursed those 
 Whose luckless lives today begin. 
 
 The strand is strong, the web is wide ; 
 
 Ensnared by crime or lust or pride, 
 
 It drags its victims to the hole 
 Where shame-crowned Death forever grins. 
 
 The mist-veiled moon shows pale and hoar, 
 
 The restless river frets its shore; 
 
 A plunge, a shriek, one less, one more — 
 Lachesis spins. 
 
 Lachesis spins; 
 
 And now a slender thread of gold 
 The distaff yields. 'Tis wealth untold 
 
 To those who, all unwitting, wear 
 The web of gossamer the Fate 
 Now spins. For health and love enfold 
 
 Them, like rich garments, fine and fair ; 
 And wisdom, honor, wit, or power 
 Entwines them from their natal hour- 
 With potent meshes intricate. 
 
 One born today forever wins. 
 
 The moonbeams flit across the floor, 
 The loved ones weep when all is o'er; 
 A nation mourns, one less, one more — 
 
 Lachesis spins. 
 
 — Henry B. Culver 
 
 I will not attempt to explain what constitutes a 
 beautiful song. It is as easy and as difficult as a beautiful 
 poem. " *Tis but a breath," as Goethe says. 
 
look'd on the dream 
 
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 If music be the food of love, play on. 
 Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, 
 The appetite may sicken, and so die. — 
 That strain again — it had a dying fall: 
 O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets. 
 Stealing, and giving odour. 
 
 - Twelfth Night 
 
 THE LOVE OF NATURE 
 
 How generous Nature is to those who show 
 A sympathy with her! How every breeze 
 
 Seems a caress ! How all the shrubs and trees 
 Put on their tenderest green, and flowers blow. 
 And even birds and insects seem to know 
 
 Your heart, and strive, each in his way to pleasel 
 
 The birds build at your door, the honey-bees 
 Are sure of finding sweets where'er you go — 
 Since every rose will blossom at its best 
 
 For those who have the rose's love within. 
 The heart that blesses others will be blest; 
 
 The lives that look for blossoms, blossoms win; 
 The love of birds will build a song-bird's nest 
 
 Upon a bough where winter snows have been. 
 
 — Mary A. Mason 
 
 Pleasures are like poppies spread, 
 
 You seize the flower, the bloom is shed; 
 
 Or like the snow-fall in the river, 
 
 A moment white, then melts forever; 
 
 Or like the borealis race, 
 
 That flit ere ye can point their place ; 
 
 Or like the rainbow's lovely form, 
 
 Evanishing amidst the storm. 
 
Thirty-two Life and Song 
 
 But little do men perceive what solitude is, and how 
 far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company ; and faces 
 are but a gallery of pictures; and talk but a tinkling 
 cymbal, where there is no love. 
 
 — Bacon 
 
 WAITING 
 
 Serene I fold my hands and wait, 
 
 Nor care for wind nor tide nor sea; 
 I strive no more 'gainst time or fate, 
 For, lo! my own shall come to me. 
 
 I stay my haste, I make delays; 
 
 For what avails this eager pace ? 
 I stand amid the eternal ways, 
 
 And what is mine shall know my face. 
 
 Asleep, awake, by night or day. 
 The friends I seek are seeking me; 
 
 No wind can drive my bark astray, 
 Nor change the tide of destiny. 
 
 What matter if I stand alone? 
 
 I wait -with joy the coming years; 
 My heart shall reap where it has sown, 
 
 And garner up its fruit of tears. 
 
 The waters know their own, and draw 
 
 The brook that springs in yonder heights ; 
 
 So flows the good with equal law 
 Unto the soul of pure delights. 
 
 — John Burroughs 
 
 Tomorrow hath a rare, alluring sound, 
 Today is very prose ; and yet the twain 
 Are but our vision seen through altered eyes, 
 Our dreams inhabit one ; our stress and pain 
 Surge through the other. Heaven is but today 
 Made lovely with tomorrow's face for aye ! 
 
 — Aimee M. Wood 
 
$ 
 
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 SS 
 
 oh! the bird, my darling, was sing - ing, 
 
 Grand music is the utterance of emotions for which 
 Language is too slow, too cold and too confined. 
 
 — G. D. Haughton 
 
 A SERENE WINTER'S NIGHT 
 
 How beautiful this Night ! The balmist sigh 
 
 Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear, 
 
 Were discord to the speaking quietude 
 
 That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault 
 
 Studded with stars unutterably bright, 
 
 Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, 
 
 Seems like a canopy which Love had spread 
 
 To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills, 
 
 Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; 
 
 Yon darksome walls, whence icicles depend, 
 
 So stainless that their white and glittering spears 
 
 Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castled steep, 
 
 Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower 
 
 So idly that wrapt Fancy deemeth it 
 
 A metaphor of Peace, — all form is scene 
 
 Where musing Solitude might love to lift 
 
 Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; 
 
 Where silence undisturbed might watch alone, 
 
 So cold, so bright, so still ! 
 
 — Shelley 
 
 THE EPIGRAM 
 
 The epigram is the wasp of wit — 
 Of letters the insect Tartar. 
 
 Wee and wicked, it means to hit — 
 And the meaner it is, the smarter. 
 
 •9*1 
 
Thirty-four Life and Song 
 
 LET SOMETHING GOOD BE SAID 
 
 When over the fair name of friend or foe 
 The shadow of disgrace shall fall, instead 
 
 Of words of blame, or proof of thus and so, 
 Let something good be said. 
 
 Forget not that no fellow-being yet 
 
 May fall so low but love may lift his head ; 
 
 Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet 
 If something good be said. 
 
 No generous heart may vainly turn aside 
 In waves of sympathy; no soul so dead 
 
 But may awaken strong and glorified 
 If something good be said. 
 
 And so I charge ye by the thorny crown 
 
 And by the cross on which the Saviour bled, 
 
 And by your own soul's hope of fair renown, 
 Let something good be said. 
 
 — James Whitcomb Riley 
 
 I LOVE YOU, DEAR 
 
 " I love you, dear." 
 There is no phrase so worn and old 
 In all the world, no one so sweet 
 To lover's lips or maiden's ear 
 As this refrain, " I love you, dear." 
 
 " I love you, dear." 
 There is no change as time wears on ; 
 No new words seem to mean so much 
 As when they're uttered fondly near, 
 In trembling tones, " I love you, dear." 
 
 " I love you, dear." 
 No night so dark, no day so long 
 But hope brings comfort to the heart. 
 If only " some one " standeth near 
 In trembling tones, " I love you, dear." 
 
Sing - ing of you, 
 
 Music does not cover a little excited bit of life, but the 
 
 whole of life. 
 
 — Edmund Gurney 
 
 A HANDCLASP 
 
 Through the distance between us I stretch my hand, 
 
 The deepening shadows are dull and gray; 
 Will it meet your own in some fair dreamland 
 Where you will clasp it, and understand 
 All that I longed to say ? 
 
 For words are empty and life is vain, 
 
 The heart grows weary when hope declines, 
 
 And what avails our bitter pain 
 
 To know in a sweeping cloud of rain 
 
 That somewhere the sun still shines ? 
 
 I will play the bars of a lilting tune, 
 
 Let the sadness fade and the smiles begin 
 
 Of roses clustering in fragrant June; 
 
 But winter whithers the bloom too soon, 
 And the minor chords creep in. 
 
 Come, let your footsteps to dreamland stray, 
 There fate is vanquished and life is fair, 
 There the young heart bounds to the coming fray, 
 And mocks at warning from heads grown gray, 
 And smiles at the brow of care. 
 
 There I will meet you and each shall speak 
 
 Of joys that blossom o'er life's fair slope, 
 Of jewels waiting till we shall seek. 
 For Faith is mighty though hands are weak, 
 And dreamland is bright with hope. 
 
 But visions fade though we strive to hold, 
 For dreamland's shore is a shifting sand. 
 
 Is life the thing that our youth foretold ? 
 
 I speak no answer, for words are cold ; 
 I only stretch out my hand. 
 
 — May Spencer Farrand 
 
Tkirty-sk Life and Song 
 
 AT SET OF SUN 
 
 If we ait down at set of sun 
 
 And count the things that we have done, 
 
 And counting find 
 One self-denying act, one word 
 That eased the heart of him who heard ; 
 
 One glance most kind, 
 That fell like sunshine where it went, 
 Then we may count that day well spent. 
 
 But if, through all the live-long day, 
 We've eased no heart by yea or nay; 
 
 If through it all 
 We've done no thing that we can trace, 
 That brought the sunshine to a face ; 
 
 No act most small, 
 That helped some soul, and nothing cost, 
 Then count that day as worse than lost. 
 
 SIMILITUDE 
 
 Life, pictured as the earth, before us spreads, 
 
 The trees, deep-rooted thoughts, the soul's ideals ; 
 While fancy ever like a flower sheds 
 
 A fragrance pure and sweet, which through life steals; 
 The sky, resembling our environment, 
 
 With sometimes dark and gloomy clouds above, 
 Has, too, the sun, whose faithful beams are sent 
 
 Through clouds to light the day, like steadfast love. 
 — Blanche Grier Conrad 
 
 Were it not for sound and song, 
 
 Life would lose its pleasure; 
 We could not endure it long, 
 
 Such a load of treasure. 
 Say, what is it soothes the soul, 
 
 And the heart rejoices? 
 'Tis the burst of joyous song, 
 
 Blending happy voices. 
 
 — From the German 
 
3 
 
 A 
 
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 O think not 
 
 can for 
 
 £ 
 
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 you, 
 
 I state it thus: 
 There is no truer truth obtainable 
 By man than comes of music. 
 
 — Browning 
 
 IN DOUBT 
 
 When lashes drooping lie 
 
 On cheeks of softest rose, 
 Ah, how demure and sly 
 
 The wonted aspect grows, 
 When lashes drooping lie ! 
 
 And yet, until he try, 
 No man of surety knows 
 
 When lashes drooping — lie! 
 
 — Anne Virginia Culbertson 
 
 FOR JUNE 
 
 Prince or peasant or priest — what matter 
 
 If the heart to its highest dream be true? 
 
 Standing apart from the world's mad clatter 
 We catch the song from the upper blue. 
 
 Song of robin and bursting flower, 
 
 Rapture of morning in eastern sky — 
 
 To understand means an inner power; 
 Would we exchange it, you and I ? 
 
 Social place and the gold to get it — 
 Who would envy the richest king? 
 
 The life has nothing so small to fret it 
 
 That understands what the bluebirds sing. 
 
 The hand that strives has a new precision ; 
 
 We must be glad then, you and I, 
 For the broader view and the clearer vision, 
 
 Acres of June and a sunlit sky. 
 
 — Mildred Grant Phillips 
 
Thirty-eight Life and Song 
 
 HEARTS' SEASONS 
 
 When the Earth was flushed and the trees -were young 
 And the bluebirds called from an April sky, 
 
 Beyond where the moon's slim cradle swung 
 
 Life's long, long vistas before us hung 
 
 Half veiled in tears, though we knew not why ; 
 
 For hearts were yearning — but on the tongue 
 The slow words faltered, and lips were shy. 
 
 When the Earth was green and the trees were strong 
 And the river sang to the warm, white sun, 
 
 The hours were blithe and the days were long, 
 
 For life was working, and work was song — 
 No wailing minor of things undone 
 
 And no black discord of hopes gone wrong; 
 Life's sands were many, and slow to run. 
 
 When the Earth is bleak and the trees are pale 
 And the east wind cries through the falling rain, 
 
 Draw close, dear heart, from the rising gale ; 
 
 We'll measure bravely our meager tale 
 Of wide, poor stubble and scanty grain. 
 
 But, dear, we have tried ; if the harvest fail 
 The Lord of the Harvest will count our pain. 
 
 When the trees are gray and the Earth is white 
 And the north wind sings in the chimney stone, 
 
 Then, hand in hand, we will wait the night ; 
 
 With quiet hearts we will say good night. 
 Dear heart, was not all the year our own ? 
 
 There is no darkness Love cannot blight — " 
 We'll face, together, the great Unknown ! 
 
 — Charles Buxton Going 
 
 LIFE'S SLATE 
 
 Reason may dictate, judgment write, 
 Wisdom approve what's writ; 
 
 Love, with his dart, puts all to flight, 
 Laughs, and erases it. 
 
 —Albert E. Peters 
 
1 
 
 could 
 
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 Music, by preserving a perfect equilibrium and harmony 
 in all the organs, and filling the heart with tender sentiments, 
 makes those who are sensitive to it susceptible of a 
 happiness amounting almost to a sweet delirium. 
 
 ■H. Chomet 
 
 LEAF AND LOVE 
 
 Whirl, oh, whirl on the breath of the wind, 
 
 Leaves that are red and gold ; 
 
 The airs of the Autumn are cruel and cold, 
 
 Tearing the leaves from the tree ! 
 Life of my heart, as the wind unkind, 
 
 Why art thou gone from me? 
 
 Fade and be lost, ye dreams of my breast. 
 
 Dreams that were dear of old — 
 
 As bright as the leaves, as their red and gold ! 
 
 Go, and be lost like the leaves ! 
 Full is my heart with the year's unrest, 
 
 Wild as the wind that grieves. 
 
 Bare is my life as the naked bough, 
 
 Bent by the wailing blast! 
 
 Oh, ghosts that gleam from the passionate past, 
 
 Pleading for joy that is sped, 
 Why must ye linger? Ye mock me now, 
 
 Now that her love is dead ! 
 
 — Edward A. U. Valentine 
 
 In love, if love be love, if love be ours, 
 Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers, 
 
 Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 
 It is the little rift within the lute 
 That by and by will make the music mute, 
 
 And, ever widening, slowly silence all. 
 
Forty Life and Song 
 
 LITTLE KINDNESS 
 
 If you were toiling up a weary hill, 
 
 Bearing a load beyond your strength to bear, 
 Straining each nerve untiringly, and still 
 
 Stumbling and losing foothold here and there, 
 And each one passing by would do so much 
 
 As give one upward lift and go their way, 
 Would not the slight, reiterated touch 
 
 Of help and kindness, lighten all the day? 
 
 If you were breasting a keen wind, which tossed 
 
 And buffeted and chilled you as you strove, 
 Till, baffled and bewildered quite, you lost 
 
 The power to see the way and aim and move, 
 And one, if only for a moment's space, 
 
 Gave you a shelter from the bitter blast, 
 Would you not find it easier to face 
 
 The storm again when the brief rest was past? 
 
 There is no little and there is no much ; 
 
 We weigh and measure and define in vain. 
 A look, a word, a light, responsive touch, 
 
 Can be the ministers of joy to pain. 
 A man can die of hunger walled in gold, 
 
 A crumb may quicken hope to stronger breath, 
 And every day we give or we withhold 
 
 Some little thing which tells for life or death. 
 
 — Coolidge 
 
 DOUBT 
 
 Love hath wings and flies from far, 
 Nor bolts nor prisons may it bar, 
 One door, one only, shuts it out, 
 The dark and shadowed one of doubt. 
 
 — Lisa A. Fletcher 
 
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 I see you in all . . a - round me, 
 
 Music commonly goes hand in hand with kindness. 
 
 — Henry T. Finch 
 
 IRENE'S INFATUATION 
 
 Irene became a Wagnerite 
 
 At quite a recent day; 
 And when her fads begin their flight 
 
 She follows all the way ; 
 Just now she thinks the earth was made 
 
 That "Parsifal" might be displayed. 
 
 Irene reads volumes by the score, 
 
 That bear upon this theme; 
 She skims through magazines galore 
 
 For Parsifallian cream; 
 The papers, too, though not for news, 
 
 But pro and Con-ried interviews. 
 
 Irene hears lectures, every kind — 
 With choir-boys, with scenes, 
 
 With moving pictures, or combined 
 With musical machines : 
 
 Consuming, hastily, the cult, 
 
 Will mind -dyspepsia not result? 
 
 Irene is learning, note by note, 
 That weird and wonderous score. 
 
 Sub rosa-ly, her family vote 
 The opera is a bore; 
 
 And if announced for five more times, 
 They'll take a trip to distant climes. 
 
 Irene's adorers look askance, 
 And more remote they stand ; 
 
 Except one youth, who sees his chance 
 To win the lady's hand ; 
 
 She'll not refuse (he is adroit!) 
 A wedding journey to Bayreuth. 
 
 — Anna Mathewson 
 
Forty-two Life and Song 
 
 TO ONE ABSENT 
 
 An echo of the sea yet haunts the shell, 
 
 Though far it be from cliff, or beach, or wave. 
 It still repeats the message ocean gave, 
 
 Subdued and softened by love's mystic spell 
 To tender cadences by night and day, 
 
 Remote from scenes where it was wont to dwell. 
 So I would ask, though thou art far away, 
 As pearly shell that sings the distant sea, 
 
 To be remembered, and would deem it well 
 If in thy absence there abides with thee 
 A haunting echo in thy heart of me. 
 
 — Henry C. Wood 
 
 THOUGHT 
 
 I think, and my thoughts are wafted 
 
 Far out o'er life's restless sea; 
 I think, and my thoughts have attracted 
 
 My heart's desire to me. 
 I think, and my thoughts are freighted 
 
 With anxious care and fear, 
 And I send them out thus weighted 
 
 To fall on friends most dear. 
 Some dire misfortunes may befall 
 
 My loved ones; sickness, pain, and death 
 Vibrations start beyond recall, 
 
 And true to their mission, ruin health. 
 
 I think, and my thoughts have started 
 
 On a journey that hath no end ; 
 From me forever they're parted, 
 
 And I know not whither they trend. 
 I think — if my thoughts are gloomy 
 
 They create rebellion and strife. 
 I think — if my thoughts are sunny 
 
 They awaken in all new life. 
 
 — Edith Griffin 
 
I 
 
 The 
 
 s 
 
 m 
 
 stream. 
 
 the 
 
 night, the wood, 
 
 Music is undoubtedly the purest of all arts; all the 
 
 others are liable to the intrusion of some prosiac elements. 
 
 Music alone presents always the characteristics of pure 
 
 poetry. 
 
 — William Bellars 
 
 IN DEGREE 
 
 Sweet are the songs that are sung, 
 But the unsung songs are sweeter, 
 
 For the depth of the poet's soul 
 Outstretches the bounds of meter. 
 
 Warm are the words of love, 
 
 But warmer the heart of the wooer, 
 
 Friendship may hold for truth, 
 But the soul of love is truer. 
 
 — Maude Meredith 
 
 Season and scene come back again, 
 And outward things unchanged remain ; 
 The past we cannot reinstate, 
 Ourselves we cannot recreate, 
 Nor set ourselves to the same key 
 Of the remembered harmony. 
 
 — Longfellow 
 
 THE END 
 
 The play is done — the curtain falls — 
 Hero and villain trade their parts ; 
 
 The rich scenes change to smoky walls ; 
 The lovers e'en forget their hearts. 
 
 And so it is with life — a play 
 
 Made tragedy or farce at will ; 
 Who knows but as the mourners pray 
 
 The dead find changes greater still? 
 
 — Winthrop Church 
 
Forty-four Life and Song 
 
 THIS IS TO LOVE 
 
 At last I've found a kindred one 
 
 Who understands my every mood, 
 
 My soul, my open heart are his, 
 
 My every prayer to him I give. 
 
 He loves me for my deeds undone, 
 
 My inner self, my hidden good, 
 This is to love to live ! 
 
 My better nature swiftly ran, 
 
 To lift my soul up high to him, 
 
 An angel I became — O God ! 
 
 He is not true ! I wildly grieve — 
 "I will, I will unlove this man ! " 
 "Too late," cries quick conviction grim; 
 "This is to love — to live! " 
 
 — Jeannette Robinson Murphy 
 
 SONG OF THE WINDS 
 
 The winds — they come like the hounds of the night, 
 
 And they will not let me be ; 
 Whirling the leaves in their wayward flight, 
 
 Sweeping the hill and lea. 
 What of their song when the branches sway, 
 Ere the night shades lift to the dusk of day? 
 A ship is lost and a heart in vain 
 Waits and hopes at the window pane, 
 
 There by a cold, gray sea. 
 
 The winds — those trailing dogs of the night, 
 
 Hark, hark to their whispering ! 
 They moan of a soul that has taken flight, 
 
 And never a hope they bring. 
 The lights of the night gleam cold, so cold, 
 Over the hills and the upland wold — 
 And yonder a night bird lonely grieves 
 For you out there 'neath the sod and leaves — 
 
 And thus do the night winds sing! 
 
 -Will F. Griffin 
 
dotce. 
 
 P U J J) 1 i> 
 
 ber 
 
 M= 
 
 The flow - ers that 
 
 slum 
 
 gen - tly, 
 
 I think that I can answer for it that if a man loves music 
 he generally loves charity. I have found very few men who 
 love gardening and were drunken — very few men who 
 love song and were churlish. 
 
 — George Dawson 
 
 I find earth not gray but rosy, 
 
 Heaven not grim but fair of hue. 
 
 Do I stoop ? I pluck a posy. 
 
 Do I stand and stare? All's blue. 
 
 — Robert Browning 
 
 LIFE'S MIRROR 
 
 There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave, 
 There are souls that are pure and true ; 
 
 Then give to the world the best you have, 
 And the best will come back to you. 
 
 Give love, and love to your life will flow, 
 
 A strength in your utmost need; 
 Have faith, and a score of hearts will show 
 
 Their faith in your word and deed. 
 
 Give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind, 
 
 And honor will honor meet; 
 And a smile that is sweet will surely find 
 
 A smile that is just as sweet. 
 
 For life is the mirror of king and slave, 
 
 "Tis just what we are and do ; 
 Then give to the world the best you have, 
 
 And the best will come back to you. 
 
 — Madeline S. Bridges 
 
Forty-six Life and Song 
 
 THE CITY'S SOLITUDE 
 
 Not to some bleak and long forgotten -wilderness 
 My feet would turn, had I desire to be alone ; 
 
 Not of the hills would I seek respite from distress, 
 
 Nor let the silent desert hear my sorrow and my moan; 
 
 Nay, here where chaos reigns, where din and noise are rife. 
 
 The soul can find its solitude, its surcease from the strife. 
 
 The myriad throngs that seem to ceaseless come and go, 
 And, moving on, forget that other men have life — 
 
 Forget the simple hand -clasps and forget that they should 
 know 
 Each other in the battle of Pain and ruthless Strife — 
 
 Here where the tide of life rolls on with incessant moan, 
 
 Here on the city's throbbing breast I feel the most alone. 
 
 — Charles H. Towne 
 
 BEAUTIFUL LOVE 
 
 It is something sweet, when the world goes ill, 
 To know you are faithful and love me still; 
 To feel, when the sunshine has left the skies, 
 That the light is shining in your dear eyes — 
 Beautiful eyes; more dear to me 
 Than all the wealth of the world could be, _ 
 
 It is something, dearest, to feel you near 
 
 When life, with its sorrows, seems hard to bear; 
 
 To feel, when I falter, the clasp divine 
 
 Of your tender and trusting hand in mine — 
 
 Beautiful hand; more dear to me 
 
 Than the tenderest things of earth could be. 
 
 Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong, 
 For God gives grief with his gift of song ; 
 And poverty, too ; but your love is more 
 To me than riches and golden store — 
 Beautiful love; until death shall part 
 It is mine — as you are — my own sweetheart. 
 
 — Frank L. Stanton 
 
stars 
 
 Music is the wondrous perfection, the highest height of 
 
 that expression, a reach so far above the daily level that 
 
 only by transcending earthly capacity could we interpret 
 
 its burden. 
 
 — Charles G. Whiting 
 
 I shot an arrow into the air, 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
 For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
 Could not follow it in its flight. 
 
 I breathed a song into the air, 
 It fell to earth, 1 knew not where; 
 For who has sight so keen and strong, 
 That it can follow the flight of song? 
 
 Long, long afterward, in an oak 
 I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 
 And the song, from beginning to end, 
 I found again in the heart of a friend. 
 
 — Longfellow 
 
 THE DAWN OF LOVE 
 
 I had been sleeping — dreaming: I awoke 1 
 E'en as the sun's gay heralds put to flight 
 With golden spears the misty ghosts of night, 
 
 And from the shrouding gloom, with every stroke 
 
 Of magic wands, a thousand charms evoke, 
 For me a growing splendor seemed to light 
 To view a world in unguessed beauty dight : 
 
 It seemed a new and glorious morn had broke; 
 
 The vale appeared a rose embower'd shrine, 
 Each flower, a swaying censer. To my knee 
 
 I sank and worshiped, as before mine eyne 
 A veil was swept away and I could see 
 
 A newer truth in nature — the Divine — 
 
 I was in love! In love, dear heart, with thee. 
 
 — Judson N. Smith 
 
Forty-eight Life and Song 
 
 THE RAINY DAY 
 
 The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
 The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
 But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
 And the day is dark and dreary. 
 
 My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
 My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
 But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
 And the days are dark and dreary. 
 
 Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 
 Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
 Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
 Into each life some rain must fall, 
 
 Some days must be dark and dreary. 
 
 — Longfellow 
 
 BECAUSE OF YOU 
 
 So many thorns beset the way, 
 
 So many stones that wound the feet, 
 
 So many hills from day to day, 
 Before we find the resting sweet. 
 
 And yet — the ways I wander through 
 
 Bring joy and hope — because of you. 
 
 So many griefs there are to bear 
 
 So many clouds, low hanging, black, 
 
 So many sorrows as we fare 
 
 Upon life's dim, uncertain track. 
 
 And yet — 1 care not if the blue 
 
 Of skies be lost — because of you. 
 
 The lilies pure and white may die, 
 The roses droop and petals fall — 
 
 The glories of a sunset sky 
 
 May fade in eerie night's enthrall. 
 
 And yet — for all I hold no rue, 
 
 No bitterness — because of you ! 
 
 -Will F. Griffin 
 
j^P IL?P1^P1PP J) 1JJ ?I 
 
 Oh ! heaven it 
 
 -If. 
 
 my 
 
 darling:, is pray - ing, 
 
 SONG 
 
 How many times do I love thee, dear? 
 Tell me how many thoughts there be 
 In the atmosphere 
 Of a new fall'n year, 
 Whose white and sable hours appear 
 
 The latest flake of eternity — 
 So many times do I love thee, dear. 
 
 How many times do I love, again ? 
 
 Tell me how many beads there are 
 In a silver chain 
 Of evening rain 
 Unraveled from the tumbling main 
 
 And threading the eye of a yellow star — 
 So many times do I love again. 
 
 — Thomas Lovell Beddoes 
 
 UNTIL THE EVENING 
 
 Tired with the daily toil for daily bread, 
 
 The spirit slaving for the body's needs, 
 
 The brain and nerve are dulled, and the heart bleeds 
 And breaks with grief of brooding thought unsaid : 
 Were we but born to labor and be fed ? 
 
 To spend our souls in lowly, trivial deeds, 
 
 Mere sordid coin the crown of what succeeds ? 
 
 Ah! yet press on, though with a fainting tread — 
 
 Till evening ends our work and stills our cries : 
 Then we may find our lowness in our height, 
 Our crown, the tasks we wrought with sobbing breath ; 
 
 As common things a sunset glorifies, 
 This life, at last, may robe itself in light 
 And stand transfigured at the touch of death. 
 
 —A. St. J. Adcock 
 
F«f*y Life and Song 
 
 HIDDEN MUSIC 
 
 "A blotted score," I said, and tossed it by. 
 But he, with reverent hand and meaning smile, 
 Lifted its pages to the instrument, 
 And o'er the ivory keys his fingers drew. 
 Ah, what a strain ! My listening soul threw off 
 The heavy burden of her wild desires, 
 And memory hushed her sad, importunate song. 
 In the swift-flowing music's tide I flung 
 My baffled hopes and my ambitions vain, 
 As a child throws aside its withered flowers; 
 And sudden calm upon my spirit fell — 
 I bowed my head and dreamed of death and heaven. 
 
 O life of mine ! Albeit thy weary years 
 Perplex me with their seeming emptiness; 
 Though good and ill, sharp joy and sharper grief. 
 Success and failure, discord, harmony, 
 Stand side by side in contradiction strange, — 
 A purer sight than mine perchance discerns 
 Some heavenly meaning in thy hopeless maze, 
 And, at the last, the Master's tender touch 
 May draw from thee a symphony divine. 
 
 — Eliza Calvert Hall 
 
 THE HERMIT 
 
 A hermit, I, "within my own heart sealed, 
 
 Shut out the splendor of the noon sun's light. 
 
 A pessimist, I deemed the world a blight 
 And life a curse. Pleasures to me appealed 
 My lone cell to forsake; I would not yield, 
 
 But in my living death embraced the night 
 
 Of loveless being, shutting from my sight 
 The heav'n of love to other eyes revealed. 
 But through a crevice stole a golden ray; 
 
 I strove to keep it out ; it touched mine eyes. 
 And, blinded, I the curtain tore away, 
 
 When lo! a radiant flood from love's sweet skies 
 Burst on my life, turned darkness into day, 
 
 And changed my cell into a paradise I 
 
 — Geo. H. Coward 
 
i 
 
 r^r 
 
 k 
 
 Pray - 'in*. i» 
 
 praying for 
 
 you. 
 
 A QUATRAIN 
 
 The sudden flash of a beloved face 
 
 Into a moment, and that moment near — 
 Then past ; and, in the falling of a tear, 
 
 A young winged, golden sorrow lives in place. 
 
 — Anna Robeson Brown 
 
 CONSTANCY IN ABSENCE 
 
 My darling, my darling, my darling, 
 
 Do you know how I want you tonight ? 
 The wind passes, moaning and snarling, 
 
 Like some evil ghost in its flight. 
 On the wet street your lamp's gleam shines redly 
 
 You are sitting alone — did you start 
 As I spoke ? Did you guess at the deadly 
 
 Chill pain in my heart? 
 
 Out here the dull rain is falling, 
 
 Just once — just a moment — I wait, 
 Did you hear the sad voice that was calling 
 
 Your name, as I paused at the gate? 
 It was just a mere breath, ah, I know, dear, 
 
 Not even Love's ears could have heard; 
 But oh ! I was hungering so, dear. 
 
 For one little word. 
 
 Do you think I am ever without you ? 
 
 Ever lose for an instant your face, 
 Or the spell that breathes always about you, 
 
 Of your subtle, ineffable grace ? 
 Why, even tonight, put away, dear, 
 
 From the light of your eyes though I stand, 
 I feel, as I linger and pray, dear, 
 
 The touch of your hand. 
 
Fifty-two Life an< J Song 
 
 TRUE LOVE 
 
 "Dear one," she said, "the twilight wanes, 
 The day will soon be o'er, its toils and pains 
 Forgot. Come closer, love, and lay thy hand in mine. 
 See how eve's glories on the hill-tops shine. 
 Thus shines my life, let thus my memory 
 Linger when I am gone upon thy sky. 
 I go, but love remains, and in thy heart 
 There lives my nobler and diviner part. " 
 
 He bowed his head upon his hands and wept, 
 And then the angel came and bore away the light. 
 'Twas night — she slept. 
 
 The days went by, the pansies decked the ground 
 Where lay her mortal part in rest profound, 
 The summer clothed the ways they used to tread, 
 He longed for living love — and she was dead. 
 Longing to yearning grew, and then desire 
 Kindled the embers of the burned-out fire. 
 Another walked -with him life's golden ways, 
 Another made the sunshine of his days; 
 And she who strong in faith of constancy had died, 
 Looking from calm heights of eternity, 
 Smiled — and was satisfied. 
 
 — Lou V. Chapin 
 
 When night's mysterious silence shrouds the plain, 
 From hidden cells life's ghosts step forth again.; 
 Ghosts of mistakes or sins both old and new, 
 Pass the mind's eye in panoramic view. 
 Happy are they that view, yet feel await 
 For them a welcome at the " pearly gate, " 
 With not one poisoning doubt that whispering tells 
 Of warmer welcome waiting somewhere else. 
 
 — Hubert Childe 
 
 To have what we want is riches, but to be able to do 
 
 without is power. 
 
 — George MacDonald 
 
Life and Song fifty-three 
 
 Music is a life and a world in itself. 
 
 — M. Betham Edwards 
 
 THE WORDS I DID NOT SAY 
 
 Many a word my tongue has uttered 
 
 Has brought me sorrow at eventide. 
 And I have grieved with a grieving bitter 
 
 Over speech of anger and scorn and pride, 
 But never a word in my heart remembered 
 
 As I sit with myself at the close of day 
 Has pierced with repentance more unavailing 
 
 Than have the words I did not say. 
 
 The word of cheer that I might have whispered 
 
 To a heart that was breaking with weight of woe, 
 The word of hope that I might have given 
 
 To one whose courage was ebbing low, 
 The word of warning 1 should have spoken 
 
 In the ear of one who walked astray — 
 Oh, how they come with sad rebuking 
 
 Those helpful words that I did not say. 
 
 So many and sweet ; if I had but said them 
 
 How glad my heart then would have been; 
 What a dew of blessing would fall upon it 
 
 As the day's remembrances gather in; 
 But I said them not, and the chance forever 
 
 Is gone with the moments of yesterday, 
 And I sit alone with a spirit burdened 
 
 By all the words that I did not say. 
 
 The morrow will come with its new beginning. 
 
 Glad and grand, through the morning's gates — 
 Shall I not then with this thought beside me 
 
 Go bravely forth to the work that waits ? 
 Giving a message of cheer and kindness 
 
 To all I meet on the world's highway, 
 So that I never will grieve at twilight 
 
 Over the words that I did not say. 
 
Fifty-four Life and Song 
 
 A PICTURE 
 
 A day in June; a scholar at his books, 
 
 Whose name the world has echoed far and wide; 
 A' tinge of sadness in a face that looks 
 
 As though unsatisfied. 
 
 A day in June ; a fair and girlish face. 
 Fresh as the roses which she sits among, 
 
 Bending, half listless, o'er a bit of lace, 
 With all life's song unsung. 
 
 A day in June ; rich with its wealth of bloom. 
 
 So full of God one scarce need look above ; 
 Two sit together in the scholar's room, 
 
 And life is only love. 
 
 Her cheerful voice is music to his ear; 
 
 Touch more than magic has her gentle hand; 
 Her sunny, restful presence brings Heaven near; 
 
 Her love makes earth so grand. 
 
 A day in June ; the roses withered lie ; 
 
 A painful stillness o'er the room has grown; 
 There is no charm in earth, or air, or sky ; 
 
 The scholar sits alone. 
 
 — Mrs. Sarah Knowles Bolton 
 
 Since we parted yester-eve 
 
 I do love thee, love, believe, 
 
 Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer, 
 
 One dream deeper, one night stronger, 
 
 One sun surer — this much more 
 
 Than I loved thee, love, before. 
 
 Methought that when I met you, dearest heart, 
 I'd tell thee all that swells within my breast; 
 But now already 'tis the hour to part, 
 And oh, how much still lingers unexpressed. 
 
 — Japan 
 
Life and Song Fifty-five 
 
 JUNE 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
 Then heaven tries earth if it be in tune, 
 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays; 
 Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
 
 We hear life murmur, or see it glisten, 
 Every clod feels a stir of might; 
 
 An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
 And, groping blindly above it for light, 
 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
 The flush of life may well be seen 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
 The cowslip startles in meadows green, 
 
 The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
 And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 
 
 To be some happy creature's palace; 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 
 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
 And lets his illumined being o'er run 
 
 With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 
 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest — 
 In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? 
 
 — James Russell Lowell 
 
 By every path where the children play, 
 By every road, where the beggars stray, 
 By the church's door and the market-stall, 
 Let not one sun go down and say, 
 " She hath not planted a flower today. " 
 
Firty-six Life and Song 
 
 MY SYMPHONY 
 
 To live content with small means; to seek elegance 
 rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to 
 be worthy, not respectable ; and wealthy, not rich ; to 
 study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen 
 to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart, 
 to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, 
 hurry never; in a -word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and 
 unconscious, grow up through the commonplace. This is 
 to be my symphony. 
 
 — William Henry Charming 
 
 WE PLANT SWEET FLOWERS 
 
 We plant sweet flowers above the spot 
 
 Where rest our unforgotten dead, 
 And while the roses bud and bloom 
 
 We beautify their lonely bed. 
 We rear the snowy marble shaft 
 
 That every passer-by may learn 
 How sacred memory keeps her trust 
 
 In votive gift and storied urn. 
 But, oh ! the hearts that ache and break 
 
 Through all the long, bright, summer days 
 For some sweet word of tenderness, 
 
 Some generous and outspoken praise; 
 And, oh, the bitter tears that fall 
 
 O'er life's mistakes and cruel fate, 
 That all things which the heart most craves 
 
 Of love and glory, come too late. 
 Then take the rose that blooms today 
 
 And lay it in some loving hand, 
 And wait not till the ear grows dull 
 
 To tell the sweet thought that you planned. 
 One kiss on warm and loving lips 
 
 Is worth a thousand funeral flowers, 
 And one glad day of tender love 
 
 Outweighs an age of mourning hours 
 — D. M. Jordan 
 

MAY 19 1900 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 013 979 858 2 
 
 
 
 5§C 
 
 sg[JfV 
 
 ght shall be 
 
 filled with music, 
 :And the cares, that 
 
 infest the day. 
 Shall fold their' 
 
 like the Arabs, 
 And as silently 
 
 steal away 
 
 -<Congfe((ow