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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap. _______ Copyright Xo. 
 
 8heli: _>__^_ <^ ^^ 6^ 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
A 
 
 iBooH of (Bornt^liyme^ 
 
 BY. 
 
 Vs/tllt(^rja t^eed te)unroy. 
 
 I? 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 
 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA 
 
 University Publishing Company. 
 
 1900 
 
 L^ 
 
89481 
 
 \t )}:>v»vy of Coo^r«^=»s 
 
 ; OEC 171900 
 
 i J J Copyright entry 
 
 «0 
 
 SSCO^^D COPY 
 Oe!i¥«>ed to 
 
 OHOtR DIVISION 
 
 DEC 21 190U 
 
 
 
 -^KV^oO 
 
 Copyrighted 1900 
 
 BY 
 
 University Publishing Co. 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
TO THE STATE I LOVE : 
 
 And to hey people, these rJivnies 
 are dedicated. : : : : : : : : 
 
 — WILL L4 M REED D UNR O \ ' 
 
The western wind with nimble feet, 
 Trips out a curious dance, 
 
 To the music piped by a bobolink, 
 Perclied near on a willow lance. 
 
F\ TMe of the <Bonien{5 
 of ®orn "Poi^^el^. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Foreword --------- ^ ^ 
 
 The Veil of Dislance ------- 12 
 
 To the First Nebraska ^4 
 
 Reward ...------ 17 
 
 A Corn Lullaby - - - - - ' " ^° 
 
 A Prairie Vietv - ^9 
 
 Recompense -20 
 
 Today ^' 
 
 Prairie Pastels — 
 
 In Green ------ - - 22 
 
 In Gold - - - - - - - - ^-3 
 
 Thine Eyes - - -.- - - - - 2J 
 
 The Unreturning -------- 26 
 
 Progress 28 
 
 The First Song -------- 30 
 
 The River Platte '33 
 
 A Prayer - - - 36 
 
 To Live is Enough - 3^ 
 
 Wind in the Corn - - - - - - -40 
 
 Indian Plume - - - - - - - - 4'~ 
 
 The Way of the World ------ 44 
 
 Tomorrow --.------ 45 
 
 The Song for /1/r - * 46 
 
Thou Art My Woild ------ ^7 
 
 The Shadow Service - - - - - * - - 4S 
 
 Prayer During Drouth ------ ^g 
 
 The Sweetest Music - - .-'. . -30 
 
 Gold is God -..-.... ^i 
 
 Sandswept - - - - , - - - - - S~ 
 
 To a Mummy - - - 53 
 
 I Walked in I he Wood - - . - - - 55 
 
 Dawn on the Plains - . . - - - j-^ 
 
 77/^? Tryst ------.__ j-7 
 
 Resignation -...-.,. jS' 
 
 A West land Song - - - -- - -60 
 
 Mary's Bedstraw -.....- Oi 
 
 Hidden --------- (^^ 
 
 After Ouuir Khayyam -----.- ^5 
 
 Destiny - - - -66 
 
 The Strength of Love - - - .. - - 6y 
 The Mint .-.-----. 68 
 
 The Meadoiv Lark ------- 6g 
 
 Goldenrod --------- yj 
 
 Prairie Pictures — 
 
 Daivn - - - - - - - - -72 
 
 Noon - - - - - - - - -73 
 
 Night - - - - - - - - - y4 
 
 7 'he Wheel of Fate - - - - - - - yj 
 
 TJie L^and of Corn ------- ^(5 
 
 Lillian --------- ^<5> 
 
 The Prairies ---:----- yg 
 
 Come, Soothing Sleep - - - - - - 81 
 
 The Wesleyan Quartet - - - - - -82 
 
 Aspiration - - - - - - - - 84 
 
 The Pessimist - - - - - - - ' ^5 
 
PAGE 
 
 The Rain on My luue ------ S6 
 
 Today is Best .---...- Sy 
 Huskin' Corn - - - - , - - - S8 
 
 In Late October -------- go 
 
 Thou -.-..-.-. gi 
 
 Unsatisfied - - - - - - - - - gs 
 
 Return of the Magdalene - - - - - g^ 
 
 Jla Dolorosa - - - - - - - - gb 
 
 Night --....... gy 
 
 Noel - - . ------- gg 
 
 November -..-.-... jqi 
 Rest ---------- J02 
 
 Loco CO - - - - - - - - - - lo^ 
 
 Mother's Rag Carpet - - - - - - /oj 
 
 Good Night, My Love - ■ - - - - - - joj 
 
 The Old Unrest --..... jq§ 
 
 The Place of Peace .-..-._ jog 
 No Matter -------- jjq 
 
 Resurrection - - - - - - - - - iii 
 
 All is Good -------- JJ2 
 
 We'll Meet Again - ^ - - - - - -114 
 
 f Don't Much Care - - - - - - - iib 
 
 The South Wind - - - - - - - - ji8 
 
 Conventionality ----- - . jjg 
 
 Nelia -.-..-... joo 
 
 Violets ---------- J2I 
 
 Pansies -----_-_. J22 
 
 Pessimism - - - - - - - . -12? 
 
 *-^^<^ 
 
Foreword. 
 
 It" I could know that by my soiig 
 
 Some toiler's burden I made lighter, 
 
 If some wan sujBferer's bit of sky 
 My singing- made a little brighter, 
 I'd be content. 
 
 If I could know some broken heart 
 
 Were healed a trifle by my singing, 
 Or that some pilgrim in despair 
 
 Might through the night hear hope-bells ringing, 
 I'd be content. 
 
 To sing, and send my vagrant songs 
 Awandering through the world were pleasure, 
 
 If I but knew one halting line 
 Were kept by some one as a treasure. 
 
 II 
 
The Veil of Distance. 
 
 When viewed at closer range the chasmed mountains, 
 
 bleak and scarred, 
 Lose all their beauty. Stern, forbidding and severe 
 
 they rise, 
 The playground where the gods have tossed the 
 
 bowlders 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 past 
 
 takes on 
 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 the 
 
 present plain, 
 And see a glory in the years gone by, forgetting that, 
 Though veiled by distance-woven mists, the jagged 
 
 rocks remain. 
 
 The dull today, monotonous with its round of petty 
 
 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 heaven from our faithless view 
 
 — the stings 
 Of scourges made of many tiny knotted cords of daily 
 
 strife — 
 These, too, will pass away, and in the light that dis- 
 tance brings 
 We'll see this present glorified, these level desert 
 
 plains 
 Transformed and full abloom, bejeweled with eternal 
 
 springs. 
 
 13 
 
To the First Nebraska. 
 
 O, hark to the piercing cry of the fife, and hark to the 
 
 roll of the drum, 
 For they tell the tale of the soldiers bold as they 
 
 merrily homeward come; 
 With the clank of the sword and the flap of the flag, 
 
 in their lines of bronze and blue, 
 They tread the soil of home once more, the land of the 
 
 leal and true: 
 
 Back to the breasts of those who fed them, 
 Back to the arms of those who bred them. 
 
 Yet not all; 
 Some lie dead in distant islands, . 
 Where they fell on marsh and highlands, 
 
 God bless them all. 
 
 They wear no trappings of glittering splendor, nor 
 medals of silver and gold, 
 
 Their garments are war-torn and dingy, their accoutre- 
 ments rusty and old; 
 
 But the badges they wear are the scars they bear, the 
 kingliest under the sun. 
 
 For each is a pledge of a brave, true heart, and of vic- 
 tories valiantly won. 
 14 
 
They have followed the flag wherever it led and have 
 
 guarded its spangled folds; 
 They have added new glory and lustre to all the bright 
 
 emblem holds; 
 They have battled forever forward and have never 
 
 slunk back in retreat, 
 And never for once have their colors been trailed in 
 
 the dust of defeat. 
 
 They have sprinkled the soil of a foreign land witli 
 
 the richest blood e'er was shed; 
 They have shown to the world our fighting men, the 
 
 staunchest the earth e'er bred; 
 They have lifted up arms of invincible brawn and 
 
 have fronted with faces of steel, 
 While they watched through the death-smoke, lower- 
 ing, the enemy falter and reel; 
 Back to the breasts of those who fed them. 
 Back to the arms of those who bred them, 
 
 Yet not all; 
 Some lie dead in distant islands. 
 Where they fell on marsh and highlands, 
 God bless them all. 
 
 They have camped in the dreadful marshes and have 
 
 marched in the tropic sun; 
 They have seen their comrades sicken and die and 
 
 have buried them one by one; 
 15 
 
They have sighed at the loss of their leader, but never 
 
 have faltered nor fled; 
 With cheers for the noble living, they have mingled 
 
 the dirge for the dead. 
 
 They have bared their breasts to the flaming sword 
 
 and have scorned the cannon's breath; 
 They have fought on the fleld a fearful flght and have 
 
 grappled with grisly death; 
 They have bitten the dust of a hostile land and have 
 
 weathered its shot and shell, 
 And have cried aloud in an ecstacy as they knelt in 
 
 the pits of hell. 
 
 But their war and their warfare is over and the cry 
 
 of the trumpet is still. 
 And the roll of the drum's tattooing is the sound of a 
 
 peaceful trill; 
 Their swords are all sheathed in velvet and their guns 
 
 are all harmless now, 
 For the soft, white hand of an angel has smoothed out 
 the war-furrowed brow: 
 Back to the breasts of those who fed them, 
 Back to the arms of those who bred them. 
 
 Yet not all; 
 Some lie dead in distant islands. 
 Where they fell on marsh and highlands, 
 God bless them all. 
 i6 
 
Reward* 
 
 In the hollow husks of our greatest losses 
 Are seeds that will grow and blossom with gain; 
 
 In the blackest cloud that the storm wind tosses 
 Is a silver gift of refreshing rain. 
 
 In the sharpest thorn that our anguish presses 
 Is a healing balm for the wound it makes; 
 
 In the bitterest cup that Fate possesses 
 
 Is a sprinkle of sweet for the heart that breaks. 
 
 17 
 
A Corn Lullaby* 
 
 Hark to the summer rain in the corn! 
 
 (Hush to sleep my haby) 
 As faint as the call of an elf land horn ; 
 
 (Hush to sleep my baby) 
 The wind blows 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 stripped 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). 
 
 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). 
 i8 
 
A Pfaifie 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 that meets the bending sky. 
 
 19 
 
Recompensci 
 
 From this dull world of ours, a stairway leads 
 To where a cloudless noonday gleams; 
 
 Each soul may mount the viewless ladder, theie 
 Discovering- his land of dreams. 
 
 Imagination keeps the low-browed door, 
 
 Unlocks it at each man's request; 
 He guides the traveler up the shining stair, 
 
 And plants a blossom in each breast. 
 
 From poverty and woe and wasting want, 
 From heartaches and from numbing pains, 
 
 The doorway swings wide open, and to view 
 There bursts the dazzling sun-kissed plains. 
 
 The veriest fool who mumbles in his hut 
 May leave his rags and filth behind 
 
 And view a splendid scene, whose endless chai-m 
 Would strike his richer neighbor blind. 
 
 A question, then, if it were best to be 
 A dullard, swathed in stifling gold. 
 
 Or some poor garret-pinioned dreamer, whom 
 No sordid chains of earth may hold? 
 
Today. 
 
 The times are full of restless discontent. 
 From old beliefs our modern minds dissent, 
 
 The new are not yet formed— at sea, our sails 
 By every wayward, wavering wind are bent. 
 
 The dreams of yesterday are crystalized 
 In solid fact — the truth in myth disguised 
 
 Is stripped of all its mummery and mavsk, 
 The hopes of all the ages realized. 
 
 The sacred mysteries of life are masked 
 No longer to the mind— the questions asked 
 
 By myriad milions in the aeons gone 
 Are answered by the school boy at his task. 
 
 Along the upward way we humans plod 
 With Hope ahead, like some divining rod, 
 
 And as we grope, we reach and grasp. 
 In darkness though it be, the hand of God. 
 
Prairie Pastels. 
 
 IN GREEN, 
 
 Across the level prairies, faint at first 
 As tint of opal, creeps a tinge of green. 
 
 That overcomes at last the gray and brown, 
 As tides the sands that girt the ocean's sheen. 
 
 And ever as the verdant ti*e moves on, 
 The bending skies grow softer overhead, 
 
 And near the shallow stream that flows through sand 
 The stunted willow lifts its lance of red. 
 
 On broken gumweed sings the meadow lark, 
 
 His song seems calling to the stirring earth 
 ' To loosen from their prison in the mold 
 
 The prairie flowers to deck the spring-babe's birth. 
 
 And now and then a sonorous call comes down 
 From out the sun-kissed air, as northward fly 
 
 The wild geese in an arrow huge and black, 
 The only shade against the azure sky. 
 
The shimmering sunshine floods the earth and air 
 As with a bath of gold, the light winds lift 
 
 The fragrance of the grass and bear it far 
 To s«me bare land, and leave their precious gift. 
 
 As far as eye can reach the level land, 
 Its floor unbroken by a rift or seam, 
 
 Outstretches till it meets the curving sky, 
 A world as fair as ever graced a dream. 
 
 IN GOLD. 
 
 The amber cornfields toss their tasseled heads, 
 The goldenrod shines yellow in the sun, 
 
 The thistle shakes its hoary brush, and spreads 
 Its silken seeds from dawn till day is done 
 
 In stubblefields the prairie chickens hide, 
 And blackbirds flock around the stacks of wheat. 
 
 The modest plover seeks the prairies wide, 
 Far from the hunter's sacrilegious feet. 
 
 23 
 
The cobwebs weave a net across the sky, 
 A haze half hides the distant low-browed hill> 
 
 The wild geese slowly soaring southward cry» - 
 And hear the answering curlew, sharp and shrill. 
 
 "Phe nights are long and cool and still, 
 
 The breeze scarce aids the falling yellow leaf, 
 
 The moon transforms to silver at her will 
 The golden fields where rules the sun so brief. 
 
 A solemn brooding hush rests on the land, 
 The garnered harvest waits the will of men, 
 
 A look of plenty greets on every hand, 
 A hint of rest on field, and hill, and glen. 
 
 ■ is. ^ . 
 
 A sudden glory crowns the dying year, 
 A sudden hush of parting fills the air. 
 
 As one by one the wintry signs appear, 
 
 The days grow shorter, but more wondrous fair, 
 
 24 
 
Thine Eyes. 
 
 Within the depths of thy full orbs of brown 
 I read a world of love no speech can tell; 
 "^ The stammering tongue can no more voice the 
 
 sweet, elusive thing 
 Thine eyes give forth than motleyed, grinning clown 
 Can cast a charm, or weave a magic spell. 
 Or midnight raven ravish with his harsh attempts 
 to sing. 
 
 Thy voice is low and wonderfully sweet; 
 Its liquid tones are softer than the song 
 Of yonder lark that mounts the viewless ladder of 
 the skies; 
 And yet 'tis but a preface, dull and long, 
 A tiresome thing, compared to that rare treat. 
 The book I read between the fringed covers of thine 
 eyes. 
 
 25 
 
The Unfeturnifig* 
 
 Amidst the plaudits for these heroes coming home, 
 A sigh for those who fell — the unreturning braves — 
 
 Ipon these fadeless garlands drop a tear, for those 
 Who sleep in distant lands, alone in alien graves. 
 
 Amidst this glory and this high acclaim, let sound 
 One note of sorrow in a plaintive minor strain. 
 One tone of dirge-like music in the paean of praise, 
 For those whose names are numbered with the noble 
 slain. 
 
 For them the lights are out, the rattling drums are 
 still, 
 No reveille can ever reach their dust-stopped ears, 
 Their hero hearts are pulseless and their feet are 
 bound 
 In death's unyielding chains, for all the future 
 years. 
 
But though their hearts are dust and silence seals 
 their lips, 
 
 Their deeds will live, for soldier valor never dies; 
 Their lustrous names are writ on Fame's eternal page 
 
 In living characters, as constant as the skies. 
 
 Then 'midst the folds of yonder flag they loved so 
 well, 
 Entwine a sable cord, in memory of the dead, 
 And as the living heroes tread the soil of home, 
 For those who march unseen, make hare and bow 
 the head. 
 
 27 
 
Progress. 
 
 The world forever marches upward through the night, 
 For progress is the never-changing law of God ; 
 
 Today the generations climb the heights, where fear 
 Deterred the generations gone as with a rod 
 
 To smite them blind; where we leave off our upward 
 strife, 
 The generations yet to come will skyward plod. 
 
 Each day that dawns new wonders burst upon our 
 sight 
 And new astonishments confound the soul; 
 The world expands, and with the vast, expanding 
 world 
 The minds of men in wider channels roll ; 
 Our little visions cannot span the endless view 
 That leads through ranging time to man's su- 
 premest goal. 
 
 28 
 
We gaze wide-eyed upon the onward course of time, 
 And take our places in the never-ending show ; 
 
 We play our little parts as best we may, and then 
 We end our little idle mummeries and go. 
 
 But whither? Why? The questions ever on our lips; 
 No man hath ever yet stood forth to cry "I know!" 
 
 We learn from God's great patience through the flood 
 of years 
 .To live our lives, to take what comes, and calmly 
 wait; 
 For God works out His purposes with pigmy men, 
 Who cannot see His pattern stretching vast and 
 great; 
 We move as His great hand may will to have us move. 
 And find our places in His plan, or soon, or late. 
 
 29 
 
The First Song. 
 
 'Twas morn in Eden, and the summer sun 
 Shone round and full above the trees ; 
 The sky, in which the shadows of the night 
 Still hung amidst the splendors of the dawn 
 Like wreathing smoke in flames, was opal-tinged 
 And like the pearly lining of a shell. 
 
 The air was laden with the holy scent 
 
 Of opening buds : the blossoms that adorned 
 
 The first great spring, when new-create the world 
 
 Was hurled along the viewless paths of space 
 
 From God's all powerful hand, and ravished with 
 
 The dulcet chorus of the golden-throated birds. 
 
 Through bowering branches overhead the rays 
 Of dawn crept softly as a summer sigh 
 And lighted on the dew-wet eyes of Eve, 
 Who slept upon a bed of fern-strewn moss 
 Beneath, and slowly from the thrall of dreams 
 She roused and flashed her creamy lids apart. 
 
 3G 
 
Then, springing like a hind, she stood full-length, 
 
 Her hair a golden robe around her form 
 
 Of perfect mold; the velvet flesh beneath 
 
 Like blushing roses under strands of gold ; 
 
 Her eyes still full of haunting dreams; her hands 
 
 Still idly clasping fadeless Eden blooms. 
 
 The lifting breeze blew coyly through the leaves 
 
 And made a wider rift, through which the sun 
 
 His radiant glances poured; and, shining like 
 
 A pillar wrought of pearl and finest gold. 
 
 She stood, a vision fair as dawn, as pure 
 
 And stainless as a bud still wrapt in green. 
 
 Around her every sound was full of joy; 
 
 The rippling rill that spilled its silvery flood 
 
 Beside her bed of moss, the swaying trees 
 
 O'er head, the whispering winds that kissed the 
 
 flowers, 
 The birds with bursting throats, in one great chord 
 Had blent their manifold enraptured notes. 
 
 Then suddenly the woman felt with 
 
 Her heart a joy that ne'er before 
 
 Had found expression, and her throat began 
 
 To swell, and through her lips there came a sound 
 
 31 
 
Of rarest melody, so pure and clear 
 
 That every other sound was hushed in awe. 
 
 It echoed through the garden paths and lanes, 
 
 And wonderingly the beasts crept near to hear, 
 
 While through the morn came sounds of rushing 
 
 wings, 
 And trooping angels glowed amidst the green; 
 The very heavens seemed to bend and bow 
 To hear the strains of earth's first human song. 
 
 And Adam, lost amidst the tangled brakes, 
 Astonished, heard the marvelous voice, and in 
 An ecstacy he grasped a hollow reed 
 To blow thereon a wild accompaniment; 
 'Twas thus the earth first heard the voice 
 Of music and her noble sister, song. 
 
 32 
 
,Thc l^ver Platte, 
 
 The broad old Platte, with shifting isles of sallow 
 
 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 
 Their 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. 
 
 -J 
 And in the tall, rank grass that grows 
 
 Along the bank the blackbirds build 
 
 Their nests, and soft and tender shows 
 
 The pale blue egg against the gray; 
 
 And where the water shallower flows, 
 
 The bittern wades and catches frogs. 
 
 Found basking where the sunlight glow?. 
 
 33 
 
On either side the river, lie 
 The 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 herds 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 song; the waters lisp and kiss 
 
 The banks; with murmurings profound 
 
 They pour toward the distant sea 
 
 Through boundless prairies reaching round. 
 
 In winter, sober gray the grass. 
 The birds' 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. 
 
 34 
 
And when the summer on her bed 
 
 Of death lies down and autumn comes. 
 
 The wild ducks by some instinct led 
 
 From realms of air drop down and SY\-im 
 
 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. 
 
 35 
 
A Prayer, 
 
 Omnipotent Lord, whose all beholding eye 
 Foresees the end before our race is run, 
 
 Oh, grant us courage and the needful strength 
 To stumble onward till the goal is won. 
 
 May we not waste our might in idle strife, 
 Nor burn it in fierce passion's fitful fires; 
 
 Yea, strengthen all our half-formed purposes, 
 In mercy weaken all our wrong desires. 
 
 We struggle blindly, Lord, against thy will ; 
 
 Forgive our dullness, nor chastise us long; 
 The half our sins are but our mad mistakes, 
 
 And at their base was no intent to wrong. 
 
 Remember, Lord, that we are only dust, 
 And scarcely understand thy drossless gold; 
 
 Our coarseness cannot comprehend thy fine ; 
 Imperfect, we can never fill a perfect mold. 
 
 36 
 
Oh, Lord, our human loves and hates are strong, 
 Our human wills are wonderfully frail, 
 
 Our utmost longings are to do thy will; 
 Forgive us when we miserably fail. 
 
 We strive, and all our striving comes to naught; 
 
 We sin, repent, and sin, and then repent; 
 Our paths are marked by falls and risings up; 
 
 Piece out with thy great might our good intent. 
 
 Omnipotent Lord, whose all pervading might 
 Upholds the universe, vouchsafe thy aid; 
 
 In pity and forgiveness look upon 
 This world of wayward weaklings thou hast made. 
 
 37 
 
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 v/hite, now gray ; 
 To see the silver rivers lace the lands; 
 
 The frowning mountains capped with gleaming 
 snow ; 
 The jewelled 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; 
 
 The thunders roar, the avalanches fall; 
 The twitter of the wren at early morn ; 
 
 The sighing of the breeze as 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. 
 
 38 
 
Just to live is enougli — to smell the rose at dawn ; 
 
 To feel the rain upon your face at night; 
 To brush the dew from hedge and jewelled lawn ; 
 
 To watch the skylark in his 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. 
 
 -59 
 
Wind in the Corn. 
 
 I love to lie in the prairie grass, 
 
 As the sun's noon-heat is born, 
 And list to the lisp of the lashing leaves, 
 
 As the wind blows through the corn. 
 
 For the sound of the wind is soft and sweet, 
 
 As the sigh of a child in sleep, 
 As soothing and calm as the drifting dark 
 
 That falls from the bluey deep. 
 
 It does not moan as it does in the pines, 
 
 Nor wail as it does on the sea, 
 But sings a song, faint, far, and low— 
 
 A marvelous melody, 
 
 40 
 
Indian Plume. 
 
 In days gone by, when red-men roamed these prairies 
 
 wide, 
 So runs the Indian legend, told with Indian pride, 
 There came a plague among them one dread year 
 And filled their savage breasts with abject fear; 
 It spared not young nor old — the laughing child 
 Or frowning chief — the maiden, coy and mild; 
 And lusty youth — all, all who felt the breath 
 Of this fell plague, were marked at once for death. 
 The women wailed beside their dead, 
 And stalwart warriors paled and fled, 
 Yet still the plague raged, grim and dread. 
 
 And in this tribe where reigned this scourge of death 
 
 and gloom, 
 There lived a tender maid — they called her "Indian 
 
 Plume;" 
 Her voice was gentle as the summer wind, 
 Her every action graciously inclined. 
 
 41 
 
Her eyes were soft as deer eyes, while her hair 
 
 Was raven black; her face was ruddy fair 
 
 As e'er the western sun shone down upon ; 
 
 Her step as light and springy as the fawn, 
 
 And all who knew her loved her well, 
 
 With a love they had no tongue to tell, 
 
 This soft-eyed, soft-voiced Indian belle. 
 
 She walked among the dead and dying like a saint; 
 
 She smoothed each brow, and heard each sad and 
 sighing plaint; 
 
 She moistened parching lips and soothed the fears 
 
 Of wailing children, hushing them to sleep 
 
 With tuneful melodies rich and deep; 
 
 She folded o'er each breathless breast 
 
 The stiffened hands of those who sank to rest. 
 While still the plague raged on and on, 
 From dusky darkness till the dawn. 
 And through the day till day was gone. 
 
 At last the wise men of the tribe in solemn state 
 Proclaimed the burning anger of their spirit great, 
 And said that to appease his wrath the doom 
 Of death must be pronounced on Indian Plume. 
 
 42 
 
The maiden heard, and grasped a gleaming knife, 
 For them she sacrificed her precious life, 
 And where her blood was spilled upon the gromid 
 A crimson flower the Indians later found. 
 They named the precious, glowing bloom 
 In honor of the maiden's noble doom — 
 The prairie's glory, Indian Plume. 
 
 And thus the deadly plague was stayed 
 When died this noble Indian maid. 
 And o'er the summer prairie shines, 
 In tints of ruddy, running wines, 
 This well-loved, blood-bathed bloom, 
 In memory of fair Indian Plume. 
 
 43 
 
The Way of the World* 
 
 In 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 my glory wreathe thy brow." 
 
 At last with death-dulled ears he heard. 
 Too late, the people's loud acclaim; 
 
 His blinded eyes saw not the place 
 Whereon Fame carved his deathless name. 
 
 44 
 
Tomorrow* 
 
 Tomorrow and tomorow, so we say, 
 Tomorrow filled with hopes we highly prize; 
 
 Tomorrow is an ignis fatuus, 
 A dream we mortals never realize. 
 
 We peer before us through the blinding mists, 
 And seem to glimpse tomorrow's rosy dawn — 
 
 A fleeting vision, fading from our sight 
 Before we are aware the dream is gone. 
 
 Beyond us, dancing like a butterfly 
 Across a sunny flowered meadowland, 
 
 Tomorrow, in her lucent rainbow robes, 
 Rludes the eager grasping of the hand. 
 
 Tomorrow is a phantom, clothed in dreams, 
 Forever wooing us with cunning wiles, 
 
 But when we reach to clasp her in our arms, 
 
 She fades, and leaves us ravished with her smiles. 
 
 45 
 
The Song for Me. 
 
 Let those who will, sing of the sea, 
 But the song- for me, the song for me, 
 Js a song of the waving, fragrant grass 
 Aswept by the winds as they swiftly pass, 
 Where the flowers bloom wild, and fresh, and free! 
 Oh, that is the song for me, 
 The song for me! 
 
 Let those who will, sing of the sea, , 
 
 But the song for me, the song for me, 
 Is a song of the treeless stretch of green, 
 Where never a shadow may be seen, 
 Where the birds fly wild, and swift, and free! 
 Oh, that is the song for me. 
 The song for me! 
 
 Let those who will, sing of the sea. 
 But the song for me, the song for me, 
 Is a song of the prairies wild and wide. 
 With their ever-changing, stormless tide, 
 Where the winds sweep wild, and wide, and free! 
 Oh, that is the song for me, 
 The song for me! 
 
 46 
 
Thou Att My World. 
 
 Thine eyes are full of haunting shadows, strange as 
 death ; 
 They make my very soul within me shake; 
 Thy voice can stir my heart like music heard at night 
 
 Across the silvery waters of a lake; 
 My lips, when pressed against thine own, are bound 
 with chains 
 That I have neither will nor wish to break. 
 
 Thy tangled hair holds all the sunshine I desire; 
 
 Thy sylph-like form embodies all the grace ; 
 When fondly I enfold thee in my hungry arms, 
 
 And hold thee closely in my strong embrace, 
 I gaze upon thine eyes, thy lips, thy hair, and find 
 
 The world hath narrowed down to tky fair face. 
 
 47 
 
The Shadow Setvice, 
 
 In 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 censors 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 its noiseless tread. 
 
 When the service of shades is o'er. 
 
 4S 
 
Prayer During Drouth. 
 
 Oh, God, send rain! 
 
 The panting fields with parched, protruding lips 
 Cry out for rain. The wrinkled plains are hot 
 And blistered, fanned hy feverish winds, and bald 
 Of verdure. The seared and shriveled grass that 
 
 bears 
 The marks of last year's withering kiss, upsends 
 A prayer. The dried-out beds of streams, silent 
 Of waters, send a piteous plea for drink; 
 Oh, God, send rain, send rain! 
 
 Oh, God, send rain! 
 
 The toilers of the fields with hopeless hands 
 Throw broadcast in the powdered earth the seed 
 That finds no dew to kiss it into life; 
 Within the steps of last year's failure treads 
 The plodding plowman, wearing out his life 
 To call the promised bread from out the soil, 
 And finds but chaff. From every stunted tuft 
 Of withered grass, from every fruitless stock 
 Of corn, from every sproutless seed, from 
 Every barren field, from every living thing 
 Comes up a cry for rain: 
 Oh, God, send rain, send rain! 
 
 49 
 
The Sweetest Music. 
 
 There's a music in the patter of the raiu, 
 As it falls so gently downward through the night. 
 
 Just a soothing, quiet, sleepy, soft refrain, 
 A lullaby to put your wakefulness to flight. 
 
 There's a 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 a music in the babble of the brook, 
 As it ripples brightly onward in its flov/, 
 
 Where the ferns and modest violets bend and look 
 In the limpid, lisping waters down below. 
 
 There's a 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 a music in the cooing of the dove, 
 As it struts around its nest-mate in the shade 
 
 But the music in the voice of one you love 
 Is by far the sweetest music ever made. 
 
 50 
 
Gold is God. 
 
 To him, who holds a plenty in his grasp, 
 The fawning world stoops low in servile fear, 
 
 And heeds nor hears, no more than idle winds, 
 The orphan's cry or widow's scalding tear. 
 
 The curse pronounced of old in Eden's green 
 Is lightened for the idle, pampered rich, 
 
 And double burdens piled upon the backs 
 Of men who struggle blindly in the ditch. 
 
 The rich man shirks the tithing of the tax, 
 And pays no duty on his broidered cloak, 
 
 But on the poor man's rags is laid a weight 
 That bends his neck beneath a grievous yoke. 
 
 The corporations, drunk and mad with greed, 
 Are robbing womanhood of priceless name, 
 
 And children's blood and sweat of starving men 
 Are changed to gold in coining mints of shame. 
 
 5T 
 
Sandswept, 
 
 A windswept, sandswept, prairie view 
 O'er-arched by a sky of gray, 
 
 A birdless desert, grim and bare, 
 Where wind-cubs romp and play. 
 
 No sign of man, no sign of life. 
 Save tracks in the drifting sand, 
 
 But half effaced, of skulking beasts 
 That scud o'er the dreary land. 
 
 A plain outstretching beyond the eye. 
 Where wolves and coyotes dwell; 
 
 A cheerless level of wind-combed sand 
 As flat as the floors of hell. 
 
 5a 
 
To a Mummy. 
 
 Thou 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 upon thine own? 
 
 How beat that heart of thine 
 With joy supremely sweet, 
 
 As low thy lover knelt 
 In suppliance at thy feet? 
 
 53 
 
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. 
 
 54 
 
I Walked in the Wood, 
 
 I walked in the wood one summer day 
 And heard a wild-bird singing; 
 
 His tender notes through forest glades 
 Exultingly 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. 
 
 55 
 
Dawfl on the Plains* 
 
 A vast oppressive silence, deep as death; 
 
 The sky above, faint sprinkled with a few 
 Dim, fading stars that feehly flicker, like 
 
 Fireflies in the early evening dew. 
 
 A dusky darkness over all the plain; 
 
 The misty distances unending lie; 
 The grayish shadows of the night-kissed land 
 
 Are blended with the shadows of the sky. 
 
 A sudden glory floods the whitening east; 
 
 The curtain of the night is rent in twain 
 Like to the veil that parted in the Holy Place, 
 
 When on Calvary the Lamb of God was slain. 
 
 And in this glow the tossing plumes of morn 
 Are shaking splendors through the pearly sky, 
 
 While through the ambient air there bursts a sound 
 Of wild-birds singing as they wing on high. 
 
 At last above the jeweled plain appears 
 The dazzling, regal ruler of the day, 
 
 And every bush is like the one of old, 
 Where God was, and the plains a place to pray. 
 
 56 
 
The Tfyst* 
 
 Under the starlight's silvery shine 
 Held I her little hand in mine; 
 
 White, white as her maiden brow 
 
 Under the gold of her curls, 
 Soft, soft as the milky foam 
 
 Formed where the brooklet swirls, 
 Dear, dear as a casket of shell 
 Filled with a strand of pearls. 
 
 Under the starlight's silvery shine 
 Pressed I her pouting lips to mine; 
 Red, red as the summer dawn 
 
 Gilding the east with gold, 
 Sweet, sweet as the heart of a rose 
 
 Just as its leaves unfold, 
 Fond, fond as the last farewell 
 After life's tale is told. 
 
 Under the starlight's silvery shine 
 Raised I her love-lit eyes to mine; 
 
 Bright, bright as the beaming star 
 
 Gemming the brow of night, 
 Clear, clear as the limpid pool 
 
 Lilied with spotless white, 
 Filled, filled with a deathless love, 
 Pure as a ray of light. 
 57 
 
Resignation. 
 
 When across the rose-strewn path that we had hopetl 
 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 disappointment 
 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. 
 
 5B 
 
For there hare 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. 
 
 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 man, 
 
 A part of the world's great, solemn, alto strain. 
 
 59 
 
Hidden. 
 
 In each husk that hides the tiniest seed 
 
 Is a pattern we cannot see ; 
 In each acorn cup is folded up 
 
 The plan of a great oak tree. 
 
 In each bud enclosed in its mask of green 
 
 Is a bloom that is yet to be; 
 In each house of clay is hidden away 
 
 An immortality. 
 
 60 
 
Mary's Bedstraw. 
 
 The Germans have a legend quaint and old 
 That tells a story of that tuft of gold 
 
 We call the goldenrod ; 
 They twine this flower with the holy morn 
 On which in Bethlehem the Christ was born— 
 
 The blessed Son of God. 
 
 They say that on the bed where Mary lay 
 This golden flower gleamed amidst the hay, 
 
 And strewed the humble cave; 
 It lent the only glory to the place 
 That housed the Savior of the human race — 
 
 A golden bed and pave. 
 
 6r 
 
A Wcstland Song- 
 
 They sing grand songs of the booming sea, 
 Of its foam-flecked, moon-drawn tides. 
 
 Of its storm-lashed waves that plunge 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, 
 Bnfleeced 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 its maddened waves 
 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. 
 
 62 
 
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 the torrents lunge and flow. 
 
 But I sing a song of the prairies v/ide, 
 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-jeweled, grass-clothed land. 
 
 With never a roof but the sky, 
 No shade but the moving shades of the clouds, 
 
 Whose gloom soon hurries by, 
 No storms save those of the western winds, 
 
 That bluster awhile, then die. 
 
 63 
 
i sing a song of the westiand 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 glad, 
 Of no death-lurking seas that moan 
 
 And make my soul grow sad, 
 Or mountain heights whose frowning fronts 
 
 Unpitying drive me mad. 
 
After Omar Khayyam^ 
 
 We strive for fame — pray tell me what is fame' 
 A little clapping of the hands — a name 
 
 Upon the tongues of men— a fitful fire, 
 And then a wind that quenches fire and flame. 
 
 We all are weak and made of common dust, 
 The God within us linked with vulgar lust, 
 
 The spirit ever ^^arring with the flesh, 
 Till back within the earth our bones are thrust. 
 
 ^>5 
 
Destiny. 
 
 As through, life's labyrinth we grope, 
 Sometimes we lose our guide-star hope, 
 And later blunderingly find 
 'Twas providence that made us blind. 
 
 As through the shadow-haunted night 
 We climb the rugged mountain height, 
 Stupendous failures often rise 
 And bear us on them to the skies. 
 
 66 
 
The Strength of Love* 
 
 Is love but a spider's thread, 
 That one rude blast may sever? 
 
 Nay, 'tis a cable, iron-strong, 
 God-wrought, to last forever. 
 
 67 
 
The Mint, 
 
 The sun and the rain and the dew are coined 
 
 In the mint of the summer days 
 Into gold of the gathered hoards of grain, 
 
 And the gleaming ears of the maize. 
 
 68 
 
The Meadow Lafk< 
 
 As flashing light across the midnight sky, 
 So rings above the silent, level plain 
 
 The lark's full-throated cry; 
 
 A thrillant song, that pierces like a pain, 
 
 Then softens to a sigh. 
 
 It falls with sudden sweetness on the ear 
 From out the^ gloom, this tender, tuneful song 
 
 In cadence full and clear; 
 
 Each note athrill with heart-break fond and long. 
 
 Now far away, now near. 
 
 And through the air all laden with the scent 
 Of bursting buds and fragrant, waving grass. 
 
 With glinting dews besprent. 
 The joyful birds in splendid chorus pass 
 
 Their songs in concert blent. 
 
 G9 
 
'Tis thus the sun arises o'er the plain, 
 A thousand throats of gold to give him hail 
 
 In juhilant refrain; 
 And as he westward burns his glowing trail, 
 
 Triumphant grows the strain. 
 
 There is no song that thrills the pulsing air 
 With half the brilliance of this happy bird, 
 
 Untouched by grief and care; 
 
 A song that fills the spirit when 'tis heard 
 
 With peace that follows prayer. 
 
 70 
 
Goldenfod* 
 
 Some angels must have been at play 
 Upon the earth one summer day, 
 And e'er they took their homeward flight 
 To realms on realms of whirling light, 
 Let fall upon the emerald sod 
 These yellow sprays of goldenrod; 
 Or else, perhaps, their garments wrought 
 With fine celestial gold had caught 
 Upon the tall, thick stems of grass 
 As they essayed the fields to pass, 
 And lo! the weeds of earth became 
 With bright, resplendent gold aflame; 
 Or else, while trooping through the gate, 
 One playful spirit, being late, 
 Threw down upon the smiling land 
 A handful of the heavenly sand. 
 
 71 
 
Pfaifie Pictures* 
 
 DAWN, 
 'Tis dawn — a tender sky 
 
 Of pearly gray and rose, 
 The birds fly, dewy-winged, 
 
 A new wind faintly blows. 
 
 A floor of flooded gold, 
 
 Unmarred by shade or gloom, 
 Besplashed with colors bold 
 
 Of the fireweed's gaudy bloom. 
 
 A gray lark on a weed, 
 A passionate little trill, 
 
 A winged, sudden speed, 
 Then all is hushed and still. 
 
 The sun above the grass, 
 The sky a boundless blue, 
 
 The plain a jeweled mass, 
 All diamonds of dew. 
 
NOON. 
 
 'Tis noon — a sky of brass, 
 With flaming winds that run, 
 
 A reach of shrivelled grass 
 Beneath a burning sun. 
 
 A whitened heap of bones, 
 A skull with caverned eyes 
 
 That holds a torpid snake, 
 As ghastly Avhite it lies. 
 
 A bird's nest on the ground, 
 Two eggs, the sky as blue, 
 
 A stillness vast, profound, 
 Where sleep on silence grew. 
 
 73 
 
NIGHT. 
 
 'Tis sundown— shadows creep 
 On gloomy prairies gray, 
 
 The night winds lisp and sweep. 
 And swallows dart away. 
 
 A sod-house, grassy, old 
 
 And doorless, dark, forlorn, 
 
 With glassless windows bold, 
 Like sockets, eyeless torn. 
 
 A lonely cross of wood 
 Fast crumbling to decay, 
 
 A mute reminder, shows 
 
 That man has passed this way. 
 
 All shadows, doom and blight, 
 A blackness, deep despair, 
 
 A flowerless, starless night, 
 A boundless, birdless air. 
 
 74 
 
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. 
 
 75 
 
The Land of Corn* 
 
 Far inland from the raging sea, 
 With 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 that 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. 
 
 76 
 
A man may wander far away 
 From his 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 blessings on the heads 
 
 Of the men who live and toil 
 
 In Nebraska, the land of corn. 
 
 11 
 
Lillian^ 
 
 An aureole of gold above a brow 
 
 As smooth and fair as the lily's liniug; 
 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 finger; 
 Her lips are like twin rosebuds dipped in dew, 
 
 Where smiles and laughter love to linger. 
 
The Prairies* 
 
 I love the wide, wide prairies, 
 Where the western breezes blow. 
 
 And amidst the tremulous grasses 
 The fragile wild flowers grow. 
 
 Where the gopher whistles shrilly 
 Beside his new-made mound, 
 
 And over the level distance 
 The cry of the cranes resound. 
 
 Where the curlew and the plover 
 Build nests on the tufted sod, 
 
 And the meadow lark upsoaring 
 Sings joyful hymns to God. 
 
 Where, with a joy transcendent. 
 The melodious bobolink. 
 
 With a chain of jeweled music, 
 Seems heaven and earth to link. 
 
 79 
 
1 love the level prairies, 
 Where no shadow ever shrouds 
 
 The candid, smiling landscape, 
 
 Save the hiirrjing shade of clouds. 
 
 Where the dew, and rain, and sunlight. 
 And the birds, and the very air 
 
 Seem one great poem, proclaiming 
 That God is everywhere. 
 
 80 
 
Come, C Soothing Sleep* 
 
 Come, soothing sleep, soft sandaled through 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. 
 
 8i 
 
The Wcslcyan Otiartci 
 
 Yer blood jest gits ter runnin' like a freshet in th' 
 spring, 
 
 When they sing; 
 Yew catch a little hint of how th' bells in heaven ring, 
 
 When they sing; 
 An' yer mem'ry takes yew back ercross th' half for- 
 gotten years, 
 An' yer lips will be a smilin' while yer eyes are filled 
 with tears, 
 
 When they sing. 
 
 They sorter make a hammick of ther music fur yer 
 soul, 
 
 When they sing; 
 An' they set th' thing tew swingin' with a captivatin' 
 roll, 
 
 When they sing; 
 An' yew jes set thar an' hug yerself a gazin' inter 
 
 space, 
 While th' tenors pipe ther treble with th' rumble of 
 th' bass, 
 
 When they sing. 
 
 82 
 
Yew settle back an' cross yer legs an' heave a little 
 sigh, 
 
 When they sing; 
 An' yer soul goes chasin' rainbows in th' land of By 
 an' By, 
 
 When they sing; 
 An' yer heart jest sorter shivers and yer eyes cloud up 
 
 fer rain, 
 An' yew wonder if its pleasure an' yew wonder if its 
 pain, 
 
 When they sing. 
 
 Yew feel th' joy of livin' an' yew feel th' woe of death, 
 
 When they sing; 
 An' it sorter hurts yew roun' th' heart whene'er yew 
 take a breath, 
 
 When they sing; 
 An' yer happy, an' yer sorry, but yew like ter hear 
 
 'em sing. 
 Fer it makes it all th' better 'cause th' sweet is mixed 
 with sting, 
 
 When they sing. 
 
 83 
 
Aspiration, 
 
 Upon the breast of some vile scum-clothed pool, 
 Pure lilies lift their cups of lustrous white; 
 
 They struggle through the death-engendering slime 
 To bathe their stainless petals in the light. 
 
 84 
 
The Pessimist. 
 
 He 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 shriveled, 
 
 cankered heart 
 To him are echoes of the heart of God. 
 
 85 
 
The Fain on My Face. 
 
 O the rain on my face in the night, 
 And the wind's strong arms about me, 
 
 A tempest of rage and grief within, 
 The tempest and storm without me. 
 
 the rain on my face in the night, 
 And the stars all blotted and hidden, 
 
 The great black, scowling sky o'erhead. 
 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. 
 
 86 
 
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 plunging 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. 
 
 87 
 
Huskin' Corn, 
 
 'J'h' apples in th' orchard hang like globes of red an' 
 gold, 
 The cider-press is runnin' every day, 
 Th' purple grapes er clingin' to th' well nigh leafless 
 vine, 
 An' th' peaches an' th' pears hev all been put away ; 
 While th' men er in th' fields a huskin' corn. 
 
 Th' farm house is all busy with th' work of cannin' 
 fruit, 
 An' sweet pickles stand in jars about th' floor, 
 Th' smell of mince an' punkin greets th' hungry men 
 at noon, 
 An' th' apples dry in strings beside th' door; 
 
 While th' men er in th' fields a huskin' corn. 
 
 Th' frost has kissed th* flowers till they sleep th' sleep 
 of death. 
 An' th' goldenrod has turned to ashen gray, 
 Th' tumbleweed is trundled by th' wayward autumn 
 breeze. 
 An' th' aster's purple bloom has passed away; 
 
 Whije th' men er in th' fields a huskin' corn. 
 
Th' small grain is gathered an' th' threshin's bein' 
 done, 
 Th' pimkins shine like copper in th' sun, 
 Th' stubblefields er tinted with th' green of after- 
 math. 
 An' th' milkweed pods er bustin' one by one; 
 
 While th' men er in th' fields a hiiskin' corn. 
 
 Th' days er growin' shorter an' th' sun is movin' 
 south, 
 Th' nights er growin' cool, an' long, an' still, 
 Th' woods er bright with yellow an' th' fields er 
 dashed with gold, 
 An' th' shumack skirts with scarlet yender hill; 
 
 While th' men er in th' fields a huskin' corn. 
 
 89 
 
In Late October* 
 
 The corn leaves clash amidst the dried-out fields 
 Like paper swords that children use in play, 
 
 The wild geese call across the dappled sky, 
 As arrow-like they wing their southward way. 
 In late October. 
 
 The stubblefields are squares of rusty bronze, 
 And strawstacks dot them with their heaps of gold, 
 
 While through the uplands prairie chickens cry 
 In trumpet tones, foretelling snow and cold, 
 In late October. 
 
 Across the prairies like a thing of life 
 
 The tumbleweed rolls lazily and slow, 
 And in the shivering breeze the goldenrod 
 
 In tottering age turns white as winter snow. 
 In late October. 
 
 The skies are overcast with low-hung clouds. 
 The days are full of haunting, old regrets, 
 
 The wind swirls upward like a dancer's skirts, 
 The dead leaves sound like castanets. 
 In late October. 
 
 9Q 
 
Thou. 
 
 If I were deaf to all the sounds of earth — 
 Denied this boon the world holds dear, 
 
 -I'm sure that I should never know my loss 
 If thou wouldst whisper in mine ear. 
 
 If I were blind and all my days were dark, 
 And thou shouldst meet me in my night, 
 
 I feel that I would know thee, even then, 
 And all my gloom be changed to light. 
 
 If I were dead, and on the grassy sod 
 Thy feet should lightly press, I know 
 
 That I would struggle in the arms of death, 
 Compelling him to let me go. 
 
 91 
 
Unsatisfied. 
 
 One day I wandered tlirough 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 or 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 ga 
 
And thus along life's way bright pleasures blooni, 
 
 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. 
 
 93 
 
Return of the Magdalene* 
 
 Ave Maria! spotless one, 
 
 Hear my prayer; 
 I have no hope save thou alone 
 
 In my despair. 
 
 Ave Maria! see my shame, 
 
 My agony, 
 I who am lost, undone; 
 
 Ah, pity me! 
 
 Ave Maria! my bleeding heart 
 
 I bring to thee, 
 Cleanse thou its lust away, 
 
 Oh, pardon me! 
 
 94 
 
Ave Maria! the flames of hell 
 Are in my heart, 
 
 The fire consumes my helpless soul- 
 Bid it depart. 
 
 Ave Maria! spotless one, 
 
 Hear my prayer; 
 I have no hope save thou alone 
 
 In my despair. 
 
 95 
 
Via Doiorosai 
 
 There is no music sounding through the day 
 To cheer the marching toilers of the world, 
 
 But grimly rings the harsh command of fate, 
 And headlong on its way the herd is hurled. 
 
 Necessity with cruel scourge "Thou must!" 
 Spurs on the burdened millions of the earth; 
 
 She grants them rest nor respite from their toil, 
 And gives but grudgingly a dole of mirth. 
 
 P'rom early youth to halting age he delves, 
 The poor man, scarcely better than a slave, 
 
 And earns at last in mockery a plot 
 
 Of ground, the title to a pauper's grave. 
 
 The curse is on the poor man in his chains. 
 And in the shambles he is bought and sold. 
 
 And it would seem, to reach the ear of God, 
 A man must cringe and bring a bribe of gold. 
 
 96 
 
Night, 
 
 From my couch at dead of night I rise, and wide 
 I throw my window. The shimmering, silvery tide 
 Of moonshine floods the room with lustrous light, 
 A glorious gift to me from the hand of night. 
 
 The shadows of the trees in tremulous outlines fall 
 In phantom pictures on my moonlit chamber wall; 
 The myriad shadow-leaves with noiseless movements, 
 
 slow 
 In a phantom, breathless breeze, blow to and fro. 
 
 Below me lies the city wrapped in soothing sleep ; 
 
 No sound intrudes to mar the silence, calm and deep; 
 
 The streets resound no more with hurrying feet; 
 
 No passers-by 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. 
 
 97 
 
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 by-gone paths she strays, 
 And lo! the night seems peopled with the loved ones 
 
 gone, 
 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. 
 
Noci, 
 
 On Bethlehem's walls a glory falls 
 
 From out the spangled sky. 
 In squalid cave with straw-strewn pave 
 
 The mother and baby lie; 
 The dimpled king whose praises ring 
 
 From angel choirs on high, 
 "To God be glory, peace to men," 
 
 And from the cave a loud "Amen!" 
 The kneeling shepherds cry. 
 
 The shadows lift, a starry rift 
 
 Shines through the murky night, 
 Across the world the light is hurled 
 
 That makes all places bright; 
 The Christ is born, behold the morn, 
 
 No more let death affright; 
 "To God be glory, peace to men," 
 
 And from the skies a loud "Amen!" 
 Exulting angels cry. 
 
 LcfC, 
 
 99 
 
On myriad walls a glory falls, 
 
 This gladsome Christmas tide, 
 Shines from above from God's great love 
 
 Upon the whole world wide; 
 All hearts are gay, grief's passed away, 
 
 God's mercies still abide; 
 "To God be glory, peace to men," 
 
 And from the earth a loud "Amen!" 
 The kneeling people cry. 
 
November. 
 
 The year grows careworn and the wrinkled hills 
 
 Are gray with approaching age; 
 The trees are bald; they writhe their naked arms 
 
 In slow and tortuous rage; 
 The day begins in frowns and ends in frowns; 
 
 A brief, bright smile appears 
 At noon — then fades, a wan and sickly light, 
 
 And ends in sighs and tears. 
 
Rest. 
 
 My 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; 
 'J'he grasses kiss and cool my fevered cheeks. 
 And in my 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. 
 
 I02 
 
Lococo* 
 
 Lococo lives on Lightsome street, 
 Hard by the fount of laughter; 
 
 His house is built of blocks of fun, 
 Prom 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, 
 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. 
 
 103 
 
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 made of blocks of fun. 
 From floor to topmost rafter, 
 
 And by the door a gurgling brook 
 The sunshine chases after. 
 
 104 
 
Mother's Rag Carpet. 
 
 Yew may talk of your carpets so fine, 
 Made of velvets an' brussels an' sich, 
 
 With ther fine, fancy shadin's an' hues, 
 An' ther patterns so pretty an' rich, 
 
 That jest shows ther fine, costly weavin' 
 Through every richly wove stitch. 
 
 But fer me, I'd fur ruther hev 
 
 That strip of old carpet es laid 
 On th' old kitchen floor long ago, 
 
 Th' carpet that mother hed made 
 Frum th' rags she sewed in th' evenin's. 
 
 While us children run round her an' played. 
 
 Fur I know every stripe es is in it; 
 
 I could tell yew a story that run 
 Jest like a thread clear through it 
 
 Frum beginnin' till all of it's done — 
 A story of smiles an' sum sorrers. 
 
 Of shadders, an' spots of bright sun. 
 
 ^05 
 
There 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 that'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 brave army blue, 
 
 An' here an' thar — yes, I'm sure — 
 
 Are spots of red blood shinin' through; 
 
 An' away down thar in th' corner 
 Is a piece of th' red, white an' blue. 
 
 That 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 ruther hev it here on th' floor 
 
 Than all of th* brussels an' velvets 
 You could bring through that big, open door! 
 
 J 06 
 
Good Night, My Love. 
 
 CTOod night, my love! I would that I might 
 
 Forever stay and say good night to you ; 
 
 The taste of your warm kisses on my lips 
 
 Were worth the ransom of my soul. 
 
 Beneath the marble of your brows two stars 
 
 Flash all my gloom with light. 
 
 Good night? Ah! no; I cannot say good night — 
 
 Your arms about my neck I can no more resist 
 
 Than does the tide the drawing of the moon ; 
 
 Your sighs would cause my soul to hesitate 
 
 To enter heaven, if I were at the dazzling port. 
 
 But hark! The lark has wakened from his sleep, 
 
 And pipes the prelude to his matin song — 
 
 It sounds upon my ear a solemn knell — 
 
 I must away — good night — a thousand kisses. 
 
 Ye stars that gleam the darkened arch o'erhead, 
 
 I envy you your faithfulness; through countless years 
 
 Together twined you keep the constant tenor of your 
 
 way — 
 Good night, and yet again good night, till night is 
 
 gone, 
 And opalescent dawn unfolds her portals, and 'tis day. 
 
 107 
 
The Old Unrest. 
 
 Oh, the old unrest comes back tonight, 
 A vague, sweet, half-forgotten pain, 
 
 With these dead violets in my hand, 
 
 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. 
 
 1 08 
 
The Place of Peace. 
 
 A traveler searched through many 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. 
 
 09 
 
No Matter, 
 
 No matter how black the sky o'erhead, 
 
 Nor how swift may fall the rain; 
 No matter how steep the upward path, 
 
 Nor how charged with grief and pain; 
 No matter how weary may grow your feet, 
 
 Nor how sick may grow your soul; 
 No matter how sorely your heart may ache, 
 
 Nor how sadly the dirges toll, 
 Just live, and laugh. 
 
 No matter if loved ones fade away, 
 
 And leave you to walk alone; 
 No matter if friends prove fickle and false, 
 
 And your idols but senseless stone; 
 No matter what ills the gods provide, 
 
 Nor what good they deign to send, 
 Tread bravely the thorn-strewn path of life, 
 
 With hope to the very end, 
 
 And live, and laugh. 
 
Resuffection* 
 
 Out 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. 
 
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, 
 Or soothes the dying day; for every flower 
 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. 
 Whose roseate skies, effulgent with the light 
 Of one great, trembling star of hope, we see 
 But dimly in our dreams. 
 
 113 
 
We'll Meet Again. 
 
 We'll 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 vov*'s less sweet; 
 As sure as skies bend o'er us, love, 
 
 Somewhere, sometime, we'll meet. 
 
 114 
 
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. 
 
I Don't Much Care, 
 
 I don't much care if my pockets bag, 
 
 With nothin' in 'em but air, 
 Fer coins can't lighten a heavy heart, 
 
 Ner drive away grief an' care; 
 An' a vagabond's happier oftentimes, 
 
 A sleepin' on sum back stair, 
 Tlian th' man lyin' sleepless on his bed, 
 
 Because he's a millionaire. 
 
 I don't much care if I live in a hut, 
 
 If love with me abides, 
 Fer a palace may hide a broken heart. 
 An' hatred an' strife besides; 
 But the sweetest place outside the gates 
 
 Of th' city beyond th' grave, 
 Is a home whar love is the only lord. 
 
 An' I am his willin' slave. 
 
 I don't much care fer name an' fame; 
 
 A few good friends er enuff, 
 If they stand close by tew brace me up, 
 
 Though th' way be, smooth er ruff; 
 
 ii6 
 
An' wlien I come down at last tew tli' grave, 
 
 An' sleep in my lonely bed, 
 ril be satisfied with a ruff pine box, 
 
 With flowers, at my feet an' head. 
 
 1 don't much care if it rains er shines, 
 
 If th' skies be blue er black, 
 If I hev a little tew eat an' drink, 
 
 An' a few old clothes fer my back; 
 Fer life ain't made up of sun an' rain, 
 
 Ner of what we eat an' drink — 
 It's made up mostly of what we hope, 
 
 An' of what we feel an' think. 
 
 117 
 
The South Wind. 
 
 South wind, drouth 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, drouth wind, cease your blowing, 
 Let your hell-blasts cease their glowing; 
 
 Shut your torrid furnace doors! 
 
 iiS 
 
Conventionality, 
 
 'J'he giant stoops and walks with mincing steps 
 
 To suit tlie pattern custom has decreed, 
 AVhile pigmies strive with dwarfish strides 
 
 To ape the fashion of a larger breed ; 
 B or 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 narrow creed. 
 
 iig 
 
Nelia, 
 
 Cameo-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 a starless night. 
 With lips like rosebuds, pouting red, 
 
 Parted with dazzling white. 
 
Violets. 
 
 Violets, violets everywhere; 
 Violets in her braided hair, 
 At her throat, and 0! surprise, 
 Violets in her velvet eyes. 
 
Pansies. 
 
 Purple for shadows, gold for sunshine. 
 
 White for the clouds on high, 
 Brown for the earth that gave them birth, 
 
 And blue for the azure sky. 
 
Pessimism. 
 
 We are brave to sing, we children of the night, 
 With but our vain imaginings for light 
 To guide us in our endless flight. 
 
 We are brave to laugh, we starvelings of the dust, 
 
 Forever driven by a grim "Thou must!" 
 
 From darkness gotten — back to darkness thrust. 
 
 123 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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