Poems

Man is dear to man. The poorest poor Long for some moments in a weary life When they can know and feel that they have been Themselves the fathers and the dealers out Of some small blessings, have been kind to such As needed kindness, for the single cause That we have all of us one human heart.

How are songs begot and bred? How do golden measures flow? From the heart, or from the head? Happy Poet, let me know. Tell me first how folded flowers Bud and bloom in vernal bowers; How the south wind shapes its tune,— The harper, he, of June.

We say we cannot. Lord and Master dear Is thy command so very hard to keep? Must imperfection always claim us here? And yet Thou callest us Thine own, Thy sheep.

A gleam of light! and lo! In gold and white the Easter lilies glow, And give their fragrance to the gracious hour Of Easter dawn, Of resurrection power; And radiant, o'er the troubled mortal dream, Shines in the wondrous glory Of our God, Supreme! O mother-love! so true! So dear. His witness thou to life anew, And to the human need in every land, A better hope.

Bound hands and fettered feet, midnight and loneliness; Within the inner prison held, in vile duress, Companioned by the bound; Confined to dreary round Of gloomy nights, and still more gloomy days,— For this, how can we praise? Midnight, and still fast bound, with feet in shackling stocks; Within the silent gloom, which never voice unlocks, We lift our hearts to Thee, Where darkness cannot be, And from our helplessness and utter need In praiseful prayer we plead. And lo! the earthquake, the quivering walls are rent, Down thrown by prayer of faith, with trustful praises blent; 'Tis midnight still, around, But loosened and unbound Alone no longer do we praise Thy word, With us, praise all that heard! Sing praise at midnight! Yea, though left without a friend, Uplift thy voice in praise, and God will answer send, His love will succor thee, And, fetterless and free, Thou and those loosed with thee shalt henceforth sing Hosannas to our King!

When starlight melts to morning hue, I miss thee as the flower the dew, When noonday's length'ning shadows flee, I think of thee, I think of thee. Thus evening memories reappear, I watch thy chair and wish thee here, Till sleep my failing fancies free To dream of thee, to dream of thee.

Out from the shadows of seeming. Out from the darkness of dreaming, Out from a warring that's all in the wrong, Into the brightness of being, Into the sunlight of seeing; Out from the sadness and into a song.

Yellow fields, and the blue beyond, The blue of a summer sky. The golden fields are the ripened grain, And the harvest time is nigh.

No man is born too late To turn his back to hate; We may not all be great Or rich or wise. The chances may be few For winning fame, but who Succeeds by gazing through Ungrateful eyes? Mankind has never had Less cause for being sad Nor more for being glad Than we possess; Ne'er has the world before Encouraged kindness more Or had such gifts in store For cheerfulness.

Love's image thou art, on earth enshrined, Thy nature, endued with meekness and grace; Purity, pure as the gold refined, Shines like a halo around thy face. Unselfish art thou, in thy lowly love, Giving its all for another's good, Feeding with manna from heights above, A starving sinner with heavenly food.