Poems

Cometh my wee one wearily When the evening shadows fall; When the moon climbs high in the silver sky, And peeps through the poplars tall. Cometh my wee one eagerly, Yet with many a smile and sigh, And offers a prayer with reverent care To God, the ever-nigh.

Who loves the most 'tis he possesses most; Who loves the least 'tis he possesses least. Indifference is ignorance, and hate Informs with falsehoods.

Oh Life Divine! That at each morning's waking hour. Fills me with longing high to do and dare; Strong to stand firm upon the promises.

Creeds change, All outward forms Recast themselves. Sacred groves, temples, and churches Rise and rot and fall.

"Stand porter at the door of thought. "— Science and Health, p.

O physician, canst thou minister To a mind diseased with sinister Doubts and fears? Will potions, pills, Heal this grief of mine that kills All the joy that I should own? Hast thou balm to soothe the moan Of the weary heart that gropes Blindly in the dark, and hopes Heaven to find and peace mind? Thoughts of hatred change to kind; Envy's tongue, with poison pointed, Still and heal with love anointed; Bitter strife with peace soon quell, Lying hearts with truth make well; Sin-seared lives of men reclaim For righteousness and higher aim,— Canst thy medicine do this? Nay, it cannot? 'Tis amiss! Go, then, leave me here alone With my God, and at His throne Humbly will I kneel, and pray That He lead me in the way Of His truth and life and love; And as ages yore the dove Haven safe and peace did find, So shall I for body, mind! O Thou Great Physician wise, Lift the sackcloth from the eyes Of my faith! Help me to know That, as in Thy truth I grow And all Thy promises believe, Answer shall my prayers receive; And trusting still—though yet no sign— I'll wake to find the healing mine!

Mirrors of morn Whence the dewdrop is born, Soft tints of the rainbow and skies— Sisters of song, What a shadowy throng Around you in memory rise! Far do ye flee, From your green bowers free, Fair floral apostles of love, Sweetly to shed Fragrance fresh round the dead, And breath of the living above. Flowers for the brave— Monarch, or slave Whose heart wore its grief, and is still; Flowers for the kind, Aye the Christians who bind Wreaths for the triumphs o'er ill.

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.