Poems

Down in my garden are blossoms fair, Lifting their heads to the sun's bright rays; Scattering perfume upon the air, As incense sweet to the summer days. When the earth with opening blade was green, I watched each leaf as it came in sight; Carefully plucking the weeds between My flowers, seeking the warmth and light.

O! Father of the endless days, Thou Light that lighteth all, Our hearts exhale perfume of praise, And open at Thy call. And Thou art here, oh Lord! Within, without, around; And near and far I hear the chord Of harmony resound.

The following grew out of a suggestion that Science should by this time bring forth words for its own Hymnal. It is offered without any attempt at self-justification, or maternal pride.

I say to thee, do thou repeat, To the first man thou mayest meet In lane, highway, or open street; That he and we, and all men move Under a canopy of love, As broad as the blue sky above; That doubt and trouble, fear and pain And anguish, all are shadows vain; That death itself shall not remain; That weary deserts we may tread, A dreary labyrinth may thread, Through dark ways underground be led; Yet, if we will our Guide obey, The dreariest path, the darkest way, Shall issue out in heavenly day. And one thing further make him know— That, to believe these things are so, This firm faith never to forego, Despite of all which seems at strife With blessing, all with curses rife— That this is blessing, this is life.

Beside the dead I knelt for prayer, And felt a presence as I prayed. Lo! it was Jesus standing there.

The day is long, and the day is hard; We are tired of the march and of keeping guard, Tired of the sense of a fight to be won, Of days to live through and of work to be done, Tired of ourselves and of being alone. And all the while, did we only see, We walk in the Lord's own company; We fight, but 'tis He who strengthens our arm, He turns the arrows which else might harm, And out of the storm He brings a calm.

Be true and list the voice within, Be true unto thy high ideal, Thy perfect self, that knows no sin— That self that is the only real. God is the only perfect one: My perfect self, one must it be With God, then,—and that thought begun, It solveth all the mystery.

The sun shone in glory o'er valley and hill, When up through the meadow and over the sill There dances a bright little sunbeam astray, Till it reaches a fair, blue-eyed baby at play. " How pretty," says baby, and, laughing with joy, She casts from her hand her most cherished toy; And over the carpet she creeps with delight To grasp this new toy that now dazzles her sight.

Rom. viii.

"What are you good for my little man? Now answer that question for me if you can,— You, with your fingers as white as a nun,— You, with your ringlets as bright as the sun, See if your wise little noddle can tell What you are good for? Now ponder it well. " Over the carpet the dear little feet Came with a patter to climb on my seat; Two merry eyes full of frolic and glee Under their lashes looked up unto me; Two little hands pressing soft on my face, Drew me down close in a loving embrace; Two rosy lips gave the answer so true, "Good to love you, mamma,—good to love you.