All That Love Asks
All that I ask, ‘says Love, ‘is just to stand And gaze, unchided, deep in thy dear eyes; For in their depths lies largest Paradise. Yet, if perchance one pressure of thy hand Be
Penalty
Because of the fullness of what I had, All that I have seems poor and vain. If I had not been happy, I were not sad Tho’ my salt is savorless, why complain? From
Life Is A Privilege
Life is a privilege. Its youthful days Shine with the radiance of continuous Mays. To live, to breathe, to wonder and desire, To feed with dreams the heart’s perpetual fire, To thrill with virtuous
Idler's Song
I sit in the twilight dim At the close of an idle day, And I list to the soft sweet hymn, That rises far away, And dies on the evening air. Oh, all day
If
Dear love, if you and I could sail away, With snowy pennons to the wind unfurled, Across the waters of some unknown bay, And find some island far from all the world; If we
Leudeman's-on-the-River
Toward even when the day leans down, To kiss the upturned face of night, Out just beyond the loud-voiced town I know a spot of calm delight. Like crimson arrows from a quiver The
Love is Enough
Love is enough. Let us not ask for gold. Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness; In those serene, Arcadian days of old Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress. The
"It Might Have Been"
We will be what we could be. Do not say, “It might have been, had not this, or that, or this.” No fate can keep us from the chosen way; He only might who
Listen!
Whoever you are as you read this, Whatever your trouble or grief, I want you to know and to heed this: The day draweth near with relief. No sorrow, no woe is unending, Though
Go Plant a Tree
God, what a joy it is to plant a tree, And from the sallow earth to watch it rise, Lifting its emerald branches to the skies In silent adoration; and to see Its strength
Daft
In the warm yellow smile of the morning, She stands at the lattice pane, And watches the strong young binders Stride down to the fields of grain. And she counts them over and over
An Empty Crib
Beside a crib that holds a baby’s stocking, A tattered picture book, a broken toy, A sleeping mother dreams that she is rocking Her fair-haired cherub boy. Upon the cradle’s side her light touch