A Marine Etching
A yacht from its harbour ropes pulled free, And leaped like a steed o’er the race track blue, Then up behind her, the dust of the sea, A gray fog, drifted, and hid her
Joy
My heart is like a little bird That sits and sings for very gladness. Sorrow is some forgotten word, And so, except in rhyme, is sadness. The world is very fair to me –
Ad Finum
On the white throat of useless passion That scorched my soul with its burning breath I clutched my fingers in murderous fashion And gathered them close in a grip of death; For why should
Be Not Weary
Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary, And tired out with working long and well, And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary, And heart and soul are all too sick to tell,
Fleeing Away
My thoughts soar not as they ought to soar, Higher and higher on soul-lent wings; But ever and often and more and more They are dragged down earthward by little things, By little troubles
Moon And Sea
You are the moon, dear love, and I the sea: The tide of hope swells high within my breast, And hides the rough dark rocks of life’s unrest When your fond eyes smile near
Presumption
Whenever I am prone to doubt or wonder – I check myself, and say, ‘That mighty One Who made the solar system cannot blunder – And for the best all things are being done.’
My Ships
If all the ships I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, From sunny lands, and lands of cold, Ah well! the harbor could not hold So many sails as there would
Love Thyself Last
Love thyself last. Look near, behold thy duty To those who walk beside thee down life’s road; Make glad their days by little acts of beauty, And help them bear the burden of earth’s
Lines from
I’d rather have my verses win A place in common people’s hearts, Who, toiling through the strife and din Of life’s great thoroughfares, and marts, May read some line my hand has penned; Some
Searching
These quiet Autumn days, My soul, like Noah’s dove, on airy wings Goes out and searches for the hidden things Beyond the hills of haze. With mournful, pleading cries, Above the waters of the
Advice
I must do as you do? Your way I own Is a very good way, and still, There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, One over, one under the hill. You are
Old And New
Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays, Old times, old loves, old friendships, and old wine Why should the old monopolise all praise? Then let the new claim mine. Give me strong new
Contrasts
I see the tall church steeples, They reach so far, so far, But the eyes of my heart see the world’s great mart, Where the starving people are. I hear the church bells ringing
All Roads That Lead To God Are Good
All roads that lead to God are good. What matters it, your faith, or mine? Both centre at the goal divine Of love’s eternal Brotherhood. The kindly life in house or street – The