forward still!
Press along the trail!”
Breast, breast, breast the slope
See, the path is growing steep.
Hark! a little song of hope
Where the stream begins to leap.
Though the forest, far and wide,
Still shuts out the bending blue,
We shall finally win through,
Cross the long divide.
On, on, on we tramp!
Will the journey never end?
Over yonder lies the camp;
Welcome waits us there, my friend.
Can we reach it ere the night?
Upward, upward, never fear!
Look, the summit must be near;
See the line of light!
Red, red, red the shine
Of the splendour in the west,
Glowing through the ranks of pine,
Clear along the mountain-crest!
Long, long, long the trail
Out of sorrow’s lonely vale;
But at last the traveller sees
Light between the trees!
Reliance
Not to the swift, the race:
Not to the strong, the fight:
Not to the righteous, perfect grace
Not to the wise, the light.
But often faltering feet
Come surest to the goal;
And they who walk in darkness meet
The sunrise of the soul.
A thousand times by night
The Syrian hosts have died;
A thousand times the vanquished right
Hath risen, glorified.
The truth the wise men sought
Was spoken by a child;
The alabaster box was brought
In trembling hands defiled.
Not from my torch, the gleam,
But from the stars above:
Not from my heart, life’s crystal stream,
But from the depths of Love.
For Katrina’s Sun-Dial
In Her Garden of Yaddo
Hours fly,
Flowers die
New days,
New ways,
Pass by.
Love stays.
Time is
Too Slow for those who Wait,
Too Swift for those who Fear,
Too Long for those who Grieve,
Too Short for those who Rejoice;
But for those who Love,
Time is not.
To James Whitcomb Riley
On His “Book of Joyous Children”
Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers;
Joyous children delight to play there;
Weary men find rest in its bowers,
Watching the lingering light of day there.
Old-time tunes and young love-laughter
Ripple and run among the roses;
Memory’s echoes, murmuring after,
Fill the dusk when the long day closes.
Simple songs with a cadence olden—
These you learned in the Forest of Arden:
Friendly flowers with hearts all golden—
These you borrowed from Eden’s garden.
This is the reason why all men love you;
Truth to life is the finest art:
Other poets may soar above you—
You keep close to the human heart.
To Mark Twain
With memories old and wishes new
We crown our cups again,
And here’s to you, and here’s to you
With love that ne’er shall wane!
And may you keep, at sixty-seven,
The joy of earth, the hope of heaven,
And fame well-earned, and friendship true,
And peace that comforts every pain,
And faith that fights the battle through,
And all your heart’s unbounded wealth,
And all your wit, and all your health—
Yes, here’s a hearty health to you,
And here’s to you, and here’s to you,
Long life to you, Mark Twain.
II
At the Memorial Meeting
We knew you well, dear Yorick of the West,
The very soul of large and friendly jest!
You loved and mocked the broad grotesque of things
In this new world where all the folk are kings.
Your breezy humour cleared the air, with sport
Of shams that haunt the democratic court;
For even where the sovereign people rule,
A human monarch needs a royal fool.
Your native drawl lent flavour to your wit;
Your arrows lingered but they always hit;
Homeric mirth around the circle ran,
But left no wound upon the heart of man.
We knew you kind in trouble, brave in pain;
We saw your honour kept without a stain;
We read this lesson of our Yorick’s years—
True wisdom comes with laughter and with tears.
A Rondeau of College Rhymes
Our college rhymes—how light they seem,
Like little ghosts of love’s young dream
That led our boyish hearts away
From lectures and from books, to stray
By flowery mead and flowing stream!
There’s nothing here, in form or theme,
Of thought sublime or art supreme:
We would not have the critic weigh
Our college rhymes.
Yet if, perchance, a slender beam
Of feeling’s glow or fancy’s gleam
Still lingers in the lines we lay
At Alma Mater’s feet to-day,
The touch of Nature may redeem
Our college rhymes.
The Mocking-Bird
In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
Catching the lilt of every easy tune;
But when the day departs he sings of love—
His own wild song beneath the listening moon.
The Empty Quatrain
A flawless cup: how delicate and fine
The flowing curve of every jewelled line!
Look, turn it up or down, ’tis perfect still—
But holds no drop of life’s heart-warming wine.
For the Friends at Hurstmont
The cornerstone in Truth is laid,
The guardian walls of Honour made,
The roof of Faith is built above,
The fire upon the hearth is Love:
Though rains descend and loud winds call,
This happy house shall never fall.
When the logs are burning free,
Then the fire is full of glee:
When each heart gives out its best,
Then the talk is full of zest:
Light your fire and never fear,
Life was made for love and cheer.
The lintel low enough to keep out pomp and pride:
The threshold high enough to turn deceit aside:
The fastening strong enough from robbers to defend:
This door will open at a touch to welcome every friend.
Time can never take
What Time did not give;
When my shadows have all passed,
You shall live.
The Statue of Sherman by St. Gaudens
This is the soldier brave enough to tell
The glory-dazzled world that “war is hell”:
Lover of peace, he looks beyond the strife,
And rides through hell to save his country’s life.
The Sun-Dial at Wells College
For the Class of 1904
The shadow by my finger cast
Divides the future from the past:
Before it, sleeps the unborn hour,
In darkness, and beyond thy power:
Behind its unreturning line,
The vanished hour, no longer thine:
One hour alone is in thy hands—
The now on
