of

BY

CHICAGO
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
427-429 Dearborn Street

Copyright 1905.
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY

Bohemia, beyond your uncharted borders
  How many come, with hesitant steps,
And vague worries about dangers and chaos,
  To discover pleasures, more pure and more enjoyable
Than anything ever known to the "elite."

Here, there's no room for pretense or appearances;
  No inflated pride survives in this space,
Which encourages a tendency to dream.
  The shores of the ideal world, from here,
  Sometimes seem within reach and close.

We don't need rigid fashion rules;
  No "Court Etiquette" to follow;
We understand it takes honesty and passion
  To fulfill God's plans or destiny;
  We don't try to appear lifeless.

We don’t consider any time wasted when we’re enjoying ourselves;
Life’s rushing river flows swiftly toward Death’s vast ocean;
We don’t throw out a pointless measuring line to gauge
  The imagined depths of that unknown future,
  But we embrace the present and fill it with joy.

All beliefs are welcome here, and we all come together
  To sincerely worship at the holy place of Art;
But anyone who has lived in your golden sunshine,
  Bohemia—sweet, beautiful land of mine—
  Can find no happiness outside your borders.

Because of everything I had
  All that I have feels empty and meaningless.
If I hadn’t been happy, I wouldn’t be sad;
  Even if my salt has lost its flavor, why should I complain?

From the ripe perfection of what I had,
  Everything I own feels worse than nothing;
Yet I know as I sit in the dark and yearn,
  No cup could be emptied that wasn't already full.

From the pulse and excitement of a day that was,
  The day that’s here now feels heavy with sadness;
Yet I endure its monotony and shadows because
  It’s just the aftermath of brightness and life.

From the royal feast that used to be served
  I’m starving on the meals I have now;
Yet I couldn’t turn away from water and bread,
  If I hadn’t already dined on fruit and wine.

An infant crying in unknown fear;
A shadow, maybe, in the silent room,
Or the buzz of an insect flying close.
Or the owl's scream, in the dark outside.

A little kid on the sunlit floor,
  A broken toy and a tear-streaked face,
A young life troubled, a young heart aching;
  And the big clock, time, keeps ticking away.

A girl crying in deep pain.
  Two pale hands pressed on a hurting forehead.
A destroyed faith and a cherished hope lost,
  A broken trust and a failed promise.

A woman holding a baby's shoe.
The warm tears collect and fall freely
On the twisted ribbon of white and blue,
For the foot that wore it is cold and still.

An old woman in her bed,
  Tired, exhausted, and feeling poor and frail,
Wanting to rest with the blissful dead.
  And that’s how the story of life unfolds.

Where is the time of carefree joy?
  Where is the moment that doesn’t hurt?
Life has its burdens from childhood
  All the way to the grave; and its hopes are useless.

I'd rather have my poems find
A spot in everyday people's hearts,
Who, working hard through the chaos and noise
Of life's busy streets and markets,

May read some lines my hand has written;
  Some simple verse, nothing fancy or grand,
But what their hearts can grasp
  And keep me as a friend from now on,--

I'd prefer to gain that subtle fame
  Than by some clever idea, all refined
  But those with educated minds would understand,
  Exactly what my song means,—
To have the critics pronounce my name
  With extravagant praises, loud and long.

I don't sing for the critic's approval,
But for the people. If they hear,
Despite the chaos, noise, and struggles
A single low note that brings joy to life,
I will be completely satisfied,
Even if critics mock me until the end.

I live in the western countryside,
  Far from the roaring sea,
But I feel like I can hear it crying
  And calling out to me,
And my heart longs for the ocean
  Like a child for its mother's embrace,
And I want to lie on its waters
  And be cradled in its arms to rest.

I can close my eyes and imagine
  That I hear its powerful roar,
And I see its blue waves crashing
  And plunging against the shore;
And the white foam tops the waves,
  And the seagulls circle and cry,
And the cool wild wind is blowing
  And the ships sail by.

Oh, amazing, powerful ocean!
  When will I ever stand,
Where my heart has already gone,
  There on your shining shore I

When will I ever stray
  From this inland west,
And stand beside you, dear ocean,
  And sway on your rising waves?

A young woman sat in the sunset glow
Of the beautiful, shadowy past,
That we view through a mist of tears.
She sat and dreamed, with her lips slightly parted,
With thoughtful eyes and a racing heart,
About the mysterious future years;
And far brighter than the sunset skies
Was the vision seen by the woman's eyes.

There were castles made of summer air,
And beautiful voices singing there,
In a soft and gentle tune.
There were blue skies and green fields,
With no clouds to get in the way,
And no thoughts of pain;
There was music, sweet like the silvery notes
That flow from a chorus of thrushes' throats.

There were hands to hold with love;
There were lips to kiss, and eyes that spoke
  More than words ever could.
And all the faces she cherished were there,
With their pure brows free from worry,
  And hair that was never gray.
And Love was the song each heart sang,
And the beautiful scene was perfectly complete.

But the castles made of summer breeze
I have searched for in vain. All I find
  Are shadows, dark and cold;--
For I was the girl who hoped to see
Into the years ahead,-Oh, how sad!
  And now I am gray and old.
My dream of life was as beautiful and bright
As my hope for heaven is tonight.

Dreams are just dreams at best,
And the friends I cared for have gone to rest
  With their faces hidden away.
They had wrinkled brows and white hair,
And they willingly set down their burdens where
  Mine will be placed someday.
A shadow fell over my view
As the clouds of sorrow came between us.

The hands I hoped to hold are crossed,
The lips and beautiful eyes are gone,
  And I search for them in vain.
The sweet, clear melodies, I can't hear,
And the drifting voices are silent,
  Leaving only a sob of pain;
And the beating hearts have stopped to rest,
Ah! dreams are just dreams, at best.

In the quiet midnight hours,
  When the world was covered in darkness,
And the heavy, frightening shadows
  Came unexpectedly into my room,
Amidst the serious, eerie stillness
  Of the night, a noise emerged
Like ten million crying voices,
  Shouting loudly from the earth.

From ten million graves, voices rose
  East and west, north and south.
Leagues apart, yet so united
  They spoke as if with one voice.
"Men and women, men and women,"
  These voices cried from the earth, And the very ground trembled
  With the strange and haunting sound.

"You who cry in self-pity,
  You who laugh for your own joy,
Hey! Take a moment to listen
  To the voices from the ground.
Wake up and hear, you who sleep.
  Stop and listen, you who indulge, To the warning from the voices
From the graves in the west and east."

"We, the survivors of a demon,
  We, who together and individually,
Can cry out before the heavens,
  We are destroyed by Alcohol.
We want to warn you, young men and women,
  To stay away from the path we've traveled.
From the path that leads to destruction,
  And away from Peace and God."

"We, the millions who have fallen,
  Warn you from the red glow
Of the wine in silver cups,
  For destruction lies beneath,
Wine and gin, and rum and brandy,
  Whiskey, cider, ale, and beer:
These have killed us and ruined us—
  These are the foes that brought us here."

"You think you're safe, huh? Oh, wow!
  That's what we said, and we drank, and then we died,
We are safe, we confidently claimed,
  Yet we drowned in the waves.
There’s never really any safety
  From the traps of alcohol,
For the young person who sees liquor,
  Tastes it, or even just touches it at all."

"We ask you, men and women,
  Fathers, Mothers, Husbands, Wives,
To rise up and fight the demon
  That is threatening our loved ones' lives.
Don't preach moderation
  To your children, because sadly!
There is no enemy more sneaky
  Than the dangerous Social Glass."

"Careless mother, wife, or sister,
  Throw that poison cup away!
He, the husband, son, or brother,
  Who happily drinks today,
May stumble home tomorrow,
  Mocked and ridiculed by sober men.
Would you look at him with pride—
  Would you say 'I caused it' then?

"Ah! a huge and powerful crowd
  Of drunks in every land
Take the first step toward ruin
  Guided by delicate white hands.
Every smile you offer the wine glass,
   Every look, oh beautiful lady,
Like a spade digs down and carves
  Out a drunkard's grave, somewhere."

"Men in office, men in power:
Will you let this wild demon
roam freely through the nation,
slaying women, men, and children?
Oh, wake up, you indifferent people!
There is work for everyone!
We have warned you about the danger;
We have spoken—we have acted!"

Around me came the silence
  Of the serious night, once again,
And I heard the soft ticking
  Of the clock outside my door.
It wasn’t just a dreamer’s fantasy—
  Not a story my mind created
But the warning from the victims
  That Old Alcohol had killed.

If anything I've ever written,
  Or any word I've said,
Has comforted the heart of an enemy or a friend—
  In any way, then I'll say
My life has been worth the effort.
  If anything I’ve said or written has made
My neighbor’s heart a bit happier.

If any action I've ever taken
  Has eased someone's heavy heart,
If I've helped someone look up
  Towards a brighter tomorrow,
Even if the world doesn’t notice me, doesn’t care,
  And never will know or praise me.
Still, I will always say to myself
  That my life and efforts are worth it.

If I've helped anyone in any way,
  Or brought some joy to someone's spirit,
Then I believe my cup of happiness is full
  To the brim and overflowing.
Though no one but the one above
  Sees my good deeds,
Still, oh my heart, we'll remember our role
  In this story with contentment.

I said, "I will write a greeting,
  To the City of the Lakes,
Write while the city sleeps,
  And sing it when it wakes."

"To this beautiful and blessed city,
That the joyful New Year brings
Its greatest and sweetest treasure,
Its finest gift."

"It brings to our happy Nation,
  The gift of Peace once more,
The fields are bright, not red,
  With the blood of the fallen."

"And not with the sounds of crying,
  Do we welcome the year,
Not with handshakes and farewells,
  But with joyful laughter and cheer."

"And brothers will meet with brothers,
  In peace, from North to South,
And 'Happy New Year to you!'
  Will be said from one person to another."

"And there will be a feast and celebration,
In many homes today,
(God help us to keep wine away
From every table, we pray.)

"Thank God for His righteous goodness,
  For a land not stained with conflict
Thank God for the New Year's blessing,
  Thank God for the gift of life."

"Oh! beautiful city in white robes,
  Asleep in the embrace of Lakes,
I write a song while it sleeps,
  And I’ll sing a song when it wakes."

And so, while I dreamed and thought,
  About the joyful song I would sing,
Look! I saw the sun rising,
  And my inspiration had taken flight.

If I could hold my little baby
  Against my chest tonight,
I wouldn’t care about the howling wind
  That screams in fear.
Oh, my lost baby! my little one,
  My baby with dreamy eyes;
Your bed is cold, and the brave night wind
  Howls sad lullabies.

My heart is softer than the ground;
  This room, with its warm fire,
Is a better place for your sweet face
  Than the cold mother earth.
Oh, my baby! oh, my lost baby!
  Oh, baby with delicate hands.
I want you so much, I need you so–
  Come from your mystical lands!

No love, like a mother's, fills
 Every part of the heart;
No loss like hers, that tears and chills,
 And breaks the soul apart.
Oh, baby—my baby, my helpless baby!
 I miss your little body.
I wish I could crawl where you sleep,
 And hold you through the storm.

I hold your pillow to my chest,
  To find a little comfort;
I sing the songs that calmed you down
  Oh me! no escaping grief.
My breathing baby! my crying baby!
  I miss your sad little sounds,
I can't hear you--you're not close
  My little one, my own.

Your father is sleeping. He grieves for your loss,
  But fathers understand so little
Of the pain that keeps a mother awake
  Through endless nights of sorrow.
My clingy baby! my nursing baby!
  What does your father know—
How my breasts ache for your soft kiss
  Only a mother can understand.
Exhausted, I sleep; I wake—I cry
  I sleep—hush, hush, my dear;
Sweet lamb, don’t be afraid—Oh, God! I thought—
  I thought my baby was here.

See the women—pale women of our nation!
Look at them fainting, dying, dead all around!
  See them weighed down by a load
  Much heavier than what Fate
Ever put on the backs of poor humans.
  Watch them collapse as they move—
  Overwhelmed by their own burdens—
Pale, weak, sighing, dying, along their paths!

See the women—terrible women, on the streets!
With their corset-squeezed waists and cramped feet!
  Hearts and lungs all out of whack,
  Whalebone shapes lacking grace;
Pale faces, stripped of Nature's rosy glow;
  Purple-rimmed eyes that reveal,
  With a language all too familiar,
Of the sick room, death bed, coffin, shroud, and grave.

Look at the women—sickly women, all around,
Check out the harsh, suffocating dresses they wear!
  Carrying those heavy loads of fabric,
  Can you blame them for feeling stressed,
Pale, wasting away, becoming victims of decline?
  Is it weird that the vibrant girl,
  Quickly starts to wilt and fade—
Like an overloaded beast of burden, day after day?

See the women and their dresses as they walk,
Trimmed and adjusted, layer on layer;
  Hanging over delicate hips,
  Sucking the color from their lips,
Dragging their foolish wearers down to the grave!
  Suicide, and nothing less,
  In this dreadful style of dress!
Who will rise to save women, who will help?

Look at the women—silly women, fading fast;
What have all their fancy dresses brought them in the end?
  Anxiety, pain, sickness, and death,
  Loss of beauty and struggling breath;
Medical bills and precious time wasted.
  They've traded away
  Beauty, comfort, health, and ease—
All to mimic the passing trend of a day.

Lean down and lift me up, Josephine;
From the Eternal Hills haven't you seen;
How I struggle for greater heights? But without wings,
I can't reach those better things all at once,
To which I deeply aspire in my soul,
Lean down and lift me up higher.

I feel my way through life—not miserable or down,
Because youth, hope, and health keep me upbeat;
But sometimes the bright sunlight blinds us,
And I reach for heights I can't seem to find;
Oh, you must know my greatest wish.
Come down and lift me up higher.

Not too long ago, we walked the same path;
You knew how, from day to day;
Our souls were bothered by little things, and our feet
Were tempted to take side roads that seemed pleasant,
But only ended up slowing us down and exhausting us.
Lean down and lift me up higher.

You’ve moved on to peaceful heights
And left me here, my dear Josephine.
I'm fine with staying until the end,
Because life is full of promise; but, my friend,
Can’t you help me with my deepest wish?
   O! lean in and lift me higher.

Weak as you were, you have become strong and wise,
And quick to understand and empathize
With all the needs of a full soul. It has to be true;
Your time with God has made you great, I know.
You must see how I struggle and strive;
Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire.
And lean and lift me higher.

All praise to Vinnie Ream!
  Wisconsin's artistic daughter,
Who today stands crowned with the fame
  Her exceptional work has earned her.
Raise your brows, hills of the West,
  And share the story with the winds,
How she, our finest and our greatest,
  Has reached the heights of glory.

Three cheers for Vinnie Ream!
Who faced challenges,
And brought from death to eternal life,
The martyr of our Nation.
Oh, Spite and Envy, go away in shame!
And hide your head, dark Malice!
She enjoys today the rewards of Fame,
From Fame's shining cup.

Thank God for Vinnie Ream!
  The unmatched Badger girl,
Who embodies our nation's pride today
  With the honors of the nation.
Yes! Crown her Queen at every celebration,
  And shower her path with flowers,
You people of the South and East,
  But remember, she belongs to us!

Bring gifts to Vinnie Ream!
I have no gift to offer,
Only a small gift of song,
And I humbly present it;--
Just this little gift to place
Before Columbia's daughter,
Who stands today crowned with the fame
That her great work has earned her.

The father sits in his lonely room,
  Outside, a little bird sings.
But the shadows are heavy with death and gloom,
  And the song goes unheard.
The father’s heart is filled with sorrow;
  His chest holds all the grief!
Who will look for the paper for him tomorrow
  Who will bring him sweet relief
From endless thoughts with innocent chatter?
Who will find his slippers and bring his hat?
  Still, the little bird sings
  And flutters her wings;
The refrain of her song is, "God knows best!
He gives his little children rest."
What could she know of these sorrowful things?

The mother sits by the empty fireplace,
  And cries over a vacant chair.
Sorrow has replaced happiness
  Joy has given way to despair.
Bitter is the cup the mother is drinking,
  So bitter that tears start to fall.
Sad are the thoughts the mother is having—
  Oh, they will break her heart.
Who will run on errands, and play around,
And imitate the robins all day long?
  Still the little bird sings
  And flutters her wings;
"God reigns in heaven, and He will watch over
The dear little children that fall asleep."
What can she know of these sorrowful things?

Grandma sits by the open door,
  And her tears fall down like rain.
Was there ever a home so sad before,
  Will it ever be happy again?
Many unwelcome thoughts keep flitting
  Through Grandma's mind.
Who will pick up the stitches she drops while knitting?
  Who will find her snuff box?
Who will bring her glasses, and push her chair,
And tie her kerchief, and comb her hair?
  Still the little bird sings
  And flutters her wings;
"God above does all things well,
I sang the same when my chicks fell."
Ah! this bird knows all about these sorrowful things.

Look! Here’s another body dug up!
Another Poet uncovered!
Sensation shouted, "Dig up the grave,
And let the dust be dug and stirred,
And bring Shakespeare’s bones out!
It’ll definitely impress the crowd!"

"The Byron scandal has gotten stale!
That rare tidbit is flat and old.
The crowd is hungry for something new;
We need a fresh sensational story;
Old Shakespeare is sleeping too soundly;
Rip off the cover—dig up the past!

"We have dug up poor 'Raven Poe'
And proven without a doubt,
He didn’t see a raven, after all.
Now let’s bring out the bones of Shakespeare!
Byron, and Poe, and Shakespeare--great!
Who should we serve up next for food?"

And who, I ask, oh visionaries of the world!
Which corpse will we see next? I check every day
to see if some wise person hasn’t shown
that Jones or Smith wrote Lalla Rookh.
Or that Blifkins helped Moore out,
who was a copycat and a jerk!

Sensation, keep your staff away--
   Let them be observant and ready;
We'll need a new find soon.
   Tell them to search through the soil,
And remove Keats' or Shelley's covering,
To entertain and enlighten the audience.

Let me lay on your chest,
  Lift me up, and let me wrap
 my arms around your neck, and rest
  with your cheek pressed against mine.
Kiss me, kiss me gently;
  I’m dying now, you know;
Even if you don’t love me,
  Hold me, kiss me, before I go.

I have waited many years,
  For a moment like this, my love;
Oh! my darling! don’t let any tears
  Spoil this bit of earthly happiness;
Don’t cry because you know
  I’m slipping away to rest;
I’m really glad to go,
  Life was tiring at the very least.

I have loved you for so long,
  Seeing, knowing, in my mind,
That my love was wild and wrong,
  Unrequited, hopeless, blind;
Was it weak, unladylike,
  To keep you in my heart?
Oh! I struggled desperately—
  Tried to make your image leave.

There are hearts that love will hurt,
  Then leave and fade away;
My heart feels intense and real,
  Until it’s cold and gone astray,
Falling, drifting off to sleep,
  Not afraid of pain or fight:
Hold me—keep me close to you,
  That's all I want in life.

The fierce king—Winter—sat on the hills,
And ruled the earth like a true king.
He froze the rivers, lakes, and streams—
"I’m not some weak, sentimental king," he said,
"But a serious monarch, born to rule and reign;
And I will show my strength until the end.
I’ve defeated Summer's flowery entourage,
And made the bold, free North-Wind my ally.

"Spring, Summer, Autumn—weak queens they were,
   With their huge armies of flowers, birds, and bees,
Soft winds, that made the long green grasses move—
   They lost who they were in all of this!
I scorn them all! No, I challenge them all!
   And no one can take the crown from my hands.
The dependable North Wind responds to my call,
   And blows his icy breath across the land."

The Siren, South-Wind, listening all the while,
   now drifted lightly over the meadow.
"Oh, King!" she said, with a gentle voice and smile,
   "I come to pay my respects to you.
In all the sunny land from which I came,
   I see no one like you, King, so bold and impressive!
Your fame is well-earned and unmatched;
   I kiss your cold white hand in admiration, dear King."

Her words were charming, and her face was very beautiful. He listened intently to her softly whispered compliments. She moved closer, with her enchanting grace. "Dear King," she said, "from now on my voice will only sing About your unmatched glory! Look! How fair your forehead is! How your clothes sparkle! I tremble under your radiant gaze, for oh, Your astonishing beauty makes you seem divine."

The vain king listened, lost in a blissful daze,
To this lovely, sweet-voiced Siren from the South.
She nestled close and gave a lingering kiss
Against the pale, stern lines of his mouth.
She clung to his chest and pressed her cheek against his,
And he was more than happy to hold her there,
While she spoke such tender, loving words,
And gently ran her fingers through his white hair.

And so she captured him with her seductive charm,
And drained his strength with every look she threw,
And pierced him repeatedly with gentle smiles,
And with her sweet words she sealed his doom;
And then she left him: old, weak, and blind,
And opened up all the rivers, lakes, and streams,
While Queen Spring, with her entire crew behind,
Of flowers, birds, and bees, came over the hills.

Life has its ups and downs, just like bright and dark moments;
  The good and the bad, all mixed together.
I tried to pick them apart, one by one,
  Isolating and counting them, figuring out if
There was more blue than gray,
And more of the deep night than the day.
But oh my, oh my, my work has just started,
And I'm not even halfway into the light.

The longer I focus on the positive aspects of life,    The more beauty I uncover;  And honestly, I never really understood what life was about    Until I explored the vast treasure trove of happiness.  It’s filled from the ground up to the heavens,  With things that brighten the heart and the eyes.  The doors are wide open, you can step into every space,  That feels like a stunning garden in full bloom.

Yet life has its dark moments, just like it has its bright ones;
  The world has its mix of joy and pain.
But the joy is so vast—and my work's only starting
  That the pain will have to wait for a much later time.
I’ll list out the blessings God has granted me,
But oh dear! when I finish that,
I know I won’t have much time left for anything else,
Because life is, at best, a fast-moving river.

I know as I get older,
  And my eyes see more clearly—
That beneath every big injustice, somewhere
  Lies the root of what’s right;
That every sorrow has its reason—
  Often unknown to those who suffer,
But just like the Sun brings the morning,
  Whatever is— is for the best.

I know that every sinful act,
  Just like night brings darkness,
Is eventually punished,
  Even if the wait is long.
I know that sometimes the soul is helped
  By the heart's turmoil,
And growing often involves pain—
  But whatever happens is for the best.

I know there are no mistakes,
  In the grand Eternal plan,
And everything comes together
  For the ultimate good of mankind.
And I know when my soul moves forward
  In its amazing Eternal journey,
I will say, as I glance back toward Earth,
  Whatever is—it's for the best.

Where the somber old "Mount of Lamentation"
  Rears its peak like a massive dome,
I listen for the voices of Inspiration
  That echoed over the fields and hills of home.
I catch beautiful sounds, but I'm not close to them,
  There are wide, indistinct oceans separating us;
Or maybe my heart is too overwhelmed to hear them
  With the eager ear it once had.

It’s filled with the joy of today—and tomorrow,
  Which beams with a promise of new happiness;
And yet my heart aches with sadness
  As I think of the loved ones who are far away.
I often wonder if the beloved old spaces
  Are getting used to my missing presence,
I wonder if newer and prettier faces
  Seem just as sweet to the hearts that welcomed me.

I know that in the world's major battlefield
  When a comrade drops out, how the ranks fill in;
The fight continues with its rush and noise,
  And who can say where he used to be?

But throughout life, I might find my way like a grafted vine
  Around old Eastern homes eventually,
The roots of love I left behind
  In Western soil will remain strong.
Though the "Mount of Lamentation" becomes cherished,
  And the ocean is precious, and the shore is dear, I will love the land that inspires me,
  Its lakes, its valleys, and the resilient hearts even more.

If my past could give me the chance
  To enjoy a moment of lost joy,
In some forgotten pleasure for an hour,
  This is what I'd wish for:

Re-pedestal from the dust
  Where it was thrown long ago,
My beautiful, careless trust
  In this unworthy world.

The symbol of my soul’s truth--
I watched it leave with tears--
The lovely ignorance of my youth--
That faded away with the years.

Since knowledge only causes us pain,
  I would choose to go back
To blissful ignorance and trust
  In people's intentions and in humanity.

For worldly wisdom gained through suffering
  Is in itself a burden,
It might signify some benefit,
  Yet it's also a sign of deep loss.

A queen of laziness and effortless elegance,
  Dressed in the tattered pieces of an expensive dress,
She gazes with a lazy frown
  At progress. Her throne is set on a muddy hill;
  Swampy moss wraps around her like vintage lace.
With bare, brown feet crossed,
  She sits, unmoved by the world’s rapid pace.

Across the seas, a grim ogre prowls.
Too indifferent, she, for even Fear's warnings,
While scared nations band together to defend,
She lifts her smiling creole eyes to him,
And, stretching out her shapely, unwashed arms,
She embraces her rightful lover—Pestilence.

Sometimes when I fall asleep,
  Wrapped in a cozy, luxurious darkness,
A memory of another room will sneak
  Into my sleepy mind,
Where pitchy knots in the ceiling boards created
A mix of light and shadow,
And whispering poplar trees brushed their leaves
Against the gently sloping roof.

Again I imagine, in my dreams,
  I'm lying in my trundle bed;
I seem to see the bare old beams
  And rough rafters overhead;
The hornet's sharp high-pitched buzz
I hear again, and see him come
Out from his dark-walled hanging nest,
Dressed in his black and yellow outfit.

There, summer breaks, and I stirred from my sleep,
  Weaving into my beautiful dream
The chatter of a martin bird,
  Or raindrops tapping on the roof.
Or half awake, and half in fear,
I saw the spider spinning nearby
His lovely web where the fly
Would eventually come to grief.

And there I created in my mind
Youth's bright visions floating in the sky,
I didn't completely build in vain,
Because some were lasting, solid, and beautiful.
And I’m someone who can say
My life has had more good than bad,
And that the greatness of reality
Surpassed what I dreamed in my youth.

But I still love to wander back
  To that old time and that old place;
To walk along Memory's path,
  And feel the beauty of the early morning,
In that charming room under the rafters,
That resonated with my childhood laughter;
To dream again the dreams that blossomed
More beautiful as they became real.

Out from my window to the west
I often turn my face;
But the mountains challenge the view
that wants to see it all;
They raise their tall peaks
to meet the clouds above,
And ask, "With all our greatness,
can we not earn your love?"

I reply, "No, oh mountains!
  I see that you are majestic;
But you lack the spaciousness and beauty
  Of the fields back home;
You limit my view
  And even block me from hearing
The voice of my old friend,
  The West Wind wild and free."

But today I climbed the mountains
  On the back of a snowy white horse,
And the West Wind came to greet me—
  He soared on the wings of speed.
His horse, and mine that carried me,
  Ran happily side by side.
Until the town in the valley below us
  Looked like a tiny, dark spot.

And oh! the stories he shared
  As he rode next to me,
About friends whose happy faces
  I’m about to see again.
And the mountains scowled in frustration,
  Because I defied their anger,
And met my old friend
  Right at their peak;

But I laughed right in their faces,
  As I rode back slowly,
While the Wind picked up speed,
  Like a racehorse on the track.

Before this scarf lost its color,
  What joyful hours it experienced;
How brightly it displayed itself
  For cheerful eyes to see.
The days were filled with glory,
  The nights went by too fast,
And life felt like a story
  Where everyone got married.

Before this rosebud wilted,
  How passionately sweet
The wild waltz swelled and lilted
  In time for flying feet;
How loud the bassoons muttered,
  The horns grew madly shrill,
And, oh, the vows lips uttered
  That hearts could not fulfill.

Before this fan was broken,
  Behind its lace and pearls
What whispered words were shared,
  What hearts were all a-flutter;
What homes were imagined
  In Fancy's land of Spain,
What castles were built,
  Without a space for pain.

When this strange glove was put together,
  How exciting the game felt;
Maybe our hearts are full—
  They get so tired so quickly nowadays.
Oh, push aside those treasures,
  They reveal the gloomy truth;
We've outgrown the joys
  And sharp delights of youth.

When will I hear the thrushes sing,
  And see their graceful, round throats puffing up?
When will I watch the bluebirds bringing
  Straws and twigs for their nest?
When will I hear the little partridge
  Drumming among the trees?
Oh! Hurry! The sights and sounds I love
  Summer is taking so long to arrive.

The winds are chatting with the sun;
  I hope they come together
And clear the snowdrifts, one by one,
  And bring back the sunny weather.
Oh hurry, hurry, dear sun and wind,
  I can't wait to hear the brown bee buzzing;
I'm searching for flowers I can't find,
  Summer feels like it's taking forever.

The winter has been really cold, so cold;
  Its winds are rough, gloomy, and dreary,
And all its activities feel worn out;
  We're waiting for something more cheerful now.
Come on, summer, from the south,
  And bring the harps you're playing.
We crave the kisses from your lips!
  Oh! please don't take too long to arrive.

We will put our summer to rest, my friend,
  So gently put it away.
It was bright and sweet until the very end,
  Like one long, golden day.
Nothing sweeter could come to me,
  Nothing sweeter to you.
We will put it away and let it be,
  Hidden from the whole world's view.

We will set it aside like a beloved, lost thing
  Gone, yet always beautiful;
And the fresh green clothes of an endless spring,
  Though gone, it will always wear.
We won’t hide it in a grave or tomb,
  But let it rest peacefully,
Protected by beauty, light, and flowers,
  Wrapped in a deep sleep.

We were ready to say goodbye to summer--
  Ready to part ways;
But I know that we'll never find
  Days like those again.
You are my friend, and it might sound odd,
  But I wouldn't want to see you again;
I would think of you, even as everything changes,
  Just like I knew you back then.

If we were to return to that old place,
  And the summer days were gone,
It would feel like staring a ghost in the face,
  So much would be different and new.
We can’t relive it,
  Not even for a day;
And since it's something sweet and free from pain,
  It’s better to put it away.

I called to the summer sun,
"Come over the hills today!
  Unlock the rivers and tell them to flow,
And kiss the snowdrifts and melt them away."
  And the sun showed up—like a late lover—
  And unlocked the river, urging it to glide
  And kissed the snowdrift until it faded and died.

I called to the robin, "Come back!
Come up from the south and sing!"
And the robin soared up on a light path,
And smoothed his feathers and prepped his wing.
And the notes flowed out, bubbling and rushing,
In thrills and variations, clear, rich, and strong,
Until the joyful air trembled and resonated with song.

I called out to the orchard, "Blow!"
I called out to the meadow, "Bloom!"
  And the trees stood white, like brides in a line,
And the breeze was filled with a sweet scent.
  And over the meadows, in light and shade,
  The white daisies and blue violets,
  And yellow buttercups bloomed and thrived.

I called out to a hope that vanished
With the death of the flowers and grass,
  "Come back! The river is free to flow—
The robin sings, and the daisies are blooming." Sadly!
  For the hope I held onto so tightly died
  And can never awaken and live again,
  Even as a hundred summers pass over the field.

Hey there! Well, the season's done!
  We've hit Lent once more!
The schedule's switched from dances and gatherings—
  Now we're told to regret.
Forty days of self-control!
  Honestly, I think it's worth it—
I know it'll clear my skin
  Taking it easy for forty days.

No more delicious French dinners--
  Like the ones Madame R-- makes.
I just need to lose a littleweight
Just a bit--I know it's true!
I've sometimes worried that my softness
  Could turn into real fat.
The rector says I should fast--
  I think there's a lot of truth in that.

We need to think about all the things we've done wrong, he says,
  And feel sorry for them. Let me think—
  Where should I start?
Flirting—yeah, they say it's bad;
  Well, I really regret it.
(I wonder if my attractive major
  Goes to early Mass during Lent?)

Love of fashion! I'm guilty of that, too--
  I guess it's my weakness.
Still I'm a bit like the lilies,
  Because I don’t work or sew.
For forty days I'll wear my simplest--
  Could regret be more sincere?
What a savings on my outfits!
  They'll be as good as new.

Pride, materialism, and all that,
  the Rector asked us to pray about
every day during Lent,
  and I plan to be committed!
Dad always talks about cutting back—
  Lent is just the perfect time for it.
I hope he'll save enough money
  so we can move to a better neighborhood next spring.

Wherever I go
  Wherever I happen to be,
With the arrival of evening
  A sweet vision comes to me.
I see my mom sitting
  In that old, familiar spot,
And she rocks to the rhythm of her needles,
  Thinking of someone who's not here.

I can hear the city's roar
  Around me now as I write;
But over a hundred miles of snow
  My thoughts race tonight,
To the lovely little cozy cottage,
  And the room where mom sits,
And slowly rocks in her comfy chair
  And thinks of me while she knits.

Sometimes with the cheerful dancers
  When my feet are keeping pace,
And my heart feels alive, just like young hearts do,
  To the music's rhythmic beat.
My spirit floats over the distance
  Over the sparkle and spin,
To my mom who sits, rocks, and knits,
  And thinks of her "little girl."

When I hear voices that flatter,
  And smile, like women do,
To whispered words that might sound sweet,
  But aren't always true;
I think of the lovely, charming image
  From a distance, calm and soft,
And I know one smile from my mother's eyes
  Is worth more than all their praise.

And I know I can never stray
  Far from the path of what's right,
Though traps are laid for a woman's feet
  In places that look the brightest.
For the vision stays with me always,
  Wherever I happen to be,
Of my mother sitting, rocking and knitting,
  Thinking and praying for me.

Throughout these gentle autumn days,
All sweet and hazy, soft and warm,
I argue with my foolish heart,
That is all too eager to choose the lazy path.

My heart says, "Let's lie down and dream
Under the gentle warmth of the sun,
This is the season for dreaming,
When Heaven itself feels closer."

"Look at how the calm, still waters rest
And reflect under the open sky.
The sun pulls a curtain of mist,
And drifts through these golden days."

"Put down the pen—set your thoughts aside,
And stop fighting against the flow.
Let’s, like Nature, relax and dream
And go with the current of the stream."

So my heart pleads. I reply, "No,
Work is waiting for both of us today.
Behind these golden autumn hours,
Winter is just lingering, bleak and cold."

"And those who dream too long or too much,
Must wake up, shivering, at his touch,
With nothing to show for lost hours,
But dust of dreams and wilted flowers."

"So now, while the days are gentle and warm,
We need to prepare for the storm."
So, during the golden, hazy weather,
My heart and I talk to each other.

And yet, I can't bring myself to look
At rocky beaches or soft skies,
Because I really want to do
Just what my heart is urging me to.

Sing to me! Something about sunlight and flowers,
I’m surrounded by sadness and dark hours,
I’m so tired of the world’s noise and fight—
Sing of the beauty and joy of life—
Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing to me! Something joyful and happy!
I'm so tired, my soul feels so heavy.
All my earthly treasures are now covered in rust,
All my bright dreams have turned to ashes and dust.
Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing about the flowers that bloom in spring,
How the sweet flowers grow, and the long moss hangs,
Say, even though winter is all around me,
There are bright summers and springs still to come.
Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing me a song that's full of hope and truth,
Overflowing with all the sweet dreams of youth!
Even though I might not forget my pain,
I still have some happiness left to gain.
Sing to me, sing to me!

Lay your gentle fingers right here on my cheek;
Lower the light—there—no, don’t say anything,
But sing! My heart races at your lovely voice;
Sing until I shift away from my sorrow and find joy.
   Sing to me, sing to me!

The meadowlark's song and the brown thrush's chirp
  Fill the sweet air from morning till night,
And my heart feels as light as a thistle's fluff—
  The world is so bright and the earth is so beautiful.
There’s life in the woods, there’s flowers in the meadow;
  The air is alive with the songs of cheerful birds.
The sunshine has triumphed over the shadows,
  And it has dressed the joyful earth in springtime's gown.

The bee leaves its hive for the field of red clover
And the valley where the daisies bloom as white as snow,
And a blanket of warm yellow sunshine hangs over
The calm little pond, where the pale lilies grow.
In the woods beyond, a thousand cheerful voices
Are singing together some joyful tune.
The bird and the bee, and all of nature rejoices,
The world is so bright, and the earth is so beautiful.

I feel as happy as a child in this beautiful weather;
I've thrown away all my worries and struggles;
My heart is light—yes, as light as a feather;
I'm carefree, careless, and happy today.
Can it be that a dark, dreary tomorrow is coming?
Can shadows ever fall on this beautiful earth!
Ah! today is mine! No gloomy thoughts of sadness
Shall cloud my skies or dampen my joy.

The sweet girl, Day, has rested her head
  On the chest of her dark lover, Night.
The sun has created a bed of red for her,
  And wrapped her in a cover of soft twilight;
And the lover kisses the girl's forehead,
As she sleeps peacefully on her bed now.

Here at my window, above the street,
I sit, as the day rests;
And I listen to the constant sound of footsteps,
And I watch this river of people that moves
Up and down, back and forth,
Like the waves of an ocean, coming and going.

The busy town buzzes constantly;
  Back and forth, throughout the day,
One person goes up, and another goes down,
  Each following their own path.
Strangers and relatives cross paths,
And bump and jostle in the street.

People who have never met before,
  People who will never meet again;
A casual glance, nothing more,
  And both are lost in the crowd.
Strangers separated by miles, in spirit,
Under my window, they come together and separate.

But whether their feet move up or down,
  Across the river, east or west;
Whether it's in or out of the town,
  To a place of sin, or a home of peace,--
We are all heading toward a shared destination--
There's onefinal point for every soul.

Strangers and family, friends and enemies,
  Whether their goals are big or small,
Whether their journeys are high or low—
  There’s one final resting spot for everyone.
Then up and forward, you all rush by
Under my window—you all must die.

No, don't bring the jewels—
  Get rid of that white dress,
I’m tired of the ballroom, sis—
  I’d rather stay here tonight.
"The biggest ball of the season!"
  "The elite's showcase!"
Yeah, yeah, I know, my dear,
  But I don't feel like going.

Last night I was lost in thought,
  Something I rarely do.
You know I got home at midnight,
  And I couldn’t sleep until two.
I was reflecting on my childhood,
  And how I spent those years,
And I felt ashamed, my love,
  And my pillow was soaked with tears.

I have lived in a whirlwind of fashion,
I have kept up with all the "trends,"
I have learned how to dance the "German,"
How to bow, flirt, and smile.
I have worn the prettiest dresses,
Been the center of attention at many parties.
I have earned the envy of women,
And the admiration of guys—that's it.

Does anyone really respect me?--
  Is there anything that could be said
That would bring comfort to the mourners
  Tomorrow, if I were gone?
"She wore such beautiful dresses,"
  "She had so many talents,"
"She could waltz like a perfect fairy"—
  Would you want me to be remembered like that?

Well, there's nothing else to recall
  What have I ever done
That has improved a single soul
  Or lifted a hapless one?
I've wasted my time and money—
  The best of my fortune and days—
In gaining the envy of women
  And making the foolish stare.

I’m going to be a woman,
  And live for others for a bit—
Forgetting myself for a while,
  Though I know it’s not the “trend.”
I’m not in the mood for a party—
  Forget that white gown!
And I’ll stay here, my love,
  And speak from my heart tonight.

My heart is like a little bird
  That sits and sings out of pure joy.
Sorrow is just a forgotten word,
  And so, except in poems, is sadness.

The world is really kind to me--
  Such blue skies, such beautiful weather,
I'm like a long-caged bird released,
  My heart is lighter than a feather.

I wake up happy about my life;
  I live with love for God and my neighbors;
My days go by without conflict,
  And are made better by my enjoyable work.

Oh youth! oh spring! oh joyful days,
  You are so wonderfully sweet and gentle,
And while this brief season lasts,
  I'll enjoy it without a care, in its glory.

Don't fly too high, oh bird of Hope!
  Because the skies are clear;
The storm may come quickly
  And catch you up there.

When high above the mountain peaks
  You soar, above everything—
If the storm pushes you back,
How big would your fall be!

And you would lie here at my feet,
  A poor and lifeless thing,--
A torn and bleeding little bird,
  With a limp and broken wing.

Sing softly, oh bird of Hope!
  Because the day is bright;
The sunshine can't stay forever—
  The morning comes before the night.

And if your song is about the day,
  Then when the day gets dark,
You would sit, lost and silent,
  Among the grim shadows.

Oh! I want you to rise and sing,
  But not too high or loud,
Remembering that day turns to night
  The bright sun meets the cloud.

The gentle beauty of this day
  Covers me like a magical charm,
And worries and sadness have vanished,
  And every breeze whispers, "Everything is okay."
I wonder, "Does the world hold any sin or sorrow?"
  My heart answers, "I have no idea."

No! All we know or feel, my love,
  Today is pure, unending joy;
We have no share in tears or pain;
  Just breathing in is such a joy,
We don't need to name a greater thrill.
  What do we care about wealth or fame!

The past—what does it matter to me?
  The pain it caused is gone now.
The future—I can’t see that!
  I care for nothing but today—
This is a break from all worries,
  And trouble disappears—I don’t know where.

Go ahead, oh, loud, restless life!
   Move along, oh, feet that aspire for more!
I want no part in any conflict;
  I don’t crave your empty pleasures.
The day surrounds me like a charm
  And every breeze whispers, "Everything is fine."

All in the beautiful autumn weather
One thought lingers with me and stays;
Death and winter are approaching together,
Though both are hidden by the amber haze.
I look at the forest's majestic beauty!
I look at the face in my quiet room;
A face that is lovely, sad, and gentle,
And both are marked with the seal of doom.

All through the days of Indian summer,
  Minute by minute and hour by hour.
I sense the arrival of a feared cold snap—
  A chilling presence of frightening power.
I hear the birds in the early morning,
  As they flee from the fields that are turning brown,
And at noon and at night my heart feels warning,
  As the maple leaves drift down and down.

The sumac bushes are all on fire! The world is red, gold, and green, And my darling's beautiful cheeks put to shame The painted beauty of the ballroom queen. Why talk about winter in such glory? Why mention the death of something so lovely? Oh, but the forest king, old and gray, Is crafting a cloak for both to wear.

God! If only I could, through the gentle charm
  Of magnificent forests and blooming cheeks,
Lull my heart into sweet belief
  If just for a moment, to escape my gloom;
If I could forget, even for a second,
  And take a break from this awful dread
Of long, lonely days that are coming
  When Autumn leaves and she is gone.

But all the while the sun shines on the woods and fields
  And the rosy cheeks, flushed with color,
I know grim death lurks in the shadows
  Weaving their burial shrouds.
I can’t help, and I can’t save her.
  My hands are as weak as a newborn’s,
I must give her back to the One who gave her
  And wait for the morning of resurrection.

All around the world, there are babies,
  Crying and sighing everywhere,
Looking out with scared eyes,
  Reaching at the empty air.
Do they see the conflict ahead,
  That’s why they cry and shake?
Oh, the defenseless, scared babies;
  They keep coming and going.

All around the world, there are kids,
  Laughing over small joys;
Sighing over little problems
  With fingers bruised or broken toys.
Wishing to be older, bigger,
  Crying about imagined troubles.
Oh, the happy, unlucky kids,
They keep coming and going.

All around the world, lovers are everywhere,
  Strolling slowly, sharing sweet whispers,
Dreaming dreams and making plans
  That are bound to fall apart;
Breaking promises and setting letters on fire,
  Smiling so the world won't see.
Oh, the naive, trusting lovers,
  They keep coming and going.

All around the world, there are people,
  Hurrying, pushing, rushing past,
Carrying burdens, dealing with struggles,
  Moving on with a sigh;
Some, like us, wear smiling faces,
  While their heavy hearts are hidden below.
Oh, the sad-eyed, burdened people—
  How they come and how they go!

All the earth is full of bodies,
  Dust and bones, laid to rest,
This is the end that infants and children,
  Lovers, people find at best;
All their worries and all their struggles,
  All their grief, weighing them down,
Oh, the quiet, peaceful bodies,
  Sleeping soundly, lying down.

Dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. D. Atwood on the occasion of their 25th wedding anniversary, August 25th, 1874.

The harvest moon of married love,
  Beautiful in the sky,
Has reached its peak, and, clear and bright,
  Shows no signs of fading.

Since it first appeared above the horizon,
  The shiny crescent rose,
The clouds of twenty-five years
  Have drifted across its surface.

But, as the days have passed by,
  Even with many changing tomorrows,
The rising moon continued to rise
  Above the hills of sadness.

And even though the years brought overwhelming tears,
  The guiding moon shone brighter;
It provided comfort during sorrow--
  Made heavy burdens feel lighter.

One fourth of a hundred years
  It has been growing, filling,
Till, round and bright, its silvery light
  Is spreading over everything tonight.

Oh, harvesters on life's vast field!
  The young sheaves shining around you
Show that you haven't labored in vain
  Show that God's blessing has found you.

Smile in the moonlight's silver glow,
  Enjoy the harvest season;
You know you can’t always hold
  The precious grains in one place!

Shine on, oh moon of married happiness!
  Keep shining through many tomorrows,
Until from the sun of Endless Love
  You take its golden light.

Your words came just when I needed them. Like a breeze,
Blowing in from the vast salty sea
With some refreshing spray, to a meadow scorched by heat
And suffocated with dust and clouds of sifted sand,
That awful whirlwinds, jealous of its beauty,
Had thrown upon it. But the cool sea breeze
Arrived filled with the scents of the ocean
And damp with spray that settled the dust and sand
And brought new life and strength to grass and flowers,
So your words traveled over miles to me,
Fresh from the deep sea, a true friend's heart,
And gave me hope, and strength, and cleared away
The dusty webs that people weave
Across my path. Friend—and that word means a lot—
So few there are who reach like you, a hand
Above all the barking dogs of bitterness
And offer a grip when it's most needed;
Friend, newly discovered, accept my heartfelt thanks.

She leaned out into the pleasant June weather,
  As the night breeze played with her long loose hair;
Her eyes were as blue as the bells on the heather:
  Oh, what is as beautiful as a lovely young woman!

She clasped her hands, like a lily's petals,
"My life," she said, "is a June night,
Beautiful and peaceful, soft and still;
  Bring me a change, oh ever-changing moon!

"Who would float on a lake endlessly?   Young hearts tired—it’s not surprising, And long for the beautiful flowing river;   New moon, true moon, bring me something new!"

The rose that matched her youthful blushes
  Fell from her chest, at a stranger's feet;
Just a quick look; but the warm blood rushes
  To cover a lovely face, shy and sweet.

To and fro, while the moon is fading,
  They wander, and the stars shine above;
And one is serious, and one is pretending
  Oh, what is sweeter than a young love?

A young life shattered, and a young heart in pain,
  A cold wind sweeps through the beautiful grove,
And all that’s left of the promises made—
  Is the crushed leaf of a withered flower.

The night is dark, because the moon is dimming--
  And what looks as pale as a fading old moon!
Chilly is the wind through the treetops howling
  It's a shame that the change should happen so quickly.

They stood together at the garden gate;
They heard the night bird calling to its mate;
The sun had set,
And all the vines in the summer shelters,
The long green grasses, and the blooming flowers
Were wet with dew.

The sun's final rays lit up the western sky
And painted the clouds in golden hues
   Stunning and beautiful.
They paused in silence for a moment,
And then he turned, and with a gentle smile
   He took her hand.

"Of all the sweet days we've experienced, my friend,"
He said somewhat sadly, "This will be the end.
I'm sad to leave,
Loving, as I will never love again;
It tears at my heart, and it brings me pain,
But I know well

"I couldn't make you happy with my love,
You, kind-hearted, gentle as a dove,
And I—oh, well!
I can't keep dragging on in this boring life.
How my soul longs for moments of excitement and chaos
No words can express."

"And so I return the promise you made,
I would only pull you to an early grave
   With my turmoil.
You are free; but here at your feet
I leave my heart; oh, may you be, my dear,
   Forever blessed."

She took off the gold ring from her hand
(Worth more to her than any amount of money)
and gave it to him,
And as she quietly and slowly walked away,
Her life, like all that Western sky, turned gray
and cold and harsh.

He walks today, alongside kings on Earth;
He lives in places of celebration and joy,
With no worries at all.
And she—the sun that set for her in the darkest sadness,
And never rose, will rise beyond the grave
And meet her there.

The strings of my heart were tuned by Joy,
  And I laughed when the music filled my ears,
For he and Fun played a happy tune,
  And they played so loud that I couldn’t hear
The crying and sighing of tired souls--
  The sounds of sadness that lingered nearby,
For my heart’s chords rang out bright and joyful,
  And I heard nothing else.

Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
  Played louder and louder in joyful happiness;
But sometimes a discord was noticed by others—
  Though only the rhythm was perceived by me.
Louder and louder, and faster and faster
  The hands of the brothers played one tune after another,
When all of a sudden, a Mighty Master
  Swept them aside; and Pain,

Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,
  Restrings the strings of my quaking heart,
And the music he played was a haunting minor,
  So sorrowful that tears couldn’t help but start;
Each note was a reflection of deep sorrow,
  As piercing as it was serious, as sharp as it was slow,
And my soul for a while seemed to wither,
  And weaken under its heavy load of grief.

With skilled hands that never got tired,
  This Master of Music played one tune after another,
And between the notes of the sad song,
  He pulled the strings of my heart back to life,
And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder,
  To see that they didn’t snap in two.
"They’re pulled so tight they’ll surely break,"
   I thought, but instead, they grew.

In the hands of the Master, steadier and stronger;
  And I could hear in the quiet air--
Now my ears were no longer overwhelmed by joy--
  The sounds of sorrow, and grief, and despair;
And my soul became gentle and kind to others,
  My nature softened, my mind expanded,
And I saw all people as my brothers,
  Bound together by the lessons learned.

My spirit was raised to God and heaven,
  And when the hands of Joy and Pleasure touched my heart again,
There was never a dissonance to disrupt the harmony,
For Pain, the musician, and soul-enhancer,
  Tuned the strings with expert skill,
And whether the music is bright or somber,
  It’s always beautiful and profound.

I heard a soft sound, like a troubled soul praying:   And the winter night winds carried it to me. It was the voice of the doomed city: "Oh, kind snow," it said,   "Come, cover my ruins, so horrific to see. I've lost my beauty, and stripped of my glory;   And the strength I once had—where is it now? I’m down in the dust; and my sad story   Makes dry eyes weep, and unholy lips pray.

"I—I, who have enjoyed glory and authority,
  Am down on my knees, with my face in the dirt;
But yesterday I was a queen, with all the perks of royalty,
  Today I’m grateful for a scrap or a crust.
But yesterday I ruled a grand, powerful city,
  The pride of the nation, the queen of the West;
Today I’m stared at, an object of pity,
  A charity case, begging for scraps, at best."

"My strength, my pride, and my glory are gone,
  My once beautiful features scorched by the fire’s breath,
Is it strange that I feel broken and heartbroken?
  Is it strange that my thoughts dwell on ruin and death?
Oh, white, fluffy clouds hanging above me,
  Listen to my pleas, and respond to my sighs,
And let down the beautiful snow, if you care for me,
  To cover my wounds from all sympathetic eyes.

"I've been thrown from my throne, but I won’t stay down forever;
  I will rise from the ashes; I will overcome my troubles—
But right now, my heart feels like a silent, frozen river;
  When it will thaw and flow again, only God knows.
Oh, spirits of the air! I ask you to create for me
  A cloak of pure white snow and beautiful frost
To cover my ugly ruins; then leave me
  In the care of the one who heals all wounds—'Time.'"

In the warm golden light of the morning,
  She stands at the window,
And watches the strong young workers
  Walk down to the fields of grain,
And she counts again and again
  As they pass by the cottage door:
Are there six? She counts them as seven—
  Are there seven? She counts one more.

When the sun is high in the sky,
  And the harvesters are cheering as they head home,
She calls to the family, saying
  "Hurry! The binders are here!
And Johnnie will want his dinner—
  He's always been a hungry kid;"
And they reply, "Yes, it's ready;"
  Then they say, "Her mind is a bit off."

Again, in the quiet of the evening,
  When the day's work is finished,
And the workers head home singing
  In the last warm rays of the sun,
She will sit at the door waiting,
  And her wrinkled face brightens with joy:
"Come, Johnnie," she says, as they walk by her,
  "Come into the house, my boy."

Five summers ago, her Johnnie
  Set out with the morning's smile,
Singing across the meadow,
  Striding through the corn--
He stood tall above the binders,
  Walking on both sides,
And the mother's heart inside her
  Filled with joyful pride.

For he was the light of the home--
  His brown eyes were deep with truth,
And his face was like the morning,
  Bright with its pure, fresh youth,
And his song echoed from the hilltops
  Like the warm sound of a horn,
As he walked over the freshly cut meadows,
  And through the rows of corn.

But the voices of singing were silent,
  Silenced by the presence of death,
As they carried him back to the cottage--
  In the scorching heat of noon,
For the sun's heat had killed him,
  Had struck down the heart in his chest,
And he who had stood above them
  Now lay lower than all the rest.

The grain ripens in the sunlight,
  And the summers come and go,
And the harvesters head out to work
  And sing as they move to and fro;
But never again from the hilltops
  Does a sound ring out like a horn;
Never from the meadows,
  Never back from the corn.

Yet the poor, troubled mind of the mother
  Imagines him always close;
She finds comfort in her odd illusion,
  For she feels no pain or fear,
And she always counts the binders
  As they walk by her cottage door;
If there are six, she counts them as seven:
  If there are seven, she counts one more.

Nine o'clock, and the sun shines bright and warm,
Like it's a holiday. I wish it would storm:
Wish the thunder would boom,
And the red lightning flash,
And wrap around the dark clouds with its serpentine tongue.
The day is too calm for someone to be hanged.
Hanged! Ugh, what a word!
The most cruel and awful sound anyone has ever heard.

He has killed, stolen, and robbed, or so "they say";
He's been a plague on the country for a long time.
He was wild and unpredictable;
No man, woman, or child
Showed any mercy or compassion when he crossed their path;
He was worse than a wild animal in his rage.
And yet—to be hanged,
Oh, my God! to be swung
By the neck back and forth for the crowd to watch—
The thought makes me sick.

Thirty minutes past nine. How time flies,
But half an hour is left; at ten he will die.
Die? No! he'll be murdered!
For God never intended
For men to die like this.
"Vengeance is mine," He says, "I will take care of it."
Yet what could be done
With this wild, untamed one!
No prison could contain him, and so—he must hang,
It's a terrible thing!

Outcast, Desperado, Fiend, Knave; all of these
And more. But call him whatever you want,
I can’t forget
He’s still a mortal man:
That he was once a baby, quieted to sleep,
And cuddled and held, close to a woman’s warm chest.
He was sung to and rocked,
And when he first walked
With his tiny little feet, he was adored and told
He was "mom’s favorite, worth his weight in gold."
And this is the end
Of a God-given life. Just think about it, friend!

Hey! Do you hear that chime? It's the clock striking ten.
The heavy weight drops down, sounding like "Amen."
Does murder pay for murder? Do two wrongs make it right?
Oh, that awful sight!
I'm locked in my room and have covered my face,
But the terrifying scene has followed me to this place.
I see that strange thing,
Like a clock pendulum swinging Back and forth, in the air, back and forth, to and fro.
Just a moment ago
It was a man, made in God's image! Now hide it, kind grave.
What a terrible end to the life that God gave.

When I'm gone, if someone who has learned from life,
Looks at the "item," or hears it mentioned
That my role is finished and I'm done,
  And I'm resting in my small grave—
If I could know that someone would say,
  Either out loud or just in their mind,
"Through the heat and struggles of the day,
  She offered me a refreshing drink;"

Or, "When I was close to death
  She cared for me back to health and strength,
And when I fought and struggled to breathe
  She eased my pain and calmed me down;"
Or, "When I was wandering in sadness and uncertainty,
  Lost, and turned away from the daylight,
Her hand reached out to help me find my way
  And guided me to a better path;"

Or, "When everyone hated and rejected me,
  Burdened by my guilt and shame,
She, as she casually walked by, shared
  Words of sympathy and hope that came
Into my heart like a soothing peace
  Over the turbulent waves of the sea,
Words of reassurance, like oil and balm,
  She spoke, and the barren land bloomed for me;"

Better than a marble tomb—
  Than a monument towering over my head
(What will I care, in my quiet room,
  For headboard or footboard when I'm gone?);
Better than glory, or honors, or fame
  (Though I’m working for those today),
To know that some heart would cherish my name
  And think of me kindly, with blessings, always.

Across the wet field we look,
  To woodlands, painted gold and brown;
To hills that are hidden in purple mist,
  And proudly wear Autumn's crown.
Oh, glorious Autumn! beautiful, we know,
  And yet we can't truly see her that way.

The flowers had their short time;
  The grasses and the trees with green leaves.
They lived, aged, and faded away.
  And still, not content with this,
The ruthless Autumn couldn't leave
  Without this final blow. Oh no!

"Unfortunately," we say, because God's ways
  Seem so different from ours,
And as we mourn through the nights and days,
  We don’t realize that His love was revealed
In bringing to His "Harvest Home"
  Our loved one, to spare them from future sorrow.

Oh, tears! She won't have to cry!
  Oh, woes! She won't have to endure!
For her, who fell asleep so soon,
  No wrinkled face, no gray hair.
And yet we would have given her these,
  Instead of heavenly victories.

How weak the strongest human love!
How selfish in its tenderness!
How God's angelic hosts above
Must wonder at our blind suffering!
We still see her as serious, dark, and dim,
And they see only Heaven and Him.

Perpetual youth! Oh, priceless gift!
Forever young: never old!
How can we say she left too early?
What if life's story was only half told?
Wiser than all of earth's seers today,
Is this beautiful soul that passed away.

Magician, wise person, thinker,
  With all their extensive knowledge put together,
Are just infants, compared to her:
  This soul, that let go of the "past"
And, "striving for what’s ahead,"
  Found God, through Christ, for eternity.

Brave heart, your resting place has now been made
  For a year beneath the grass,
Dappled by sunshine and by shade,
  Where every passing breeze
Quietly sings and sighs along,
  Filled with sorrow in its tone,
Not realizing how your blessed brow
  Shines with a Christ-like glow.

Do spirits linger in the air?
  Do our beloved departed ones never
Float on the gentle breezes nearby
  From the endless beyond!
Somehow today my thoughts will drift
  To you, oh friend, in rest!
You feel so close, I sense you here,
  One of the angelic crowd.

Oh, face I’ve never seen!
  Oh, peaceful, dreamless sleeper!
How odd that when you moved on
With death, the great reaper,
I missed you so much. Do angels know,
  High up in the City's beauty,
When hearts on earth cherish their value,
  And are they happy, I wonder?

Oh Bird of Hope! Fly not too high
  Because the skies are clear;
The storm may approach quickly
  And take you down from here.

When high above the mountain peaks
  You soar over everything,
If the storm should push you back,
How massive would be your fall!

And you would lie here at my feet,
  A poor and lifeless thing--
A torn and bleeding little bird, with
  A limp and broken wing.

Don't sing too loudly, oh bird of Hope!
  Because the day is bright;
The sunshine won't last forever—
  The morning comes before the night.

And if your song is about the day,
  Then when the day gets dark,
Lost and silent you would sit
  Among the dark shadows.

Oh! I want you to rise and sing,
  But not too high or loud:
Remember that day meets night--
  The bright sun meets the cloud.

There are ghosts in the room,
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there
They emerge from the shadows
And they stand next to me, leaning on my chair.

There's the ghost of a Hope
That brightened my days with a dreamy light;
In her hand is the rope
That took her life away. Hope was killed long ago.

But her ghost comes tonight,
With its bony face and blank eyes,
And it stands in the light
And mocks me, laughing at me with sobs and sighs.

There's a ghost of joy,
A weak, delicate thing, and I valued it too highly,
   And the hands that break
Held it tight, and it perished from the withering touch.

There's the ghost of a love,
Born with Joy, raised with Hope, died in pain and unrest;
But he stands above
All the others—this ghost: still just a ghost at best.

I am tired, and I want
To forget all these dead: but the whispering crowd
Makes the struggle pointless.
In every shadowy corner, there's a ghost lurking.

Out of the midnight, dark and void of stars,
Into the morning's bright golden light;
Out of the grip of wrong and chaos,
Into the embrace of truth and goodness;
Out of the routes that lead to sorrow;
Out of the trails that cause pain—
Yes! from the depths, a soul has risen,
And "one who was lost is found again!"

Lost in the sands of a horrible desert!
  Lost in a land of cursed imps,
With the bones of a victim to mark his path,
  And burning lava to satisfy his thirst.
Lost in the darkness, wandering in the shadows—
  Father above, are our prayers in vain?
Listen! On the winds come happy news:
  Look, "he who was lost is found again."

Found! and the sunlight of God's great mercy
  Drives away the darkness and brings the morning;
Found! and the angels of the dear Redeemer
Are joyfully celebrating a soul reborn.
Rescued, like a brand pulled from the fire;
  Cleansed, like a garment made pure;
Saved—oh, pray God—now and forever—
  Lost for a time, but found once more.

"From the depths," by the grace of heaven,
  Out of the depths of sorrow and shame.
And he removes his name from the list of drunks,
  To etch it again on the peak of glory,
"Wine is deceiving, strong drink is wild"—
  Praise to God, he has broken the chain
That held him with shackles of steel and iron;
  And "he who was lost is found again."

Down with the cup, even if it shines like rubies!
  Down with the glass, even if it sparkles and shines!
"It bites like a snake and stings like a viper"—
  There is shame, sorrow, and woe in wine.
Sharp as a sword can be, and deadly its purpose,
  The wine cup has claimed three times as many lives.
God, send your grace upon those it has trapped;
  God, let the lost be found again.

My life is filled with painful regrets,
  Today I was reflecting on them,
And considering all that I could have been
  If I had just lived without them.
So many times I've made my plans,
  Only to mess them up while acting;
And much of the work that the world praises
  Has left me with reasons to regret.

Each thing I do is like a quickly written letter;
  Full of good ideas maybe, but the mistakes
  Show that it could be improved.
I’ve wanted the world’s approval and dreamed
  Of it giving me praise and awe,
But my highest goal and best-laid plans
  Were always ruined by an error.

I feel like I’ve lived too far from God,
Not that I ever doubt Him,
But because I’ve relied too much on my own strength, I’ve tried
To do some things without Him.
And so we’ll always make mistakes,
And we’ll always regret our errors,
Until we reach out for the Guiding Hand,
Whatever we may be doing.

Whenever I feel doubt or uncertainty—
I remind myself, and say, "That powerful One
Who created the solar system can’t make mistakes—
And everything is happening for a reason."
Who placed the stars on their eternal paths
Has shaped this unusual earth by a reliable plan.
Bow down, bow down to those incredible forces
And don’t dare to question their wisdom—tiny human.

You can't make a single star move,
   You can't change even one forest leaf,
Nor raise a mountain up, nor drain an ocean,
   Arrogant little one, filled with disbelief.
You can't create a single glorious dawn
   Nor command the day to fade into twilight,
Nor send the pale moon out with gentle glow,
   And how can you doubt the One who has done it all?

"So much is wrong, there is so much pain—so much sin."
Yet look again—see how much is right!
And He who created the world from the start
Knows how to lead it upward to the light.
Your task, O person, is not to complain and criticize
At God's work, but with a strong purpose
To hold on to good and turn away from evil—
That is the way to help the world move forward.

The God of the day has disappeared,
  The light from the hills has gone,
And the hand of an unseen artist,
  Is painting the West all red.
All mixed with gold and crimson,
  And shining with amber dye,
And edged with purple shadows,
  The glory flames high.

Fair, beautiful world of ours!
  Fair, beautiful world, but oh,
How darkened by pain and sorrow,
  How blackened by sin and woe.
The splendor fades in the heavens
  And dies in a golden glow,
And alone in the silence of twilight,
  I sit, in a jumbled dream.

I think about the souls that are lost,
  In shadows as dark as night,
Of hands that are searching blindly
  For the shining light;
Of hearts that are silently crying,
  And hoping for just one ray,
To guide them out of the darkness,
  Into a brighter way.

I think about the Father’s kids
  Who are trying to walk on their own,
Who have let go of the Parent’s hand,
  And are lost in paths unknown.
Oh, the roads are tough and prickly,
  And I know they can’t hold on.
They will get weak and drop along the way,
  Without the guidance of God’s strong hand.

And I think about the souls that are longing
  To pursue what's good and true;
That are trying to live pure,
  Yet don’t know what to do.
And I wonder when God, the Master,
  Will put an end to this tiring struggle,
And guide us out of the darkness
  Into eternal life.

Whoever you are reading this,
  No matter what trouble or pain you’re facing,
I want you to know and pay attention to this:
  Relief is coming soon.

No sadness, no pain lasts forever,
  Even if heaven seems silent and still;
Just as your cry rises up,
  An answer will definitely come.

Whatever temptation is around you,
  Whose eyes land on this simple verse;
Remember that good angels will hear you
  And help you stand if you ask.

Though overwhelmed with despair, I plead with you,
  No matter your losses or your needs,
Trust that when these printed words find you,
  Know that you were meant to succeed.

You are stronger, I tell you, right now,
  Than any unfortunate fate!
And the prize you desire—you can achieve it;
  As long as you live, it's never too late!

Too sweet and too subtle for writing or for speaking
In words unwritten and tunes unsung,
As deep and as strange as the sounds of the ocean,
Is the song that my soul is singing to me.

In the midnight and storm when the forest trees shake,
In the crash of the waves and the flow of the river,
In the whisper of leaves and the drop of the rain,
And in the gentle breezes, I hear the melody.

From the mist that surrounds and wraps the earth,
And beyond, from the places where my soul originated,
From the haze of the land and the fogs of the ocean,
Forever and always, the song reaches me.

I don't know its exact words—but I get its meaning—
Because the rhythm is off, the flow is weak,
When I'm bothered or tempted by the things in this life,
My soul gets caught up in its pleasures or struggles.

When I reach the hilltops of beauty and light
My soul soars like a lark in the sky,
And the white gates of heaven shine brighter and closer,
The song of my spirit becomes sweeter and clearer.

Up, up to the places where no human has walked--
Into space and infinity close to my God--
With brightness, and quiet, and lovely things,
I am carried when the voice of eternity sings.

When the winds or the raindrops come your way
Your spirit will listen and catch the melody,
Your soul will lift like a bird in the wind,
And the things that once brought you joy will no longer do so.

And now when poets are singing
  Their song of long ago,
And now, when the land is buzzing
  With sweet Centennial tunes,
My muse drifts back in time
  To the foundation of all this,
To the time when our Pilgrim Fathers
  Crossed the winter seas.

The sons of a powerful kingdom,
  They came from a refined people,
Born in luxury and grandeur,
  Grew up in it every day.
Children of beauty and grace,
  Raised under peaceful skies,
Where daisies and hawthorn bloomed
  And the ivy stayed forever green.

And still, for the sake of freedom,
  For a free faith,
They left behind their homes and loved ones,
  And faced death directly.
They turned away from a cruel ruler
  And stood on the shore of a new world,
With a vast ocean behind them,
  And an empty land ahead.

Oh, men of a great Republic;
  Of a land of immense value;
Of a nation that has no match
  On God's vast, green earth;
I hear you sighing and crying
  About the tough times ahead;
What do you think of those old heroes,
  On the rock between sea and land?

The bells of countless churches
  Are ringing out tonight,
And the sparkle of palace windows
  Lights up the whole land;
And there’s home and school,
  And here’s the party and dance,
And the angels of peace and freedom
  Are watching over everything.

They had no church, no school,
  No banks, no mining shares;
They only had the wasteland in front of them,
  The ocean and Plymouth Rock.
But there in the night and storm,
  With darkness all around,
They built the first foundation
  Of a nation big and proud.

There were no weak complaints,
  No avoiding what could happen,
But with their faces to the storm,
  And with their backs to the ocean,
They envisioned a great future,
  And laid the foundation stone
Of the largest, greatest republic
  The world has ever seen.

Oh, women living in luxury,
  Oh delicate and beautiful lily buds,
With riches at your fingertips,
  And milk-white pearls in your hair,
I hear you yearning and sighing
  For some new, fresh joy;
But what about those Pilgrim mothers
  On that December night?

I hear you talking about struggles,
I hear you complaining about what’s lost,
Each has her imagined pain,
Each carries her own burden.
But they, they only had their husbands,
The rain, the rock, and the sea;
Yet, they looked up to God and praised Him,
And felt joy because they were free.

Oh, great old Pilgrim heroes,
  Oh, souls that were tested and true,
With all of our proud possessions
  We feel humbled thinking of you.
Men of such strength and power,
  Women so brave and strong,
Whose faith was solid as mountains,
  Through a night so dark and long.

We know about your serious, heavy mistakes,
  As husbands and as wives;
About the strict, harsh ideas
  That drained your daily lives;
About the bottled-up emotions,
  Of feelings crushed and repressed,
That God created with the heart
  In every human being.

We know about the small remnants
  Of British oppression,
When you hunted Quakers and witches,
  And hung them from a tree;
Yet back to a righteous cause,
  To live in the fear of God,
To a purpose bright and noble,
  To walk where martyrs walked.

We can track your biggest mistakes.
Your goal was clear and certain;
And even if your actions were extreme,
we know your intentions were good.
You lived so close to heaven,
you exceeded your limits,
and thought of yourselves as creators,
forgetting that you were just dust.

But we, with our bigger perspectives,
  With our wider range of thoughts,
I often think it would be better
  If we lived as our fathers taught.
Their lives felt dull and strict,
  Limited and lacking vitality;
Our minds have too much freedom,
  And our conscience too much space.

They went too far in their duty,
  They neglected their hearts for what’s right;
We focus too much on our senses,
  We linger too long in the light.
They demonstrated their faith in Him
  The image of God in humans;
And we, by our love of freedom,
  Support a Darwinian scheme.

But bigotry hit its limit,
  And freedom must take control,
And both will lead to gain
  For those in a future time.
With the chains of slavery gone,
  And freedom's banner raised,
Our nation moves forward and upward,
  And stands equal to the world.

Towers, domes, and steeples
  Shine from coast to coast;
The waters are bustling with trade,
  The land is filled with resources;
Peace is watching over us,
  And Abundance, with loaded hands,
Joined to strong Work,
  Is singing all across the land.

Then let each child of the nation
  Who takes pride in being free,
Remember the Pilgrim Fathers
  Who stood on the rock by the sea;
For there in the rain and storm
  Of a night long gone by,
They planted the seeds of a harvest
  We gather in bundles today.

Something feels off this warm spring;
There's no sweet scent in its soft breeze;
And the wild birds cry in their songs,
While all the bees buzz about death and loss—
Something feels off on the earth. One morning
The angels called out a new name;
A spirit soldier joined their ranks,
And all of Christ's army welcomed the pure young soul.

He died. Two simple words, but only God
Can grasp the terrible depths of sorrow
They carry for those who face the end,
Praying for strength from Him who dealt the blow.
He died. The soldier who fought bravely and hard,
Who faced Death on the battlefield,
Amidst the roaring guns—the screeching shells—
In toxic prison camps—and would not give in.

For six months, he suffered there,
   And yet he survived; oh, young heart, strong and brave!
Thank God, who answered the repeated prayers;
   Thank God, he doesn’t rest in a Southern grave;
That when he passed, his loved ones gathered near,
   And eased the pain of those last, sorrowful hours;
That gentle hands can care for the cherished spot
   All green with moss and blooming with flowers.

He was so young and beautiful; and life was wonderful.
May Christ give the mourners strength to cope.
He went to join the ranks of Heaven.
God sent the angel of Death to lift him up.
So young, beautiful, and brave; so loved by everyone;
The once-young child’s veteran, now bent and gray— The eyes grew dim, and bitter tears fell
On the grave where the soldier's body rests.

Oh! it’s comforting to know that God knows best,
Who called this brother, friend, and son in his youth,
And it’s comforting to lean against the Savior's chest,
And looking up, say, "May Your will be done."
But something feels off in the gentle spring;
There's no fragrance in its soft breath,
And there are sobs in the songs that wild birds sing,
And all the bees hum about the grave and death.

These calm autumn days,
My soul, like Noah's dove, takes to the skies
And goes out, searching for the hidden things
Beyond the misty hills.

With sorrowful, desperate cries,
Above the waters of the silent sea
That kisses the shores of Eternity,
  Day after day, it flies.

Searching, but all in vain,
For some random leaf that it might land on
And read the future like it used to—
  Its joys and its sorrows.

Listening patiently,
For a voice coming from the deep,
Revealing all the secrets it holds
  In silence, waiting for me.

Come back and wait, my soul!
Day after day your search has been pointless.
Voiceless and silent over the pain of the future,
  Its mysterious waters roll.

God sees and knows best,
And day by day the waters will recede,
And you will understand what’s underneath the waves;
  So wait, my soul, and find peace.

She sits by the window. Everyone who walks by
  Glances back to admire her beautiful face.
She is so lovely; but soon, too soon, sadly,
  She'll lie down in her final resting place.

No gems shine brighter than her sparkling eyes,
  Her forehead like smooth marble, light and fair--
Her cheeks as radiant as the sunset skies--
  You wouldn’t guess that death was hiding there.

But, oh! he stays right by her side,
  And when the forest puts on her Autumn outfit,
We know he’ll take her as his bride,
  And the earth will have one less beautiful spirit.

She sees the meadow dressed in the lushest green--
  The laughing stream--the willows bowing over.
With tear-filled eyes she looks at each natural scene,
  And thinks the earth has never been this beautiful before.

We don’t long for Heaven until we’ve experienced,
  Some sorrow, some grief, and pain,
And like a summer day, her life has passed.
  So can we really be surprised she’s hesitant to leave?

She has no friends in Heaven: they’re all here.
  No loved ones are waiting for her in that unknown place,
And life becomes even sweeter and more precious
  As day by day, she approaches the mysterious shore.

We love her and it's hard to see her leave.
  But it's Christ who welcomes her with open arms,
And He will meet her, and soon she will experience
  The joys of those who live among the blessed.

The shadows of a winter night were settling,
  The snow was piling up at my cottage door--
And the winds were howling loudly,
  When a stranger arrived, lonely, rejected, and broke!

Came to my warm fireplace, all humbly asking
  For food and shelter until the day broke--
But to every word he said, I ignored him,
  And sent him away and told him to keep going.

I have six little ones to protect from harm;
  I have a pillow for each beloved head;
But nothing to spare for a needy stranger—
  And "charity starts at home," I said.

All fierce and loud, the winter wind was howling,
  Like a lost spirit, it felt doomed to die;
While at some door it made its endless wailing,
  I found my pillow, and I slept and dreamed.

I dreamed I was standing at Heaven's gate, pleading,
  Crying and sobbing for what lies beyond;
While in the darkness I stood, my heart racing,
  Asking the angel guard to let me through.

Finally, I heard the shiny hinges creaking,
  And saw the wonders that words can't describe.
In front of me, all the colors of Heaven shining,
  Behind me, all the darkness of death and hell.

I tried to get in, but a voice like thunder shouted,
"Don't come any closer, oh! you sinful soul."
And I shrank back in terrible fear and amazement,
because I had planned to walk in confidently.

Again the voice cried, "When I was in pain and distress,
I looked for refuge at your warm hearth,
You sent me away, naked and hungry to suffer,
And wander tiredly upon the earth.

"Leave this place, you selfish sinful human,
  A blemish on heaven's perfect face;
You will never be able to pass through the shining gates,
  You didn’t know me, and now I don’t know you."

I sit in the soft twilight,
  At the end of a lazy day,
And listen to the gentle, lovely tune
  That floats from far away
And fades in the evening breeze.
  Oh, all day long,
  They sing their song,
Who work in the valley there.

But I never sing a song,
  Sitting with my hands folded,
The hours drift by--
  Dropping their golden sands--
And I listen from day to day,
  To the "tick, tick, tock,"
  Of the old brown clock,
Ticking my life away.

And I watch the twilight disappear,
  And I see the night setting in,
And then, in the darkness and shadows,
  I cry for the day that's passed—
Cry and moan in sorrow,
  For the wasted day
  That has slipped away,
And won’t return again.

Another morning shines,
  But I forget the last,
And sit in my idle thoughts
  Until the day is done--gone.
Oh, the worker's heart is happy!
  When the day is over
  And night falls,
But mine is heavy and blue.

For I can't bear to look back!
  No bright, golden harvests
Can I ever expect to discover:
  Nothing but dried-up leaves.
Ah! dreams are so beautiful!
  But will it make any difference
  If these
I place at the Master's feet?

And what will the Master say,
  To dreams and nothing else?
Oh, slacker all day long!
  Consider, before your life is done!
And when the day gets late,
  Oh, soul of sin,
  Will He welcome you in
There at the pearly gate?

Oh, lazy heart, be careful!
  Come on, to the battleground!
To the valley there,
  And make your life meaningful.
Get up! Don’t wait another day!
  Because the old brown clock,
  With its "tick, tick, tock,"
Is counting down your life.

I know a "righteous Christian,"
  (That is, he thinks he is one,)
He goes to church on Sunday
  And thinks he's done his part.
And always at prayer meeting,
  He sighs, groans, and prays;
And talks about the sinners,
  And warns them to change their ways.

And many of his neighbors,
  He knows are headed for hell;
Although they love their Master,
  And do their job well.
But they pray in private,
  And don’t sit in a "pew,"
And he’s sure they won’t be counted
  Among God’s chosen few.

He urges people to be careful
  And avoid getting caught up in worldly conflicts.
He believes that chasing after wealth
  Is the worst thing in this life.
"Do good," he shouts, "with your money,
  Those of you who have extra,"
And he delivers quite a sermon,
  And wraps it up with a prayer.

Well! he has bonds with interest payments,
  And a lot of cash available,
And when the fierce Fire Demon,
  Charged through our area,
The neighborhood was surveyed,
  For money, clothes, and food,
To send to the starving people,
  And the man who shouts, "Do good,"--

My preaching, praying Christian,
  Now proudly claims,
"Those begging, sponging rascals,
  Didn't get a dime from me!
I don't buy their stories,
  About the suffering poor,
The thieves were just after cash,
  And I kicked them out the door."

Oh, to have such a facade!
  May a curse be on his wealth,
And the cries of a hundred people,
  Hungry, naked, and cold,
Ring in his ears for eternity;
  And the words his deceitful lips utter
Fall on deaf ears in heaven,
  From now until Judgment Day.

Oh "hypocrites and liars!"
  Your prayers disrespect God's name!
And if the angels hear them,
  They feel embarrassed for you,
And even though you trick others,
  With the holy mask you put on;
The hosts of heaven see through it,
  And they know your real value there.

The vast sky above, like an ancient tapestry
  On old walls, was beautifully colored—except
The calm, clear west, which looked like a sea
  Of the clearest crystal—golden wave after wave.
"Oh love," she whispered, "open the blinds wide,
  And let me witness the beauty of the West;
Right over the sea, my soul will discover—
  What is never found here—find peace and rest."

Deeper and darker, the bright clouds expanded,
  And red and amber streaks pierced through the North.
The very light of heaven was shining through
  The clear West. She stretched out her slender hand
And a strange glow fell upon her face;
  And her dark eyes shone with a heavenly light.
I knew it came from God's celestial realm,
  Where there is no sorrow, death, or night.

"Oh love!" she cried, "my restless spirit longs
  To escape this earthly life and cross the sea,
Look! how the whole sky transforms into molten gold;
  And see that white hand signaling to me.
Oh love, my love, this isn't death, to depart
  At this lovely hour across the golden tide;
To let go of all my worries, and from now on know
  Only the joys of that other side."

The angel took the tapestries away,
  And rolled them up in heaven, out of sight,
Leaving the ordinary walls of dull gray
  To catch the dews and damp fogs of the night.
The west wind played on his dulcimer.
  I leaned over her couch, holding my breath;
"Oh love," I said, as I looked down at her,
  "Surely, your words were true, this is not death!"

Thank God for men! I hear the shout
From east and west rise up, and out.
Thank God for men whose hearts are true;
For men who boldly dare and do.
For men who can’t be bought or sold,
Who value honor more than gold,
For large-hearted, noble-minded men,
For men whose visions aren’t clouded
By selfish goals: men who will fight
With words or weapons for what is right;
For men whom threats can never intimidate,
For men who dare to use their power
To protect what’s right and punish wrong
Even when their enemies are bold and strong;
For men who work with hearts and hands
For what the public good demands.
Bless God the grateful people say,
Such men haven't all disappeared.

Thank God, there are still enough people left, at least
To silence the beast
That roams our land from coast to coast
And robs the strong of their power,
Takes food from children, steals wise people's thoughts,
And leaves them trapped in helpless chains;
Creates sin and sorrow, shame and misery,
Wherever its cloven foot may tread.
This is the mission of the beast
Whose greedy keepers sit and indulge
In fancy foods that were bought
With blood, and tears, and God only knows what.
Keepers who laugh when women weep,
Who grin while children starve and die,
If only they can gain one more penny
To add to their ill-gotten wealth.

From the south, north, west, and east,
The people shouted: "Restrict the beast!
Constrain the monster Alcohol,
Before he takes everything from us."

Thank God, the heartfelt cry was heard,
And the hearts of noble men were stirred,
And even though a weak group fell down
Before the keeper's threatening glare,
There were enough left—a bold, brave few,
Smart and strong-hearted men who were true,
Men who stood tall and didn’t fear
The villain's threats, the coward's sneer;
Enough to silence with the law
The worst beast the world has ever seen.
Thank God, thank God, the people say.
True men haven’t all gone away.

Upon a couch carefully arranged for her rest
  The maiden Mable lies
Her long, bright hair is braided in smooth bands—
  A tangle of stranded gold that mortal eyes

May, thinking, look for a moment;
That human hands might touch a few more times.
Her calm lips curve into a gentle, faint smile;
As if the wonders of that magical place

When they first found her spirit eyes--
  All the amazing beauties of that hidden path--
Had filled her with a sense of wonder and joy,
  And left a satisfied look on her face.

Her two delicate hands are crossed over her chest--
  Two forms of wax on a patch of snow.
And they’ve dressed her for her tranquil rest.
  Not in the dreaded shroud--that mark of sorrow,

But in that outfit we loved to see her wear;
  A dark blue dress, made by her own hand.
I wonder, as I see her lying there,
   If God will give her spirit a place in His land.

Another shape. She could not be more beautiful.
I think he won’t change her form or face,
But with the same long, flowing, golden hair
She will kneel down before the throne of grace,

And wipe God's feet; her dark eyes will gaze
Up at Christ's face and touch Him with her hand,
And with her own sweet voice, she’ll sing God’s praise
And still be the fairest in the angel band.

Over the chaotic ocean of life
  We sail until night falls.
We sail and sail in a small boat,
  Drifting wherever the waves take us.
Out on the dangerous sea,
  Buffeted by the harsh winds that blow,
Our boat is pulled this way and that,
  Until the day fades and the night arrives.

Over a meadow of light and shadow
  We walk with tired feet,
Looking for a trinket people call "Fame,"
  Reaching for the dead-end fruit called "wealth,"
Finding each to be just an empty name,
  And the night— the night quietly creeps in.
And we count the time of sweet slumber,
  When hope lies lifeless in the embrace of defeat.

Over the river lies a vast Forever,
  Stretching out of our view.
But I know by the shining pearly gates
  Far from the land of conflict and sin,
A lovely angel is always there
  To welcome the shepherd's flock in.
And out of the darkness of despair and night,
  They move into the home of peace and light.

My heart, which was happy before
  (So much God gives to make it so)
This golden afternoon feels sad
  And burdened with someone else's pain;
And as a stranger, I really
  Want to send some comfort for her suffering.

My conversations with Sorrow have been short;
  She brushed against my robe as she moved by—
And when I've happened to run into Grief,
  He's looked away as he walked past.
Yet, through someone else's pain, I notice
  Sometimes a hint of what might happen.

And among all the sorrows that people experience--
  Of all that hurt the human heart,
There doesn’t seem to be any other pain
  Like the one that tears the soul apart,
When a loving mother witnesses death’s darkness
  Closing her baby’s eyes to the world.

The baby cherished through pain and fear
  That she endured for its sake,
The baby she watched over with tears,
  Or sat through lonely nights awake.
And sang some gentle lullaby—
  And all for this—to see it die.

And thinking of that suffering person,
  Who today mourns a double loss,
Who sees a shadow over the sun
  Cast by her burdensome cross--
And thinking about how her weary arms hurt--
  I shed some tears for her sorrowful sake.

Yet in the bright, clear sunlight--
In beautiful, fragrant flowers,
I believe God places these pure souls,
And returns them to us in bloom.
That's how we have the light and flowers,
By letting go of these buds of ours.

In every golden, shining ray,
  In every gentle, opening leaf,
Sad mother, you might find today
  Some small comfort in your grief.
God allows them to ease your pain,
  Until you’re together in the skies again.

Aged 6 years and 5 months; died July 4, 1875.

With eyes that can barely see through tears,
  We look back over the brief time
Of baby Charlie's life. It's been six years
  Since we first saw his face.

Six years since the angel band
  Our little cherub drifted away.
We didn't know or understand
  He was just borrowed, and couldn't stay.

We gazed into his beautiful eyes,
  So big, so expressive, and so profound,
And knew he came from heaven above,
  And felt that he was ours to hold.

But angels missed him around the Throne
And before his earthly years reached seven,
Christ called him, leaving us alone,
To direct our grieving hearts to Heaven.

For now, no matter what happens,
  Wealth, success, recognition, earthly happiness,
No place can feel like home to us,
  Except where Charlie is.

Life couldn't feel so warm, so bright,
  No situation brings such joy,
But that our thoughts each morning and night
  Would turn to Heaven and our boy.

The idea that we might see him there,
  And stroll with him on the heavenly path
Is the only thing that keeps us from despair,
  And brings us comfort through our pain.

For Arthur, who remains below,
  There are many difficult paths to walk.
His lips must taste of sorrow and pain;
  Not so with Charlie, who has passed away.

For Arthur, there will be, at best,
  Many hours of darkness and sadness;
For Charlie, living with the blessed,
  Only joy, through an endless tomorrow.

Walking the golden streets above,
  He watches over us endlessly.
God grant that through Christ's redeeming love,
  We may still meet him on that shore.

The idea of death is quite comforting--
  The grave holds no coldness or darkness
For those who have a child to reunite with
  In vibrant, lively fields beyond.