Collected by
Montrose L. Barnet
Published by
Acmegraph Company
Chicago
Copyright 1911
The Acmegraph Co.
Contents
Abou ben Adhem
"There are loyal hearts..."
Press On
Daffodils
Serenity
Onward
To Live
Concord Hymn
"Wouldst shape a noble life?"
"Though to-day may not fulfill"
At the End of all Desire
Judge Not
Be Strong?
"Who looks to heaven..."
Where Ignorance is Bliss
The Brave at Home
Love of Country
Fair Ines
"Be though the rainbow..."
Action
"Westward the star of empire..."
On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America
The Arrow and the Song
"The summer vanishes..."
Courage
"All is of God..."
Loss of the Royal George
Character
O, Captain! My Captain!
Forbearance
L'Envoi
"If you and I..."
Pippa's Song
Song
"The common problem..."
At Nightfall
"Ah, be not false"
"Let us love so well"
My Creed
Victory
A Prayer
A Psalm of Life
"High thoughts and noble in all lands"
"So I will trudge with heart elate"
Service
"Whichever way the wind doth blow"
Faith
The World Over
It's Raining Violets
Action
Clear the Way
"If you have gracious words to say"
How Sleep the Brave
Warren's Address
Worth
The Chambered Nautilus
"If I can stop one heart from breaking"
"He taught us"
The Task of Happiness
Three Kinds of Courage
Friendship
"O! joyous day! O! Smile of God"
Friends
"We just shake hands at meeting"
The Rosary of my Years
Mercy
Haste Not, Rest Not
Freedom
Character of a Happy Life
The Splendor Falls
Lead Kindly Light
The Rosary
The Spring of Love
Times go by Turns
Opportunity
"The star of the unconquered will"
Service
When the Birds go North Again
Balancing
"Believe not each accusing tongue"
The Inevitable
Sympathy
Come Good or Evil
"Then let us smile..."
Resolve
The Sluggard
Crossing the Bar
Young and Old
"Yes, they whose feet..."
When in Disgrace
"But in the mud..."
Mizpah
Twenty Years Ago
"'Tis not the weight of jewel or plate..."
Introduction
The poems contained in this volume have been carefully selected from the vast storehouse of poetical works, and comprise only those that I feel will be helpful and pleasure-giving. The poetical gems contained herein are teeming with life and inspiration and will touch a responsive chord in all who may read them. It is hoped that this book may become a "ready reference" volume that will be found pleasurable in times of joy, and strengthening in the vicissitudes of daily life. Each poem is selected with the idea of lifting us out of the commonplace—up to the plane of higher and better living. This uplifting influence, combined with the inspiration that comes only from such a source, will make us better and happier men and women. Many of these poems have long been the "favorites" of the lovers of poetry, and it is the hope of the editor that these masterpieces of the poets may be brought within easy reach of all—without necessitating a reference to large and cumbersome volumes.
I hope that this book may be found by many a fountain of inspiration and exalted pleasure—a means of sweetening solitude or animating friendly intercourse. May it be a companion of good and beautiful thoughts that will teach us to love and appreciate with enduring life—these our poets—who have given us their best, that we thereby might be strengthened, encouraged and beautified.
—M.L.B.
Abou ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold:
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still, and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
—Leigh Hunt
"There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave,
There are souls that are pure and true;
Then give to the world the best you have,
And the best will come to you.
Give love, and love to your heart will flow,
A strength in your utmost need;
Have faith, and a score of hearts will show
Their faith in your word and deed."
"It is easy enough to be pleasant
When life flows by like a song,
But the man worth while is the man who will smile
When everything goes dead wrong;
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that comes with the praise of earth
Is the smile that shines through tears."
Press on! Surmount the rocky steeps,
Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch;
He fails alone who feebly creeps,
He wins who dares the hero's march.
Be thou a hero! Let thy might
Tramp on eternal snows its way,
And through the ebon walls of night
Hew down a passage unto day.
Press on! If once and twice thy feet
Slip back and stumble, harder try;
From him who never dreads to meet
Danger and death they're sure to fly.
To coward ranks the bullet speeds,
While on their breasts who never quail,
Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds,
Bright courage like a coat of mail.
Press on! If Fortune play thee false
To-day, to-morrow she'll be true;
Whom now she sinks she now exalts,
Taking old gifts and granting new,
The wisdom of the present hour
Makes up the follies past and gone;
To weakness strength succeeds, and power
From frailty springs! Press on, press on!
—Park Benjamin.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company;
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
—William Wordsworth.
Here's a sigh to those who love me
And a smile to those who hate;
And whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
—Lord Byron.
We are living, we are dwelling,
In a grand and awful time,
In an age on ages telling
To be living is sublime.
Hark! the waking up of nations,
Gog and Magog to the fray.
Hark! what soundeth is creation
Groaning for its latter day.
Will ye play then, will ye dally
With your music and your wine?
Up! it is Jehovah's rally!
God's own arm hath need of thine.
Hark! the onset! will ye fold your
Faith-clad arms in lazy lock?
Up, oh up, thou drowsy soldier!
Worlds are charging to the shock.
Worlds are charging—heaven beholding;
Thou hast but an hour to fight;
Now the blazoned cross unfolding,
On—right onward for the right.
On! let all the soul within you
For the truth's sake go abroad!
Strike! let every nerve and sinew
Tell on ages—tell for God.
—Arthur Cleveland Coxe.
To live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go, not like the quarry slave at night
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust; approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
—William Cullen Bryant.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On the green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Wouldst share a noble life? Then cast
No backward glances toward the past,
And though somewhat be lost and gone,
Yet do thou act as one new-born;
What each day needs, that shalt thou ask.
Each day will set its proper task.
—Goethe.
Though to-day may not fulfill
All thy hopes, have patience still;
For perchance to-morrow's sun
Sees thy happier day begun.
—P. Gerhardt.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter,
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers,
And everything but sleep.
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful,
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful,
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere to the sea.
—Swinburne.
Judge not! the workings of his brain
And of his heart thou canst not see;
What looks to thy dim eyes a stain,
In God's pure light may only be
A scar, brought from some well won field,
Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.
The look, the air, that frets thy sight
May be a token, that below
The soul has closed in deadly fight
With some infernal fiery foe.
Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace,
And cast thee shuddering on thy face.
The fall thou darest to despise—
May be the angel's slackened hand
Has suffered it, that he may rise
And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.
And judge none lost; but wait and see,
With hopeful pity, not disdain;
The depth of the abyss may be
The measure of the height and pain
And love and glory that may raise
This soul to God in after days!
—Adelaide A. Proctor.
Be strong!
We are not here to play, to dream, to drift;
We have hard work to do, and loads to lift;
Shun not the struggle—face it! 'tis God's gift.
Be strong!
Say not, "The days are evil. Who's to blame?"
And fold the hands and acquiesce—oh shame!
Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name.
Be strong!
It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,
How hard the battle goes, the day how long;
Faint not—fight on! To-morrow comes the song.
—Maltbie Davenport Babcock.
Who looks to heaven alone to save his soul
May keep the path, but will not reach the goal:
But he who walks in love may wander far,
And God will bring him where the blessed are.
—Henry Van Dyke.
To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemned alike to groan;
The tender for another's pain,
The unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah, why should they know their fate
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their paradise!
No more—where ignorance is bliss
'Tis folly to be wise. —Thomas Gray.
The maid who binds her warrior's sash
With smile that all her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash
One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though heaven alone records the tear,
And Fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear
As e'er bedewed the field of glory.
The wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle,
Has shed as sacred blood as e'er
Was poured upon the field of battle.
The mother who conceals her grief
While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God
To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod
Received on Freedom's field of honor.
—Thomas Buchanan Read.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said:
"This is my own, my native land!"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power and pelf,
The wretch concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
—Sir Walter Scott.
I saw you not fair Ines?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest.
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
Oh, turn again, fair Ines
Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivalled bright.
And blessed will the lover be,
That wakes beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek,
I dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier,
Who rode so gaily by thy side
And whispered thee so near!
Were there no loving dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With a band of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before.
And gentle youths and maidens gay—
And snowy plumes they wore;
It would have been a beauteous dream—
If it had been no more!
Alas, alas, fair Ines!
She went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps,
And shouting of the throng.
And some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only music's wrong,
In sounds that sang, farewell, farewell!
To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its decks,
Nor danced so light before.
Alas, for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore;
The smile that blest one lover's heart,
Had broken many more!
—Thomas Hood.
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life!
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray.
—Byron.
How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do;
Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike
As if we had them not. —Shakespeare.
The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame.
In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true.
In happy climes, the seat of innocence,
Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and schools.
There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.
Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung.
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I know not where!
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
—Longfellow.
"The summer vanishes, but soon shall come
The glad young days of yet another year.
So do not mourn the passing of a joy,
But rather wait the coming of a good,
And know God never takes a gift away
But He sends other gifts to take its place."
What if the morn no joy to you shall bring,
No gleam of sunbeam shine across your way;
What if no bird one joyous note shall sing
Into your listening ear through all the day!
What if no word of comfort you shall hear
As through the hours long you toil and strive;
What if to you no vision bright appear
To keep your hungry heart and soul alive!
What if the blest companionship men crave
Come not to you through all the day's long length,
But, bound and fettered even as a slave
Within yourself you have to find your strength!
And if, when you have toiled and wrought alone,
The sweet reward you sought you do not gain,
And find the hoped-for bread is but a stone,
In that sad hour for grief, should you complain?
Ah no! It matters not if shade or sun,
Or good or ill, your efforts shall attend:
In doing you have but your duty done
As best you knew—and should do to the end.
—Thomas F. Porter.
All is of God that is, or is to be,
And God is good.
—John G. Whittier.
Toll for the Brave!
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave
Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel
And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak,
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up
Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again
Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main:
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
—W. Cowper.
The sun set, but not his hope:
Stars rose: his faith was earlier up:
Fixed on the enormous galaxy,
Deeper and older seemed his eye;
And matched his sufferance sublime
The taciturnity of time.
He spoke, and words more soft than rain
Brought the Age of Gold again:
His action won such reverence sweet
As hid all measure of the feat.
—Emerson.
O, Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O, Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills.
For you the bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—-for you the
shores a-crowding.
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
—Walt Whitman.
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Loved the wild-rose, and left it on its stalk?
At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?
And loved so well a high behavior,
In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,
Nobility more nobly to repay?
O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!
—Emerson.
When earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are
twisted and dried,
When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic
has died.
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an
æon or two.
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work
anew!
And those that were good will be happy; they shall sit in a
Golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of
comet's hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter
and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired
at all;
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall
blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for
fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate
star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as
They Are! —Rudyard Kipling.
"If you and I—just you and I—
Should laugh instead of worry;
If we should grow—just you and I—
Kinder and sweeter hearted,
Perhaps in some near by and by
A good time might get started;
Then what a happy world 'twould be
For you and me—for you and me!"
The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his heaven—
All's right with the world.
—Robert Browning.
Give me back my heart, fair child;
To you as yet 'twere worth but little;
Half beguiler, half beguiled,
Be you warned, your own is brittle,
I know it by your redd'ning cheeks,
I know it by those two black streaks
Arching up your pearly brows
In a momentary laughter,
Stretched in long and dark repose
With a sigh the moment after.
"Hid it; dropt it on the moors!
Lost it, and you can not find it"—
My own heart I want, not yours
You have bound and must unbind it.
Set it free then from your net,
We will love, sweet—but not yet!
Fling it from you—we are strong;
Love is trouble, love is folly;
Love, that makes an old heart young,
Makes a young heart melancholy.
—Aubrey de Vere.
The common problem, yours, mine, everyone's,
Is not to fancy what were fair in life,
Provided it could be—but finding first
What may be, then find how to make it fair
Up to our means. —Browning.
I need so much the quiet of your love
After the day's loud strife;
I need your calm—all other things above
After the stress of life.
I crave the haven that in your dear heart lies,
After all toil is done;
I need the star-shine of your heavenly eyes,
After the day's great sun.
—Charles Harrison Towne.
Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor!
Be true, be good;
Be wise as thou art tender;
Be all that Beauty should.
Not lightly be thy citadel subdued;
Not ignobly, not untimely.
Take praise in solemn mood;
Take love sublimely.
—Richard Watson Gilder.
Let us love so well
Our work shall be sweeter for our love,
And still our love be sweeter for our work.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
I hold that Christian grace abounds
Where charity is seen; that when
We climb to heaven 'tis on the rounds
Of love to men.
I hold all else named piety
A selfish scheme, a vain pretense;
Where center is not—can there be
Circumference?
This I moreover hold, and dare
Affirm where'er my ryme may go—
Whatever things be sweet or fair
Love makes them so.
Whether it be the lullabies
That charm to rest the nursling bird,
Or the sweet confidence of sighs
And blushes, made without a word.
Whether the dazzling and the flush
Of softly sumptuous garden bowers,
Or by some cabin door a bush
Of ragged flowers.
'Tis not the wide phylactery,
Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers,
That makes us saints; we judge the tree
By what it bears.
And when a man can live apart
From works, on theologic trust,
I know the blood about his heart
Is dry as dust. —Alice Cary.
How poor his triumph is whose venture pays
Because strong friends of his have willed it so;
Have pulled the strings and schemed in cunning ways
To drag him up or boost him from below.
How evanescent his poor pride must be,
How often he must nurse a vain regret,
How often weakly wish that he were free
To scorn those who have placed him in their debt.
How splendid in his triumph who has won
Alone, unaided, honor and renown,
Who owes no thanks and rises to his own,
Despite the world's attempt to keep him down.
—Ellsworth Kaye.
Now I get me up to work,
I pray the Lord I may not shirk;
If I should die before the night,
I pray the Lord my work's done right.
—Amora Fitch.
Tell me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream,
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living present!
Heart within and God o'erhead.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
—H. W. Longfellow.
High thoughts and noble in all lands
Help me: my soul is fed by such
But ah, the touch of life and hands,
The human touch!
Warm, vital, close, life's symbols dear,
These need I most, and now, and here.
—Richard Burton.
O I will trudge with heart elate,
And feet with courage shod,
For that which men call chance and fate
Is the handiwork of God.
—Alice Cary.
Yet, who, looking backward o'er his year,
Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears,
If he hath been
Permitted, weak and sinful as he was,
To cheer and aid in some ennobling cause
His fellow men?
If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in
A ray of sunshine to a cell of sin—
If he hath lent
Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of need,
Over the suffering, mindless of his creed
Or home, hath bent,
He hath not lived in vain, and while he gives
The praise to Him, in whom he moves and lives,
With thankful heart;
He gazes backward, and with hope before,
Knowing that from his works he nevermore
Can henceforth part.
—Whittier.
Whichever way the wind doth blow
Some heart is glad to have it so;
Then blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.
—Caroline A. Mason.
We have but faith; we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam of darkness: let it grow.
Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,
But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear;
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.
Forgive what seemed my sin in me;
What seem'd my worth since I began;
For merit lies from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.
—Tennyson.
In vain we call old notions fudge,
And bend our conscience to our dealing;
The Ten Commandments will not budge,
And stealing will continue stealing.
—Lowell.
It is not raining rain to me,
It's raining daffodils;
In every dimpled drop I see
Wild flowers on the hills.
The clouds of gray engulf the day,
And overwhelm the town;
It is not raining rain to me,
It's raining roses down.
It is not raining rain to me,
But fields of clover bloom,
Where any bucanneering bee
May find a bed and room.
A health unto the happy!
A fig for him who frets;
It is not raining rain to me,
It's raining violets.
—Robert Loveman.
Come, fill the cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter garment of repentance fling;
The bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter—and the bird is on the wing.
—Omar Khayyam.
Westward the star of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.
—George Bishop Berkeley.
Men of thought! be up and stirring
Night and day;
Sow the seed, withdraw the curtain,
Clear the way!
Men of action, aid and cheer them,
As ye may!
There's a fount about to stream,
There's a light about to beam,
There's a warmth about to glow,
There's a flower about to blow;
There's midnight blackness changing
Into gray!
Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!
Once the welcome light has broken,
Who shall say
What unimagined glories
Of the day?
What the evil that shall perish
In its ray?
Aid it, hopes of honest men;
Aid the dawning, tongue and pen;
Aid it, paper, aid it, type,
Aid it, for the hour is ripe;
And our earnest must not slacken
Into play.
Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!
Lo! a cloud's about to vanish
From the day;
And a brazen wrong to crumble
Into clay.
Lo! the Right's about to conquer,
Clear the way!
With the Right shall many more
Enter, smiling, at the door;
With the giant Wrong shall fall
Many others great and small,
That for ages long have held us
For their prey.
Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way! —Charles Mackay.
"If you have gracious words to say
Oh, give them to our hearts to-day,
But if your words will cause us sorrow,
Pray keep them till the last to-morrow."
How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blessed!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
Their Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
—William Collins.
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Have ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it—ye who will!
Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're afire!
And before you, see
Who have done it! From the vale
On they come! and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust!
Die we may—and die we must;
But, O, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well
As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head
Of his deeds to tell. —John Pierpont.
Honor and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part, there all the honor lies.
Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made,
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade;
The cobbler aproned and the parson gowned,
The friar hooded and the monarch crowned.
"What differ more," you cry, "than crown and cowl?"
I'll tell you, friend: a wise man and a fool.
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,
Or, cobbler, like, the parson will be drunk.
Worth makes the man and want of it the fellow;
The rest is all but leather and prunella.
—Alexander Pope.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main—
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet Summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
And the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed—
Its iris ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free.
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea.
—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Into his nest again
I shall not live in vain.
I shall not live in vain. —Emily Dickinson.
He taught us
To hold
In loving reverence
Poor men and their work
Great men and their work
God and His work.
—John Ruskin.
If I have faltered more or less
In my great task of happiness;
If I have moved among my race
And shown no glorious morning face;
If beams from happy human eyes
Have moved me not; if morning skies,
Books, and my food, and summer rain
Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:—
Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take
And stab my spirit broad awake;
Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,
Choose Thou, before that spirit die,
A piercing pain, a killing sin,
And to my dead heart run them in!
—Robert Louis Stevenson.
There's the courage that nerves you in starting to climb
The mount of success rising sheer;
And when you've slipped back there's the courage sublime
That keeps you from shedding a tear.
These two kinds of courage, I give you my word,
Are worthy of tribute—but then,
You'll not reach the summit unless you've the third—
The courage of try-it-again!
—Roy Farrell Greene.
A ruddy drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs,
The world uncertain comes and goes,
The lover rooted stays.
I fancied he was fled,
And, after many a year,
Glowed unexhausted kindliness
Like daily sunrise there.
My careful heart was free again,
O friend, my bosom said,
Through thee alone the sky is arched,
Through thee the rose is red,
All things through thee take nobler form,
And look beyond the earth,
The mill-round of our fate appears
A sun-path in thy worth.
Me too thy nobleness has taught
To master my despair;
The fountains of my hidden life
Are through thy friendship fair.
—Emerson.
Joyous day! O! Smile of God
To hearten all who toil and plod;
We hail thee, Conqueror and King!
We hug our golden chains and sing:
"Good morning!"
—Thomas Augustin Daly.
Friend after friend departs;
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts
That finds not here an end;
Were this frail world our only rest,
Living or dying, none were blest.
Beyond the flight of Time,
Beyond this vale of death,
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's affections transient fire
Whose sparks fly upward to expire.
—James Montgomery.
We just shake hands at meeting
With many that come nigh;
We nod the head in greeting
To many that go by—
But welcome through the gateway
Our old friends and true;
Then hearts leap up, and straightway
There's open house for you,
Old friends,
There's open house for you!
—Gerald Massey.
Some reckon their age by years,
Some measure their life by art,
But some of their days by the flow of their tears,
And their life by the moans of their heart.
The dials of earth may show
The length, not the depth of years—
Few or many may come, few or many may go;
But our time is best measured by tears.
Ah! not by the silver gray
That creeps through the sunny hair,
And not by the scenes we pass on our way—
And not by the furrows the finger of Care
In forehead and face has made;
Not so do we count our years;
Not by the sun of the earth—but by the shade
Of our souls—and the fall of our tears.
For the young are ofttimes old,
Though their brow be bright and fair,
While their blood beats warm, their hearts lie cold—
O'er them the Springtime—but Winter is there,
And the old are ofttimes young,
When their hair is thin and white;
And they sing in age as in youth they sung,
And they laugh, for their cross was light.
But bead by bead I tell
The rosary of my years,
From a cross, a crown they lead—'tis well!
And they are blessed with a blessing of tears.
Better a day of strife,
Than a century of sleep;
Give me instead of a long stream of life
The tempest and tears of the deep.
A thousand joys may foam
On the billows of all the years;
But never the foam brings the brave bark home—
It reaches the haven through tears.
—Father Ryan.
The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the earth beneath; it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The tribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings,
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the heart of kings,
It is an attribute of God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this—
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy.
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. —Shakespeare.
Without haste! Without rest!
Bind the motto to thy breast;
Bear it with thee as a spell;
Storm or sunshine, guard it well!
Heed not the flowers that round thee bloom,
Bear it onward to the tomb.
Haste not! Let no thoughtless deed
Mar for aye the spirit's speed!
Ponder well and know the right,
Onward, then, with all thy might!
Haste not! Years can ne'er atone
For one reckless action done.
Rest not! Life is sweeping by,
Go and dare before you die
Something mighty and sublime
Leave behind to conquer time!
Glorious 'tis to live for aye,
When these forms have passed away.
Haste not! Rest not! Calmly wait;
Meekly bear the stones of fate!
Duty be thy polar guide—
Do the right whate'er betide!
Haste not! Rest not! Conflicts past,
God shall crown thy work at last.
—Goethe.
They are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;
They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,
Rather than in silence shrink
From the truth they needs must think,
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three.
—James Russell Lowell.
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumors freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend;
—This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
—Sir N. Wotton.
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes
And the wild cataract leaps in glory,
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever,
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying dying dying.
—Alfred Tennyson.
Lead kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead thou me on!
The night is dark and I am far from home,
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene—one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou
Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to see and choose my path, but now
Lead thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
Will lead me on;
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
—John Henry (Cardinal) Newman.
"The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me;
I count them over, ev'ry one apart,
My rosary; my rosary.
"Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer,
To still a heart in absence wrung;
I tell each bead unto the end, and there—
A cross is hung!
"O memories that bless and burn!
O barren gain and bitter loss!
I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn
To kiss the cross ... to kiss the cross."
A little sun, a little rain,
O soft wind blowing from the West,
And woods and fields are sweet again
And Warmth within the mountain's breast.
A little love, a little trust,
A soft impulse, a sudden dream,
And life as dry as desert dust,
Is fresher than a mountain stream.
—Stopford A. Brooks.
The lopped tree in time may grow again,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorriest wight may find release of pain,
The driest soil suck in some moistening shower;
Time goes by turns, and chances change by course,
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow;
She draws her favors to the lowest ebb;
Her tides have equal times to come and go;
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in time amend.
Not always fall of leaf, nor ever Spring;
Not endless night, yet not eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing;
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
Thus, with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost,
That net that holds no great takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crost;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish.
Unmingled joys here to no man befall;
Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.
—Robert Southwell.
"Master of human destinies am I!
Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote, and passing by
Hovel and mart and palace—soon or late—
I knock unbidden once at every gate!
"If sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate,
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate,
Condemned to failure, penury, and woe,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore.
I answer not, and I return no more."
—John James Ingalls.
The star of the unconquered will,
He rises to my breast;
Serene and resolute and still,
And calm and self-possessed.
Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is,
To suffer and be strong.
—H. W. Longfellow.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide—
Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?
I fondly ask: But Patience to prevent
That murmur soon replies: God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.
—John Milton.
Oh, every year hath its winter,
And every year hath its rain—
But a day is always coming
When the birds go north again.
When new leaves swell in the forest,
And grass springs green on the plain,
And the alder's veins turn crimson—
And the birds go north again.
Oh, every heart hath its sorrow,
And every heart hath its pain—
But a day is always coming
When the birds go north again.
'Tis the sweetest thing to remember
If courage be on the wane,
When the cold, dark days are over—
Why, the birds go north again.
—Ella Higginson.
The good we meant to do—the deeds
So oft misunderstood;
The thwarted good we try to do,
And would do, if we could,
The noble deeds we set upon
And have accomplished none—
Write them—and with them credit all
The bad we have not done.
—Wilbur D. Nesbit.
Believe not each accusing tongue,
As most weak persons do;
But still believe that story wrong
Which ought not to be true.
—Sheridan.
I like the man who faces what he must
With step triumphant and a heart of cheer;
Who fights the daily battle without fear;
Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trust
That God is God—that somehow, true and just
His plans work out for mortals; not a tear
Is shed when fortune, which the world holds dear,
Falls from his grasp—better, with love, a crust
Than living in dishonor; envies not,
Nor loses faith in man; but does his best,
Nor ever murmurs at his humbler lot;
But, with a smile and words of hope, gives zest
To every toiler. He alone is great
Who by a life heroic conquers fate.
—Sarah Knowles Bolton.
'Tis a little thing
To give a cup of water; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarean juice
Renews the life of joy in happier hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense, yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unmourned 'twill fall
Like choicest music, fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears, relax the knotted hand
To know the bonds of fellowship again;
And shed on the departing soul a sense,
More precious than the benison of friends
About the honored deathbed of the rich,
To him who else were lonely, that another
Of the great family is near and feels.
—Sir Thomas N. Talfourd.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill,
Let young and old accept their part,
And bow before the awful Will,
And bear it with an honest heart.
Who misses or who wins the prize
Go, lose or conquer as you can;
But if you fail, or if you rise,
Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
—William Makepeace Thackeray.
"Then let us smile when skies are gray,
And laugh at stormy weather,
And sing life's lonesome times away:
So worry and the dreariest day
Will find an end together."
To keep my health!
To do my work!
To live!
To see to it I grow and gain and give!
Never to look behind me for an hour!
To wait in weakness, and to walk in power;
But always fronting onward toward the light,
Always and always facing towards the right.
Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide astray—
On, with what strength I have!
Back to the way!
—Charlotte Perkins Stetson.
'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
"You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again."
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head.
"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber,"
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number,
And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.
I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle grew broader and higher;
The clothes that hung on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find
That he took better care for improving his mind;
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me;
This man's but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading."
—Isaac Watts.
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me,
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep,
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark;
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark.
For tho' from out our bourne of time and place,
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar. —Tennyson.
When all the world is young, lad,
When all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And around the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among;
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.
—Charles Kingsley.
"Yes, they whose feet upon good errands run
Are friends of God, with Michael of the sun;
Yes, each accomplished service of the day
Paves for the feet of God a lordlier way.
The souls that love and labor through all wrong,
They clasp His hand and make the circle strong:
They lay the deep foundations, stone by stone,
And build into Eternity God's throne."
—Edwin Markham.
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee—and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at Heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
—Shakespeare.
But in the mud and scum of things
There always, always, something sings.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
"The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent
one from the other."
Go thou thy way and I go mine;
Apart, yet not afar;
Only a thin veil hangs between
The Pathways where we are;
And "God keep watch t'ween thee and me,"
This is my prayer;
He looks thy way. He looketh mine.
And keeps us near.
I know not where thy road may lie,
Or which way mine may be;
If mine will lead through parching sands,
And thine beside the sea;
Yet God keeps watch 'tween thee and me.
So never fear;
He holds thy hand, He claspeth mine,
And keeps us near.
Should wealth and fame perchance be thine,
And my lot lowly be,
Or you be sad or sorrowful,
And glory be for me;
Yet "God keeps watch 'tween thee and me,"
Both be His care,
One arm 'round thee and one 'round me
Will keep us near.
I'll sigh sometimes to see thy face,
But since this cannot be,
I'll leave thee to the care of Him
Who cares for thee and me.
"I'll keep thee both beneath my wings,"
This comfort dear,
One wing o'er thee and one o'er me
So we are near.
And though our paths be separate
And thy way is not mine,
Yet, coming to the mercy seat,
My soul will meet with thine;
And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me,"
I'll whisper there.
He blesseth thee, He blesseth me,
And we are near.
—Julia A. Baker.
I've wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree,
Upon the schoolhouse playground, which sheltered you and me,
But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know,
That played with us upon the grass some twenty years ago.
The grass is just as green, Tom—barefooted boys at play
Were sporting just as we did then, with spirits just as gay;
But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow,
Afforded us a sliding place, just twenty years ago.
The old schoolhouse is alter'd some, the benches are replaced
By new ones, very like the same our pen-knives had defaced,
But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro,
It's music, just the same, dear Tom, 'twas twenty years ago.
The boys were playing the same old game, beneath the same old tree—
I do forget the name just now; you've played the same with me
On that same spot; 'twas play'd with knives, by throwing so and so,
The loser had a task to do, just twenty years ago.
The river's running just as still, the willows on its side
Are larger than they were, Tom, the stream appears less wide.
But the grape-vine swing is ruin'd now where once we play'd the beau,
And swung our sweethearts—"pretty girls"—just twenty years ago.
The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech,
Is very low—'twas once so high that we could almost reach;
And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I even started so!
To see how much that I am changed since twenty years ago.
Nearby the spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name,
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same—
Some heartless wretch had peel'd the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow,
Just as the one whose name was cut, died twenty years ago.
My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came in my eyes,
I thought of her I loved so well—those early broken ties—
I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strew
Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago.
Some are in the churchyard laid, some sleep beneath the sea,
But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me,
And when our time is come, Tom, and we are call'd to go,
I hope they'll lay us where we played just twenty years ago.
—A. J. Gault.
'Tis not the weight of jewel or plate,
Or the fondle of silk or fur;
'Tis the spirit in which the gift is rich,
As the gifts of the wise ones were;
And we are not told whose gift was gold,
Or whose was the gift of myrrh.
