When childish hands have held the daisy stars, And on our breast Love's roses oft have lain; When orange flowers and honeysuckle bars For whitening heads will never bloom again,Then, in the prime and harvest of our year, We'll choose the dahlia's circle, bright and clear. Work. O thy work speedily, child of the earth, Work hath been given thee, do not delay, Life is receding, the hours as they pass Think you the treasures that lie in the deep t : 'S it not morning yet?" From side to side "Is it not morning yet?" O leaden hours, How slow they move! The night more darkly lowers. Cold on the wan leaves strike the sudden showers; "It is not morning yet." "Is it not morning yet?" The, clock ticks on, The sands fall slow; not half the night is gone; Again I answer to that restless moan,— 'It is not morning yet." "Is it not morning yet?" With tender care I bathe her brow, and smooth her damp, fair hair, "Is it not morning yet?" If she could sleep, "Is it not morning yet?" ""Tis coming, dear." "Is it not morning yet?" How faint and low "Is it not morning yet?" I bow my head; What Does It Matter? T matters little where I was born, Or if my parents were rich or poor; Whether they shrank at the cold world's scorn, Or walked in the pride of wealth secure; But whether I live an honest man, And hold my integrity firm in my clutch, It matters much! It matters little where be my grave, By purling brook, or 'neath stormy wave, White Poppies. MYSTIC, mighty flower, whose frail white leaves, Silky and crumpled like a banner furled, Shadow the black mysterious seeds that yield The drop that soothes and lulls a restless world; Nepenthes for our woe, yet swift to kill, Holding the knowledge of both good and ill. The rose for beauty may outshine thee far, Apart from earthly grief, as is a star Apart from any fear of earthly taint; The snowy poppy like an angel stands With consolation in her open hands. Ere history was born, the poets sung How godlike Thone knew thy compelling power, And ancient Ceres, by strange sorrows wrung, Sought sweet oblivion from thy healing flower. Giver of Sleep! Lord of the Land of Dreams! O simple weed, thou art not what man deems! The clear-eyed Greeks saw oft their God of Sleep Wandering about through the black midnight hours, Till hands were folded for their final rest, We have a clearer vision; every hour Kind hearts and hands the poppy juices mete, And panting sufferers bless its kindly power, And weary ones invoke its peaceful sleep. Health has its rose and grape and joyful palm, The poppy to the sick is wine and balm. I sing the poppy! The frail, snowy weed! The flower of mercy! that within its heart Doth keep "a drop serene for human need, A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. For happy hours the rose will idly blow The poppy hath a charm for pain and woe. The Watchers of Lake Michigan. HERE'S a lull in the scathing storm to-night, But where are the dead, the speechless dead, Whose smile beamed bright in the household hearts, Our torches gleam on the shifting sand, Our wild eyes scan the wave; Shall never the wing of some seagull point Where the lost have found their grave? |