Oldalképek
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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,
Waste not a moment in sorrow or mirth;
Life is a mystery shaded with gloom,
Bearing us rapidly on to the tomb.

Work hath been given thee, do not delay,
Carelessly trifling the moments away;
Dreamily floating on life's silvery tide,
Stealthily down to the ocean we glide.

Life is receding, the hours as they pass
Bear in their bosoms the sands from its glass
Why should we linger on time's crested wave
Gathering baubles to garnish the grave?

Think you the treasures that lie in the deep
Would soften earth's pillow, or sweeten our sleep?
Far sooner the thought, that earth's glittering toys
Were lost in the struggle for holier joys.

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'S it not morning yet?" From side to side
The sick girl tossed, hot-browed and heavy-eyed,
And moaned with feverish breath when I replied,
"It is not morning yet."

"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,
And try to soothe her with soft words of prayer.
"It is not morning yet."

"Is it not morning yet?" If she could sleep,
If those tired lids those burning eyes could keep!
God knows the thorns are sharp, the road is steep!
"It is not morning yet."

"Is it not morning yet?" ""Tis coming, dear."
And, while I speak, the shadows press more near,
And all the room grows colder with my fear.
"It is not morning yet."

"Is it not morning yet?" How faint and low
The piteous accents! Do not tremble so,
My heart, nor fail me, while I answer. "No;
It is not morning yet."

"Is it not morning yet?" I bow my head;
God answers, while the eastern sky glows red
And smiles upon the still face on the bed,—
"Yes, it is morning now!"

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,
I tell you, my brother, plain as I can,

It matters much!

It matters little where be my grave,
If on the land or in the sea,

By purling brook, or 'neath stormy wave,
It matters little or naught to me;
But whether the angel of death comes down
And marks my brow with a loving touch,
As the one who shall wear the victor's crown,
It matters much!

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,
The lily hold herself like some sweet saint

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,
Soothing the restless couch with slumbers deep,
And scattering thy medicated flowers,

Till hands were folded for their final rest,
Clasping white poppies o'er a pulseless breast.

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,

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A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. For happy hours the rose will idly blow The poppy hath a charm for pain and woe.

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The Watchers of Lake Michigan.

HERE'S a lull in the scathing storm to-night,
And the mountain waves sink down,
And the sun glints back on the cyclone's track,
And glitters o'er surge and foam.

But where are the dead, the speechless dead,
Locked in those caverns gray;

Whose smile beamed bright in the household hearts,
That sunny yesterday?

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?

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