May live an hundred more.
I’ll count the sunbeams in my life,
The clouds I will ignore.
I’ll count the good that I have done.
Alas! That will not do.
If by that standard I should count,
My years would be too few.
Turn back O wheel of Time I pray--
Another chance I crave.
I would more worthy be of life,
More worthy of the grave.
But I have failed through thoughtlessness,
Through ignorance also;
But thoughtlessness and ignorance
Excuse me not, I know.
I must pick up the threads of life,
And weave them o’er again,
For every stitch I’ve dropped in past,
Has left on soul a stain.
Life’s shuttle I must hold with care,
Life’s web must perfect be.
I weave not for this world alone,
But for eternity.
MEMORY’S BOOK.
I ope the book at mother’s side,
And turn the leaves so pure.
I read the pages with delight;
Their innocence allure.
I turn the leaves with greatest care,
I find there naught of pain;
’Tis happy childhood’s joyous days,
And were not lived in vain.
I turn another leaf, and find
Some things I would forget;
Some selfish thought, some unkind act,
And much that I regret.
Again I turn a leaf, and there
I see inscribed thereon,
Mistakes, and errors, selfishness,
Yet many victories won.
Full many times I conquered self,
And overcame much ill.
These memories are the dearest ones,
And linger with me still.
One memory sweet has its own place,
Has its own sacred nest.
’Tis buried deep within my heart,
And rests there--let it rest.
O childhood days come back again!
When at my mother’s knee
I learned the songs my mother sang,
In our cottage by the sea.
DO NOT BORROW TROUBLE.
Do not ever trouble borrow;
You’ll find enough of it at home;
Find enough for self, and neighbor,
You will for it not have to roam.
Go not forth to meet sad Trouble,
For she with tears will e’er you greet.
But if given a cold greeting,
She will acknowledge her defeat.
Do not cross life’s troubled waters
While you are yet upon the land.
Do not feel that you are sinking
Beneath life’s drifting, shifting sand.
Though your life may seem a desert,
Of scorching winds, and burning sand;
You may find some green oasis,
Some beauty in a desert land.
Trouble is a turbid river.
On it you need not launch life’s boat.
Life has rivers calm and peaceful,
And placid streams on which to float.
You may never cross the river,
On troubled sea may not be tossed.
Though life’s bridge be weak and swaying,
By you, the bridge need not be crossed.
Do not think that you must carry
The burdens of life’s yesterday.
Do not look for grief tomorrow,
With courage live your life today.
You must rise above all trouble,
And keep it ever from your view;
It can ever then be vanquished,
And you can bid it glad adieu.
GIVE SMILES, NOT TEARS.
Give to the world your happy thoughts,
Too many give but tears.
A word, a thought, a deed full oft
Makes some heart sad, or cheers
Some lonely, weary, world sick soul,
Who now will drop his cares,
And even smile at his defeats,
And disappointment bears.
For in his heart is now a hope,
A hope for better things.
The world is now not half so sad,
And joy it even brings.
If you are sad, hide grief beneath
A happy smiling face.
No one is better for your tears,
Nor stronger for Life’s race.
Then bury grief within your heart,
And dig its grave full deep;
And cover it with flowers of Hope,
And do not o’er it weep.
Too many keep their sorrows fresh
By tears too often shed.
Look up! Look out! Your sorrows hide,
And rest in Hope’s own bed.
FAREWELL TO THE DYING YEAR.
Farewell! farewell! thou dying year;
For thee we will not mourn,
But bury thee in grave of past,
In garments worn, and torn.
And yet, thou hast not been unkind,
Thou’st giv’n more smiles than tears;
Hast giv’n us health, e’en though not wealth,
Bright hopes of coming years.
So we should bury thee with pomp,
Take off thy garments torn,
And give to thee more fitting shroud
Than that which thou hast worn.
Though we give tribute to thee new;
We’ll still remember thee.
We know thou didst the best thou couldst
While struggling to be free.
Free from the chains that bound thee down,
And though we shed no tear
At thy demise, we feel that thou
Hast given us some good cheer.
The blare of trumpets at thy death
Shouldst sorrow to us bring,
For thou canst never be recalled.
A dirge, we should then sing,
For opportunities we’ve lost.
Our chance comes not again
To do the things we should have done.
How sad the words, “It might have been.”
THE BOOK OF GIFTS.
An angel came to me one day
With “Book of Gifts” in hand,
And offered any one therein
That I should then demand.
With pride he pointed out to me
Each gift, and urged that I
Would take from them the choicest one.
For in his power did lie
The giving out of life’s rich stores.
This single time had man
Been given the choice of worldly gifts
Since life on earth began.
I had the choice of all life’s gifts,
Fame, honor, untold wealth.
I chose not one he offered me,
But begged for _love_ and _health_.
UNKIND WORDS.
If we could know the sorrow
That unkind words aye give;
We never would them utter;
For unkind words will live
Long after we’ve forgotten
That we the words once spake,
And that a harsh word spoken
Some weary heart may break.
When once a word has started
Upon its journey long;
It travels on forever.
And mingles with the throng
Of other words of censure;
More bitter grows each day,
And though perhaps forgiven
It sometime love will slay.
SEEK FOR THE GOOD IN LIFE.
In our lives there’s much of gladness,
Also much that is sad,
Much in life without a blemish,
Many things that may be bad.
But, we should ignore all evil;
There is ever much of good.
We shall find what e’er we look for,
Then o’er evil do not brood.
Grasp the good when e’er you find it.
Good is not for but the few;
If too much to you is given,
Some one else can share with you.
There is sunshine, there is shadow,
Clouds must come before the rain;
After storm clouds, comes the rainbow,
Oft from grief, we peace attain.
Some one else must share our troubles;
They should share our pleasures too;
For life’s flowers are ever brightest
When Love’s tears the flowers bedew.
Be ye never then disheartened,
There is beauty everywhere.
There are fragrant flowers growing
In the garden of Despair.
Let us then be not discouraged,
Soon life’s storms will clear away.
Though our griefs seem overwhelming,
Brighter soon will be life’s day.
Though life’s sun his face has hidden,
And black clouds obscure our view,
All the flowers take on new beauty,
After rain, and after dew.
LOVE’S CROWN.
The tasks that have been set for me,
Are almost done; are almost done.
I’ve labored hard, and faithfully,
But now life’s race is nearly run.
I’m weary, and I’m sore distressed,
My burdens all too heavy are.
In vain I try to lay them down;
I’ve brought them all too far, too far.
I’ll try to lay them down at eve,
And from my labors try to rest.
Though I begin another day,
Tonight I’ll rest, tonight I’ll rest.
Tomorrow at the break of day,
Again I take them up with grief,
And through another day I work;
For me, there never comes relief.
* * * * *
Complaints will never do my work,
Nor fit me for life’s weary day.
With courage then I’ll do my tasks,
And all life’s laws try to obey.
I’ll bear my cross whatever it is,
No one shall bear a cross for me;
And though I bend beneath life’s load,
From selfishness I will be free.
There is a time not distant far,
When I can lay life’s burdens down.
So many crosses I have borne,
At last I hope to win Love’s crown.
MY SOUL’S DESIRE AND DESTINY
I’ve travelled down through centuries.
Have never known one moment’s rest.
Have passed through every phase of life.
Is this, O Father, Thy behest?
I’ve battled with conditions that
Oftimes seemed much too hard to bear,
Would then give up, and seem to sink
Into the maelstrom of Despair.
Again would take Life’s burdens up
Without a knowledge of my past.
Experience was of little use
In seething whirlpool it seemed cast.
The same temptations come to us;
As fiends, they ever us pursue.
The consequences are the same.
We’ve brought down retribution too.
I still desire to live, to do--
I am not ready yet to change
My form, my thoughts, my puny life;
E’en though I gain a wider range.
Absorbed though I may be in Love,
And e’en a part of Deity,
I still am human in _desire_,
And human still, I wish to be.
* * * * *
Soul’s Destiny I now take up.--
Where shall I go? What shall I be?
Shall I aye travel on, and on?
Or be a part of Deity.
Will memories of the past be mine?
And will a panoramic view
Before mine eyes be ever cast?
If so, that past I can but rue.
Absorbed in God, I lose myself.
I am no part of my _own_ life.
Though one with God, and part of Him,
My soul will still keep up its strife
To be _itself_, apart, though with
The Maker, Ruler of my soul.
The _Soul’s Desire_ is not yet dead,
E’en though bright heaven is its goal.
Though I may carry “Karma” on,
Improve upon it ever, aye;
Could I not do the same, and yet
Not on this weary earth e’er stay?
INCARNATION.
Though part and parcel of the past
The future is an unknown book--
Though writing for eternity,
I dare not on its pages look.
My past is dead, and buried too.
In grave of Hope it lies full deep;
It resurrected ne’er shall be,
It is a nightmare of my sleep.
Will life’s fair morning never come?
I wait for it impatiently.
And Death’s long sleep I fain would break
With all its gruesome mystery.
I pray to go forever on,
Retracing ne’er earth’s steps again.
Incarnate _once_, and _only_ once,
I would not live on earth again.
REINCARNATION.
I feel that I have lived before,
That I shall live again.
Shall yet have my desires fulfilled,
Although I know not when.
If _now_ is all there is of life,
What use to me was birth?
Not one desire has been fulfilled,
Since first I came to earth.
There is a realm not yet explored,
I feel it in my soul,
I’ll struggle on (though oft I fail)
To reach that blissful goal.
Full oft I catch a glimpse of past.
Old mem’ries round me throng.
The mem’ries of a long gone past.--
Again I hear a song
That I once heard in previous life,
And it to me doth seem
As though an angel sang the song;
My life his chosen theme.
The notes seem now so strange and weird.
I’ve heard them though, before;
In former life the music sweet
Came from celestial shore.
A vague, vague dream of other lives
Doth often with me stay;
But when I try to hold the dream,
It vanishes straightway.
My present life is incomplete.
A fragment is of past.
I shall take up the threads again,
And in Life’s loom them cast.
The “Great First Cause” has charge of
The lives that have been mine.
The web that’s woven on Life’s loom
In time becomes divine.
Absorbed in God I soon shall be.
E’en now I feel Love’s kiss.
Life’s struggles soon will ended be
In everlasting bliss.
What was my life in that dim past?
It matters not to me.
My Karma of the past will be
Absorbed in Deity.
LIFE’S BURDEN.
Each one hath some burden to carry,
Each one hath some sorrow or woe.
But hearts that are cheerful, and willing,
Can every trouble o’erthrow.
We will not complain, but have courage
To bear every cross, and all pain;
For burdens when carried with patience
Are blessings which we may attain.
Our hopes may be bright in the morning,
But fade, as the day grows apace;
Though clouds may obscure all Life’s evening,
With patience these clouds we must face.
Behind every cloud is some sunshine,
Behind every grief is some mirth.
Behind every tear there is laughter,
Though tears came first at our birth.
TO MOUNT SIERRA.
Thou grand old granite mountain
Canst tell me what thy age?
What secrets art thou holding
Within thy heart O sage.
Couldst man find out by delving
Deep in thy stony breast,
How long thou hast been rearing
On high, thy hoary crest.
Hadst thou e’er a beginning?
Wilt thou in death e’er fall?
Canst thou these questions answer?
On thee I humbly call.
Is life, within thy bosom?
Or art thou cold and dead?
Thou standest in thy myst’ry
No tears of misery shed.
Thy heart, thy life is granite,
Thou carest not for woe.
If tear thou ever sheddest
It turns to ice and snow.
But why seek I thy secrets,
Thou haughty mountain king?
Thou wilt not give me answer,
No knowledge to me bring.--
* * * * *
The wind doth give me answer
That thou wast born of fire.
Thou claimest Earth as mother,
Jehovah is thy sire.
Farewell O Mount Sierra!
I leave thee to thy rest.
But, man will wrench thy secrets
In future from thy breast.
OFT POISONED IS THE WINE OF LIFE.
Socrates drank of the hemlock;--
Others drink of poisons deadly.--
Poison as a draught of hemlock
Will unrequited love aye be.
And ingratitude of loved ones
Sharper than a serpent’s tooth is,
And misunderstandings cruel
That ever meet us on Life’s way.
Often we are greeted coldly,
By the ones who should be friendly.
We may fall, and we may falter.
Life’s battles we may never win.
Others soon will take our places.
Take the love, and take the friendship,
Which was ours by laws most holy,
And love is now but in the name.
Hemlock would not be as poisonous,
Nor would be so hard its taking.
As cold words of bitter taunting
From trusted friends whom we have loved.
Faithless friends may give a chalice,
Filled with poison just as deadly,
As the hemlock which was drunken
By Socrates in that long past.
Every day we meet deception
From some one we loved, and trusted.
Poison may be in each vessel
From which we drink the wine of Life.
THE GAME OF LIFE.
Would we turn back the wheel of Time,
And live this life all o’er?
Take up the threads of life anew,
And weave them as before?
Methinks I hear you say “Ah no!”
Life’s fabric is worn out.
The colors too, have lost their hue.--
I would not turn about
And live my life all o’er again,
Unless I could improve
Upon the game of Life I’ve played;
More skillfully could move.
For I have oft made dire mistakes,
Made errors in Life’s deal,
And could I change the game, would it
Add something to my weal?
I never learned Life’s game quite right;
Mistakes I ever made,
And if I gained a single point,
My ignorance next outweighed
All I had gained in former move.
I ever lost in game.
It seems I ever lacked in skill,
If so, I’m not to blame.
And now the game I must give up,
But I will not despair.
I will begin all o’er again--
Defeat I cannot bear.
But it will not be on this earth;
For here I’m done with life.
I’ve played Life’s game, and ever lost,
To live is naught but strife.
“THE OLD, OLD STORY.”
Come into the garden sweet Lilith
When the clock in the tower strikes nine.
When the moon by the hill tops is hidden,
For thine eyes e’er the moonbeams outshine.
Come into the garden my loved one,
While the nightingales sing in the trees.
All th’ air is filled with the fragrance
That the flowers send forth to the breeze.
Come into the garden and meet me
Beneath the old oak on the lawn.
To thee I will tell the same story
That was told at the world’s first dawn.
Come into the garden sweet Lilith,
To thee, I’d anew my vows plight.
Again I would speak to thee love words,
Again by the moon’s waning light.
Come into the garden my Lilith,
The meadow lark chants his love song.
E’en the trees are whispering sweet love notes,
For they to each other belong.
Come into the garden sweet Lilith,
Where the fire-flies seem dancing around.
They are plighting their love to each other,
Their love smiles light up all the ground.
Come into the garden sweet Lilith,
O listen, sweetheart, to my plea.
The trees, and the birds, and the fire-flies
Tell their love; then _why_ should not we?
My heart is with love overflowing,
I would clasp thee in Love’s close embrace.
If parted from thee my sweet Lilith,
Thy love I could never efface.
THE GHOST OF LOVE.
Thou art a specious pleader,
But thou dost plead in vain.
Though once I loved, and trusted,
My love and trust thou’st slain.
Though in the past were hidden
Thy many faults from me;
As phantoms they now haunt me,
As ghosts, those faults I see.
The mask that ever covered
The evil in thy life,
From thy false face hath fallen,
And now thy passions rife
Stand out in greatest contrast
From what they seemed in past.
To me ’tis revelation--
With awe I stand aghast.
And feel a sense of horror,
That love should come to me
For one whose life was hideous,
But now,--Thank God I’m free!
Free from the ties that bound me,
Free from the chains of ill.--
Thy love no more enthralls me,
And yet--O heart be still!
I find that love, and pity
Lie deep within my heart.
I cannot, cannot hate thee--
Thou art of life a part.
Farewell! Farewell! ’Tis better
For both; that we are free.
For life, when trust hath left us
Is naught but misery.
I SHALL SING IT SOMETIME.
There is a poem somewhere
That is perfect in its time;
That is perfect in its metre,
That is perfect in its rhyme.
It is written on the flowers,
It is floating in the air;
It is written on the hill tops,
It is singing everywhere.
And I know sometime I’ll write it--
It is singing in my brain.
I will seek it, I will find it,
In my soul it long has lain.
When I try to grasp this poem,
It eludes me ever, aye--
It is ever just beyond me,
Though I hear it night and day.
It is sung by hosts unnumbered,
And was heard when world was new.
It is heard when storm-clouds gather,
And in glistening drops of dew.
’Tis the singing of the flowers,
’Tis the music of the stars.
’Tis the rhythm of the ocean,
And most perfect are its bars.
In the universe ’tis written,
And it is so sweet, and rare--
It was written by the Master,
It inspires every prayer.
O if I could catch the rhythm
That aye fills the universe--
That is sung by choir of angels;
Inspired would be my verse.
In Cathedral ’tis resounding,
Chanted ’tis at altar pure;
And the rhythm haunts me ever--
Spirit song which doth allure.
It is stately in its measure,
Though it be a sad refrain;
Though it be a merry jingle
That goes dancing through my brain.
Yet it _may_ be but the _echo_
Of a symphony, or dirge,
Or a mother’s loving ditty,
That may through my brain e’er surge.
’Tis the waterfall’s loud roaring,
Or the humming of the bee.
’Tis the raging of the tempest
As it moans upon the sea.
’Tis the detonating cannon,
Or the sigh of dying leaf.
’Tis a song of glad rejoicing,
Or a threnody of grief.
’Tis the ghost of an old love song,
Or the spirit of a prayer.
’Tis a wail of deepest anguish,
And I hear it everywhere.
It is floating in the ether,
It is written in the sky;
But wherever may be poem,
I shall sing it by and by.
Be it song, or be it anthem--
It doth in my heart e’er lie;
And my soul for song is waiting,
I shall sing it by and by.
WHEN I AM DEAD.
Will friends remember that I lived,
Give me a passing thought,
Give tribute to what I have done,
To what I may have wrought.
Or will they pass with heedless laugh,
Not feeling one regret
That I have gone beyond their ken;
And will they soon forget
That _I_ loved them, that _they_ loved me,
That friendship in the past
Was part, and parcel of our lives;
We hoped ’twould ever last.
But when I’m dead, I hope few tears
Will then be shed for me.
If others then shall take my place,
I shall not grieve to see
My loved ones happy without me.
Why should they grieve for aye?
Their duties they must ever do,
The laws of life obey.
* * * * *
Forget me then when I am dead;
I fain would have it so.
If world is better for my life,
Bequeath I would not woe
To those I leave behind on earth;
They need not shed one tear,
Nor be unhappy for one hour;
Nor need they have one fear
Of what befalls me when I die.
I’ll go where I belong.
I shall not crowd nor push aside
The ever swelling throng.--
My place I’ve made while here on earth,
And I shall go therein
Without a fear, without a thought
Of any earthly sin.
I’ve lived, I’ve loved, I’ve done the work
That was laid out for me.
I still shall live, I still shall love
Throughout eternity.
* * * * *
Be patient with the living ones,
The dead need not your care.
The living ones need comforting
For much they have to bear.
“’TIS FOLLY TO BE WISE.”
Poor Folly will build a grand mansion,
And in it the wise man may live.
Poor Folly may hoard up his money,
But Wisdom will gladly it give.
Poor Folly Life’s game is aye playing,
And often the game he may win.
And Folly may build a cathedral,
And Wisdom may pray therein.
Though Folly knows how to make money,
He spends it full oft like a fool,
And Wisdom may do the same also,
But it is not always the rule.
If Folly were better than Wisdom,
’Twere foolish for us to be wise,
Perhaps though there’s folly in wisdom,
And wisdom in folly oft lies.
THE OLD OAK’S REVERIE.
I’ve stood and fought for centuries past
The storms of wind which beat,
And hurled their fury on my head,
But could not me defeat.
Though generations have passed on,
And gone to their last rest.
I’ve stood the ravages of time,
Have ever borne the test
Of summer’s heat, of winter’s cold,
And lightning’s scorching blast.
Unconquered been in nature’s fight,
As if of iron cast.
Sometimes when storms beat on my head,
I little cared for life;
I would have giv’n the battle up,
With all its fierce, fierce strife.
But then again I felt life’s love
Go coursing through my veins,
And then I felt impelled to say
I’m thankful that God reigns.
Long years ago,--I count them not,
A child on hillside stopped.
His pockets filled with acorns ripe,
And one of them he dropped.
I soon sprang up from out the earth,
With life and hope so strong.
I took my place, have kept it too
Through all these centuries long.
For many years the birds have built
Their nests beneath my boughs,
Have sung their love songs through the days,
Each day renewed their vows.
I learned their love songs I am sure,
I shared their joy and pride;
When lover brought to his old home
His sweetheart, his bird bride.
I’m lonely e’er when they depart
To fairer, warmer lands.
Impatiently await the time
When Love again demands
Their secret nesting ’mong my boughs.--
Again I’ll hear Love’s call;
Will hear their marriage vows renewed.
For Love e’en birds enthrall.
INGRATITUDE.
If we should help a friend in need
We would not have him kneel
In humble, abject gratitude;
And yet--we’d have him feel
Some little kindness in his heart,
Sometimes to it allude.
“For sharper than a serpent’s tooth”
Is base ingratitude.
We try to keep the rule laid down,
“Let not your right hand know”
What e’er your left may give, or do,
Though friend may change to foe.
Though friends ignore what we have done,
And often cause us pain,
We still will help to lift the loads,
And burdens on them lain.
“JUDGE NOT.”
Judge not of others’ lives by yours,
Unless your own is pure.
You know not what the others bear
Or what they may endure.
Temptations may have been too strong,
And they, alas! too weak
To cope with all the sins in life,
And purity aye seek.
Heredity is oft the cause;
And e’en the strongest mind
May find it hard to overcome;
For it, to sin may bind.
And yet there is a power within
To overcome all ill.
By cultivating this high power
All thought of sin we kill.
Yet “do not judge lest you be judged.”
Look deep in your own heart,
And you may find some secret sin
That of your life is part.
If you are sinless, then you may
The first stone throw at them;
If it recoils and falls on you,
Yourself you must condemn.
There are so many pitfalls deep
At every turn of road;
And all life’s paths so devious,
So heavy is life’s load
That man must carry up life’s hill,
Too oft he falls by way;
But he has strength to bear the load
If he God’s laws obey.
OUR VIRTUES ARE CARVED UPON OUR TOMBSTONES.
In attic bare and dreary,
With fingers blue with cold,
A man sat writing, writing,
For pittance small of gold.
His limbs were cramped, and trembling,
The light was low and dim.
For hours he had been writing,
And Hunger sat by him;
Sat even at his elbow
With taunting words of fame,
With promises alluring
That he would make a name.--
* * * * *
The morning light was breaking,
Still empty was his cot.
He seemed to be still writing.--
He had the world forgot.
* * * * *
In grave-yard he is lying,
“God’s acre” is the name.
Cold criticism killed him.
He fought too hard for fame.
* * * * *
Not colder is the grave-yard
Than was his attic bare,
When death had claimed his victim,
They found his “writings rare”
His name was now emblazoned
Upon the hearts of those
Who never did him justice,
Nor troubled at his woes.
* * * * *
Thus Fame, and Honor, Riches,
Oft come to man when dead,
Are proud to do him justice,
With _laurel_, crown his head.
HONOR, FAME, OR LOVE.
High Honor came to visit me,
And with him goddess Fame.
But Happiness deserted me
When Fame and Honor came.
I courted Honor, courted Fame,
They coldly smiled on me;
They soon became unwelcome guests,
For they caused Love to flee.
I fain would then have cast aside
The guests which I had sought.
Alas! It was too late, for they
Had then the evil wrought.