THE HEART of a child is a scroll,
A page that is lovely and white;
And to it, as fleeting years roll,
Come hands with a story to write--
A story of laughter and mirth,
A story of sorrow and tears,
Of love that encircles the earth,
Or sin that embitters the years.
Be ever so careful, O hand;
Write thou with a sanctified pen.
Thy story shall live in the land
For years in the doings of men.
It shall echo in circles of light,
Or lead to the death of a soul.
Grave here but a message of right,
For the heart of a child is a scroll.
[Illustration of a mother looking at an infant cradled in her arms.
Backdrop is an unrolled scroll, feather pen, and inkwell. Infant’s
shadow is cast onto the blank scroll.]
His Epitaph (1922)
[Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]
HE wasn’t rich; he wasn’t great,
His place was lowly and obscure.
His clothing was not up-to-date,
His house was tumble-down and poor.
No honor did he claim.
He never walked with lords and kings.
No glory has illumed his name,
But he was kind to helpless things.
He won no victories to boast.
He made no conquests, waged no strife.
He never led a conquering host;
He lived an unpretentious life.
But, when is writ the judgment scroll,
And Time its final verdict brings,
This will be said of him: his soul
Was rich in love for helpless things.