WAITING Serene I fold my hands and wait, I stay my haste, I make delays; For what is mine shall know my face. Asleep, awake, by night or day The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny. What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears. The waters know their own, and draw The brook that springs in yonder heights. So flows the good with equal law The stars come nightly to the sky, The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, By permission. John Burroughs. OUT IN THE FIELDS WITH GOD The little cares that fretted me, The foolish fears of what may pass, Among the new-mown hay; Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born, Out in the fields with God. Author unknown. IN DEGREE Thy lordly genius blooms for all to see Paul Hayne. GAINING WINGS A twig where clung two soft cocoons One morn I chanced to lift the lid, A moth flew up on downy wings A dainty, beautiful thing it was, Orange and silvery gray, And I marvelled how from the withered bough Such fairy stole away. Had the other flown? I turned to see, And found it striving still To free itself from the swathing floss And rove the air at will. "Poor little prisoned waif," I said, And tenderly I cut the threads, Alas! a feeble chrysalis It dropped from its silken bed; My help had been the direst harmThe pretty moth was dead! I should have left it there to gain The strength that struggle brings: 'T is stress and strain, with moth or man, That free the folded wings! Edna Dean Proctor. THE LIFE THAT COUNTS The life that counts must toil and fight; The life that counts must hopeful be; This is the life that counts. The life that counts must aim to rise Above the earth to sunlit skies; This is the life that counts. The life that counts must helpful be; The life that counts is linked with God; A. W. S. GOOD-BYE Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home: Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. Long through thy weary crowds I roam; A river-ark on the ocean brine, Long I've been tossed like the driven foam; Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; To crowded halls, to court and street; To those who go, and those who come; I'm going to my own hearthstone, And vulgar feet have never trod A spot that is sacred to thought and God. O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, |