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Serene I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time and fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays;
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
For what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day

T 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

Unto the soul of pure delights.

The stars come nightly to the sky,
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

By permission.

John Burroughs.


The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday,
Among the fields, above the sea,
Among the winds at play;
Among the lowing of the herds,

The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what may pass,
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay;
Among the rustling of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born,
Out in the fields with God.

Author unknown.


Thy lordly genius blooms for all to see
On the clear heights of calm supremacy;
My humbler dower they only find who pass
With eyes that search for violets 'mid the grass.

Paul Hayne.


A twig where clung two soft cocoons
I broke from a wayside spray,
And carried home to a quiet desk
Where, long forgot, it lay.

One morn I chanced to lift the lid,
And lo! as light as air,

A moth flew up on downy wings
And settled above my chair!

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,

"You shall not struggle more"; And tenderly I cut the threads, And watched to see it soar.

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 must toil and fight;
Must hate the wrong and love the right;
Must stand for truth, by day, by night-
This is the life that counts.

The life that counts must hopeful be;
In darkest night make melody;

Must wait the dawn on bended knee-
This is the life that counts.

The life that counts must aim to rise
Above the earth to sunlit skies;
Must fix its gaze on Paradise-
This is the life that counts.

The life that counts must helpful be;
The cares and needs of others see;
Must seek the slaves of sin to free-

This is the life that counts.

The life that counts is linked with God;
And turns not from the cross-the rod;
But walks with joy where Jesus trod-
This is the life that counts.

A. W. S.


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; But now, proud world! I'm going home.

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;
"To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;

To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.

I'm going to my own hearthstone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone,-
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,

And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,

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