Part 1

Transcriber’s Note: Poems are ordered by publication year (goal is the earliest available at least with legible text), then alphabetically intrayear (ignoring “A”, “An”, and “The”). Poems appear as printed in source unless changes are given in the notes. Investigation of spelling involved Google’s Ngram Viewer (//books.google.com/ngrams/). Title case is used for all poem titles for consistent appearance. Where Mr. Flynn reused a title, the version is indicated by the year in the title (e.g. title v1921). Alternative text was created for illustrations. Appendix 1 was created for this book and is ordered alphabetically by poem title. Appendix 2 also was created for this book. Appendix 3 provides a way to make this collection more complete. Additional new material, and the compilation, are granted to the public domain. This plain text version of the book uses underscores (_) to denote the start and end of italicized text. However, when an entire poem is italicized, a bracketed note is used instead in order to retain the poem’s structure.

COLLECTED POEMS OF CLARENCE EDWIN FLYNN

First Edition, 1929 and Earlier

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS PREFACE POEMS APPENDIX 1: BYLINES, BIBLIOGRAPHY, NOTES APPENDIX 2: INDEX APPENDIX 3: INACCESSIBLE POEMS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank several librarians. Geoffrey Ross (History, Philosophy, and Newspaper Library at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign) scanned the necessary documents allowing “The Measure of Life” to appear in this first edition. Terese DeSimio (Greene County [OH] Public Library) saved resources in the intercity transfer of an extract about Clarence Edward Flynn. Lauren Day (University of Michigan Library) verified the bottom of the physical publication containing “The Age of a Heart” had been cut off. She then advised HathiTrust to seek a source with a complete scan of the publication.

PREFACE

What follows is a brief introduction to Mr. Flynn, his authorship of poems, and how this book came about. From my research on his life, which I made available at //prabook.com/web/clarence.flynn/1084802, Clarence Edwin Flynn (1886–1970) was an American Methodist Episcopal clergyman, writer, hymnist and lecturer. He’s described as a “writer of stories, articles and verse appearing in periodicals and anthologies” and is “represented in anthologies of verse. General character writing, religious, educational.” [1] [2] His poetry alone appeared in more than 300 different domestic and international publications.

Despite variation in bylines over his career, I believe all poems in this collection belong to Clarence Edwin Flynn. Specifically, the variation in middle name/initial in this first edition amounts to E (186), Edwin (4), none (3), and F (1). To put those numbers in a wider context, the variation associated with poetry published in 1930 and later shows the following preliminary results: Edwin (415), E (98), Edward (15), none (3), and conflicts within the same publication (2). “Edward” appears in bylines between 1931–1954. There was an educator named Clarence Edward Flynn (1890–1956), but one description of his authorship published a year before his death is very specific and does not mention verse: “A County Plan of Work for Elementary Schools; A Workbook for Elementary and High Schools.” [3] It may be that bylines with “Edward” are due to error and name interchangeability (see www.familysearch.org/en/wiki/Ireland_Naming_Customs). The benefit of any doubt about Clarence Edward Flynn’s authorship of verse should be given to well-established poet Clarence Edwin Flynn. This brief analysis is limited by A) the absence of Clarence Edwin Flynn’s personal papers (their status is unknown to me) and B) only rare inclusions of his blurb in publications to which he contributed.

How did this book come about? The gateway was an anthology of short stories and poetry that was partially lacking in primary sources. I applied my penchant for research in finding them. The search for a primary source for one particular anonymous poem initially turned up more secondary sources without a named author. I stuck with the search, and it transformed into a rabbit hole. I eventually came across a primary source attributing the poem to Clarence Flynn--my introduction to his name. As I continued to look for the oldest primary source available for that poem, I discovered more of his poetry and became a fan. After finding his inclusion in prominent sources like those in the first two footnotes to this preface, the questions came. Why haven’t I heard of this person? Why doesn’t he have a Wikipedia page? [As previously mentioned, I went with prabook.com instead.] Why hasn’t his poetry been collected? And so here, emerging from the rabbit hole, is the inaugural collection. This first edition is limited to poetry published in 1929 or earlier in accordance with a copyright rule governing works first published before 95 years ago. But with more than 700 additional poems waiting in the wings, future editions are planned as increments of these poems enter the public domain on an annual basis.

[1] _Who’s Who in America: A Biographical Dictionary of Notable Living Men and Women_. Vol. 24, 1946–1947, Two Years. Chicago: The A. N. Marquis Co., 1946. p. 780 [2] Lawrence, Alberta, ed. _Who’s Who Among North American Authors_. Vol. 5, 1931–1932. Los Angeles: Golden Syndicate Publishing Co., 1931. p. 1089 [3] _Who’s Who in the East_. Vol. 5. Chicago: The A. N. Marquis Co., 1955. p. 268

POEMS

Si Gidders (1902)

There’s an old man named Si Gidders lives on Uncle Henry’s place, Jest a common farmer feller, that is all; Tall, an’ lean, an’ lank in figger, with an awful homely face, But as much as you could estimate of gall. Gidders has one wretched failin’, that of wonderin’ at things, An’ it takes most all his time to humor that, For it’s wonder, wonder, wonder till yer ear jest fairly rings, With the how, an’ who, an’ which, an’ where, an’ what.

He will wonder why the sun don’t shine by night as well as day, An’ why all the leaves ain’t red instid o’ green; Why them brindled kind o’ chickens air the ones that allers lay, An’ why Johnny Smith ain’t fat instid o’ lean. He will wonder why the sky is blue an’ why it isn’t brown, An’ why twelve o’clock don’t come at early morn; He will wonder why things don’t fall up instid o’ fallin’ down, An’ why Seckel pears don’t grow on stalks of corn.

He will wonder why Jim Perry’s hair ain’t black instid o’ red, An’ why summer don’t start in at Christmas time; Why it is that folks can’t never go to heaven till they’re dead, An’ why three times three ain’t ten instid o’ nine; Why don’t daisies bloom in winter, an’ why don’t we have no snow When the temperature’s a hundred in the shade; Why don’t tomcats never whistle, en why does a rooster crow When his mate has just informed him that she’s laid.

So Si Gidders’ tongue is runnin’ an’ each new thing he may see Allers sets a wonder workin’ in his head, He will wonder what it is an’ how it ever came to be, An’ why it ain’t painted black instid o’ red. An’ I ’spect that when he dies an’ comes to heaven’s pearly gates That he won’t find time to step inside at all, For he’ll want to stop an’ wonder why they hain’t all made of tin, An’ nailed up with old shoeleather to the wall.

Hagar’s Song (1906)

Thou God of mercy, Thou who art To Abraham a sword and shield, Must I myself, an infant, yield Unto the desert’s burning heart?

Have I been so undutiful That this death be my recompense, That Ishmael in his innocence Should die so young and beautiful?

Is he so worthless in Thy sight, Is all that he might do and be So insignificant to Thee Who lovest justice, truth, and right?

But though I crave Thy tenderness, No longer will I plead with Thee Whate’er Thy will so let it be. For even death can bring but rest.

So not unto the burning sands Do I commend my dearest joy, My innocent, my precious boy, But into Thy most gracious hands.

But I am like a wreck at sea; My throat is parched, my heart is sore; I sigh for rest, not that of yore. Do to me, Lord, as pleaseth Thee.

The Cry of a Human (1906)

When the cares of life are heavy and the world looks dark to me, When board is high and funds are running low, I can look back at the faces that I used to love to see-- The faces of the balmy long ago. I can wander back along the brooks I loved when but a boy, When I didn’t have to mend my shirts and sew The buttons on I busted off, ah! those were days of Joy, When I lived, a careless laddie, in the happy long ago.

Somehow, when my dinner’s heavy, then my heart gets heavy, too. And I long to see the cooky jar again. It isn’t any wonder that the world looks black and blue, When you owe at least a half dozen men. I am longing for the good old days when I could live care free, And when I was hungry I could just tiptoe Into the dark old pantry, and eat all that I could see, And only get my britches fanned in the happy long ago.

Give me back the nice hot biscuit, give me back the fresh clean clothes, Give me back the swimmin’ hole and all its joys, Give me back the tenderness that a mother only knows Makes the very life and soul of sturdy boys. Give me back the apple-butter, and I’ll stir it till I die. Give me back the places that I used to know. Give me back the fresh fried sausage and the yellow pumpkin pie That I used to do the chores for in the happy long ago.

The joy of being grown up has lost all its charm for me, Since my clothes are growing threadbare down the seams, And my Sunday hat needs darning, and my necktie seems to be Drawing near the murmur of Elysian streams. I am longing for the good old days, when life was new to me, And the parties where I used to love to go, The old-time apple cuttin’ and the jolly huskin’ bee, Where I used to swing the lassies in the happy long ago.

Child’s Prayer (1907)

Now I lay me down to sleep ’Mid the twilight’s gentle gloom, Soothing me to slumbers deep In my angel-guarded room, While the stars look tenderly Down upon the world and me.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep While the shadows hover near. O, may angel pinions sweep Where an evil would appear, Angel footsteps softly press ’Round my bed in watchfulness.

If I should die before I wake, And lightly leave my snowy bed, And wander out, my way to take Unto the side of Him who said Beside the lake of Galilee: “Forbid them not to come to me.”

I pray the Lord my soul to take To walk with him ‘neath clearer skies Where only joyful souls awake, Where grander, sweeter songs arise, Through all the years to come, the same I humbly pray in Jesus’ name.

My Father’s House (1908)

Some times I see in quiet, thoughtful hours Adown the winding journey of the years, Beyond a valley full of faded flowers Whose petals still are wet with human tears,

An open door that looms beside the way, And many weary pilgrims entering where A glad face waits to welcome them alway, And then I know my Father’s house is there.

I care not whether it be built of gold, With pearly gates and shining sapphire walls, Or whether it be humble, low, and old, With footworn thresholds and with homely halls.

I only ask that when my feet have pressed The journey through, and I have come alone Unto my Father’s house, that I may rest Among the loved and lost, and feel at home.

Hope (1909)

When every flower has shed its bloom Afar upon life’s changing ground, And in the chilling autumn gloom Their leaves are drifted all around. One blossom still will lift its eyes Unto the changeless summer skies.

When life’s poor lyre has ceased to play, When faith and love no longer sing, Still through the shades of closing day Will tremble one unbroken string To make life’s music still ascend In harmony unto the end.

Oh, flower of hope with deathless hue, Oh, song of hope, unsilenced still, Beyond the vast, eternal blue Ye shine and echo on until The journey’s ended and the way Leads into God’s eternal day.

The King (1909)

When the King came He was so like His own, they knew Him not; And cast in ways of poverty His lot. There was no blazoned heraldry of fame When the King came.

When the King died Not many wept. The memory of His years Did not bring many blossoms dewed with tears Unto the new tomb in the mountainside, When the King died.

When the King rose ’Twas not to go to some far distant land, Nor yet to dwell within a palace grand, ’Twas to the palace of the hearts of men He rose again.

Battle Hymn (1914)

The world has seen from age to age Two marshaled hosts upon the plain Each other in a war engage, And strew the years with heroes slain; And though they seem at times to fail, The hosts of God shall still prevail.

Between the hosts of right and wrong The conflict long has raged afield. It still must rage, however long, Till one shall see the other yield. But, though a countless horde assail, The hosts of God shall still prevail.

The days of blood are in the past, And gone the conflict of the sword. Unseen the lines of war are cast Against the armies of the Lord. But, though their words be fiery hail, The hosts of God shall still prevail.

By night and day the conflict goes, Unheard, unseen, but great and real; And back and forth God’s friends and foes Contend for this world’s woe or weal. Fear not their weapons nor their mail, For we shall see God’s hosts prevail.

Hearts, lose not courage. Brains, take fire, And grow not listless in the fight. The arms of God shall never tire, And nothing can withstand His might. What though at times our banners trail In dust, our God shall still prevail.

The world shall know the ways of God. The nations all shall walk in peace. Wherever human foot has trod, The sway of selfishness shall cease. No more shall horse and rider pale Go forth, when God’s hosts shall prevail.

Beneath serene and peaceful skies, And from an earth without a stain, Redemption’s anthem shall arise Throughout the years, for God shall reign. His cause shall not forever fail, For, soon or late, He shall prevail.

Song of the Dove (1914)

O DOVE, whom do you woo With your soft and gentle coo In the freshness of the morning ’mid the sunlight and the dew? When the first Spring flow’rs are fair And your voice floats everywhere On the bosom of the palpitating air?

O dove, how glad the note That echoes from your throat When the lazy clouds like castles of the sunny islands float In the azure Summer sky, Ah, let your joy run high, For the dreary Winter’s coming by and by.

O dove, how sad the tone As you sit and grieve alone In the gathering of the twilight, in your sad, sweet monotone, With the Autumn hillsides gray Stretching far--so far away, But the joys of Spring and Summer gone for aye.

The Gateway of the Kingdom (1915)

THE gateway of the Kingdom It bendeth very low, Within the reach of every place Where common people go. ’Tis grand, but grandly simple. ’Tis great, yet very small, Though wide enough that ever There’s passage-way for all.

The gateway of the Kingdom Is not of common gold. Its pearl is far more precious Than earthly realm can hold. It has no rusty hinges. No marble steps are piled. The gateway of the Kingdom Is the spirit of a child.

Magi and Shepherd (1915)

There’s a Babe within the manger. Humble men are on the hills. Where the sheep are safely folded, there the silver moonlight spills. There’s a rift across the heavens. There’s a light along the sky. There’s a glory in the valley. There’s an angel song on high. There’s a Babe within the manger. On the hills are humble men. “Peace on earth,” rings forth the chorus, and their hearts respond, “Amen!”

There’s a Babe within the manger. There’s a star that shines above. ’Tis a star of age-long promise. ’Tis the morning star of love. There are wise men. They are kneeling. They have brought their tribute there-- Gold, and frankincense, and myrrh. Behold the majesty they wear. There are wise men. They are kneeling. Wisdom comes upon its knees. In its simple recognition of the birth and reign of peace.

Humble men are on the hillsides, men of wisdom in the stall Where the new-born King of Glory deigns to find His earthly all. High and low have met together. There before a common shrine Rich and poor, unlearned and lettered, each has found the King Divine. Christ is Lord of humble peasant. He is Lord of royal son. At His feet all men are equal. In His way all men are one.

The Open Tomb (1915)

A thousand gates Lead to the grave; and through the weary years The race of men, through bitter, blinding tears, Have seen the forms they loved most enter there Where ever waits An open road on which all feet must fare.

One only gate Leads from the grave; one portal outward swings. ’Tis one alike for peasants and for kings. Beside it lies a stone that’s rolled away; And, soon or late, God’s people shall fare forth into the day.

O, Mighty One, We praise thee that when we have finished all The day’s full hours will hold, and night shall fall That we may see, although we die upon A bed of stone, One door that opens outward on the dawn.

A Price Unpaid (1915)

Upon one battlefield is writ in blood The story of more woe than all the years Can wash away, e’en with the cleansing flood Of centuries of peace. Blind, sickening tears Are caused to flow that never mailed hand Will seek to dry. There glassy grows the eye Of him who looked with joy upon the land, Rich now with death’s ripe harvest. One weak sigh, Then fades the sky, the fields, and all--and then The awful silence which alone will say To those at home, he died, but how or when Remains a secret of the bloody day. What logic is there that can justify The wasting harvest field, the empty home, The blank despair that comes at last to lie On faces left to fare their way alone, Widowed and orphaned--and for naught but this-- To keep a royal throne from tottering down, To hold a mile of boundary where it is, To save a scepter, or preserve a crown?

Two Princes (1915)

The War Lord dwells within his palace walls In all the bright insignia of power; He gives the word by which a city falls, Or ships go thundering through Death’s awful hour. The Prince of Peace knew not an earthly throne, Had not one resting place to call his own.

The War Lord in the pomp of place doth ride Across the borders of the blood-drenched land. On splendid charger, strong and fiery-eyed In every place he keeps a presence grand. The Prince of Peace knew but a humble seat And walked the earth with weary, dusty feet.

The War Lord hears the plaudits of the crowd. Unnumbered men would perish for his name. To keep his royal robes they wear a shroud, And bleed to save him from an hour of shame. The Prince of Peace with thorns upon his head, Unfriended, through the hard-eyed crowd was led.

The while the War Lord speaks the myriad waits, And at his word it cannot choose but die. His armored hand is laid upon the gates Of life and death. What matter reasons why? In one dark hour of loving agony The Prince of Peace expired upon a tree.

The Voices of God (1915)

A THOUSAND voices speak of God. The gayest flower, the meanest clod, The highest hill, the deepest sea Proclaim his messages to me. I read his story in the Book. I hear it in the babbling brook; ’Tis written all across the sky, And in the silent majesty Of mountains, lifting from the land. A note of his undying word Is in the song of every bird, And but to-day my Saviour smiled From out the features of a child.

The Wealth of Cheer (1915)

What’s the use of weeping When the day goes wrong? Better to be keeping Pace with mirth and song. December is December, But May is always May, And shine and shade, remember, Will each come in its day.

Gloom’s an old, old story, As ancient as the earth. And men with heads now hoary Have measured out its worth. They speak with one opinion That, not in gloom and mists, But in sunshine’s dominion The wealth of men consists.

True Values (1916)

One day an angel came and asked a king, Sated with power, with love of pomp and gold, Four things that God must dearly love, to bring And set them in his presence, so ’tis told. The king went forth and came again ere night, And set before the angel in that hour A jewelled crown, a scepter gleaming bright, A battle weapon, and a throne of power.

The angel’s face grew shaded as he gazed Upon the king’s poor playthings gathered there. At last again his countenance was raised. He said: “These are the trappings pride may wear, But God’s great kingdom knows a richer worth: A truer value is its high concern.” “Go”, pled the king, “and from the mighty earth Bring me those things. I wait for thy return.”

“Nay, come with me”, the angel said, “and I, Though I may lead a long and weary way, Will show you what is best beneath the sky.” These are the things he showed the king that day: A kindly life that served unselfishly, A flower that grew in sweetness undefiled, A fireside where were love and purity, The unspoiled spirit of a little child.

Pictures (1918) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]

The days are pictures, and they pass As comes and goes some mirage sheen, As fireflies in the tangled grass, Or shadows thrown upon the screen.

Pictures they are of love and care; Pictures of toil and happiness; Of mighty men, of ladies fair-- Incarnate strength and gentleness;

Pictures of battle and the night That touches woe with cooling breath; Of calm years following the fight, When blossoms deck the fields of death;

Pictures of paths that wind, and meet Where Fate’s decrees have willed it so, Or where erstwhile companion feet Are led in separate ways to go.

The days are pictures, and they run Their hastening course of smiles and tears. As shadows flit ’twixt sun and sun, So pass the ever-dying years.

When the Curtain Falls (1918)

When the end is reached, and the curtain falls, And the echoes die from the voiceless walls, This is the thing that alone will tell: The actor’s part--has he played it well?

A few swift scenes and the course is run; A few brief facts and the play is done. May it be well when the far voice calls, And the lights go out, and the curtain falls.