Part 2

The World’s Drama (1918)

The world’s a screen. Across it flit the shadows Of all the multitudes that come and go. They move in dusty lanes, o’er sunny meadows, And where the hand of toil moves to and fro.

There is the mourner and the long procession; There is the maid with joy of which to sing; There is the warrior, with his blood-possession; There is the shade of some forgotten king.

Soon is each gone. Soon yonder in the distance Each comes amid the mists to disappear, Where dying light falls on his face or glistens For one brief moment on his helm or spear.

Yet as each goes another is approaching. A multitude is shadowed on ahead; So moves the line, forevermore encroaching Upon the borders of the silent dead.

Thus goes the drama, each his fond part playing, For what he plays to him is all in all-- Striving, pursuing, loving, toiling, praying, Until the darkness overshadows all.

Jim (1919)

A chicken-hearted boy was Jim, A lad with a gentle face and eye. The boys all joined in a laugh at him Whenever he chanced to be passing by. He wouldn’t set foot on a helpless thing. For a crawling worm he’d turn aside. He was always making a splint or sling For some wounded creature that else had died.

Well, Jim grew up, and the war came on. Justice and right in the dust lay low. One day they noticed that Jim was gone, And wondered if he could face the foe. It was said that no braver soldier fought In all the marshaled ranks than Jim; From many battles he finally brought The name of a hero home with him.

We looked to see a steely eye And a hardened face from his soldier ways, But the same old lad came marching by With the gentle eyes of his boyhood days. He had heard the voices of battle ring; He had faced the peril from death’s grim shore; But to-day he treads on no helpless thing, Though they call him chicken-heart no more.

[Two illustrations cover the time span of the poem. The first illustration’s foreground has a boy facing the viewer, walking along a neighborhood street, and approaching a small, sitting dog whose back faces the viewer. The street bends right and into the background past homes and a few neighbors looking in the boy’s direction. A church steeple is prominent above the homes and trees. The second illustration has the same viewpoint of the neighborhood. People line the side of the street, their backs to the viewer, as a troop formation carrying an American flag parades towards the viewer.]

Let Us Be Right (1919)

Let us be right, though all the world may follow The broken fabric of some failing dream. As sounds upon our ears its outcry hollow, And men lose all for some deceiving scheme, Let us forsake the gold and tinsel masking, And live for things enduring and secure. Whate’er the prize the idle crowd is asking, Let us be right. The path of truth is sure.

Let us be right, whatever seem our losing, Some day the tide will turn, and men will know The thing abiding. Then the common choosing Will be the substance, not the empty show. Let us be right. When self’s poor plans are shattered And all the castles lifted mountain high By evil hand, are broken down and shattered, The right shall stand beneath the mighty sky.

Light and Shadow (1919)

A BIT of sunshine and a bit of shadow, And each succeeds the other on the screen. They chase each other over hill and meadow, Alternate triumph through each act and scene. The smile and tear has each in turn its season, The right and wrong their coronation day, And foolishness contends for place with reason --such is a play.

A bit of gladness and a bit of sighing, A warm sun’s beaming and the cloudland’s chill Each comes and goes the while the day is dying From western hill to farther western hill. So runs the tale as passing years grow hoary; So will it be forever and for aye. A bit of sorrow and a touch of glory --such is a day.

The New Day (1919)

Put up your guns, ye nations, and lay your swords away. Forget the roar of battle ye heard but yesterday. Forget the vanished era of autocrats and kings And turn to face a future of better, finer things.

We strung our rows of crosses on Flanders’ flow’ry plains. We touched the fields of Europe with our hearts’ reddest stains. We walked the shadowed valley: we felt its deadly chill. Some lingered on its bosom with voice forever still.

Among the wreck of empires, the dreams of yesterday. Built on self’s foundations (the dreamers: where are they?). We face a dawning future upon a shattered earth. ’Twill be as we shall make it--a thing of threat or worth.

O ye returning manhood, baptized in battle flame, Ye who have fought for honor and saved the world from shame, Ye who have stood for justice beyond the mighty seas, Come to the task awaiting on battlefields of peace.

Put up your guns, ye nations, and lay your swords away. ’Twas yours to live beholding the world’s redemption day. Let now the earth, forgetting its reign of strife and blood, Welcome the dawning era--the day of brotherhood.

[Poem is on cover page with the following additional text: The Sunday School Journal, March 1919, Volume Fifty-One, Number Three. The poem overlays an illustration of the Statue of Liberty.]

The New Year (1919) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]

Each New Year day Time cuts the thread That binds us to the vanished past. Its tears, and cares, and pangs are fled. Its woes are gone, its troubles dead, And we are free at last.

It is the road ahead we scan Whene’er the year is new. Again we gird our hearts, and plan For better days. We hope again In things secure and true.

Thanks for the hand that steals away The cares of moments sped. Thanks for the years we leave today, But more for all that seems to say: “’Tis better on ahead.”

God’s Garden (1920)

There blooms a lovely garden Beneath the smile of God, Where fairest flow’rs are nodding Above the smoothest sod. From it has come the harvest Of everlasting worth, Enriching yonder heaven, As well as hither earth.

Kind friendships are the breezes That come with soothing breath; Love is the life stream, springing Where else had been but death; A teacher is its gard’ner; Its sunlight is the truth; And in its soil doth blossom The flower of lovely youth.

[Poem is framed by illustrated flowers. Outside the frame--from middle-left to middle-top--is an illustration of two young, smiling girls standing in the midst of flowers. The older girl is cradling several picked flowers in one arm while her other are is extended and selecting another.]

The Open Soul (1920)

There is a way That leads to some rich joy in every day, To where through immemorial ages gone Calm Peace has sat upon her regal throne. There is a road to joy’s supremest goal, But pilgrims say It is discerned but by the open soul.

There is a song That has the power to scatter courage strong Through all the moments of the busy day, And blunt the thorns along the weary way. Its music always lessens sorrow’s toll, Though suffered long. It is no secret to the open soul.

There is a gleam That lights with loveliness the hill and stream, Blesses the days with hours supremely rare, And threads a line of gladness through each care. Before it all the shadows swiftly roll From fettered beam. It breaks like morning on the open soul.

The Outcome (1920)

Life’s always at its best upon the screen. It is not perfect. Life is never so. There runs a struggle thru each shifting scene, And shadows often come, their pall to throw Across the landscape. Things go wrong a while. But always comes at last the shine’s glow, And gloom is followed by the song and smile.

In every drama wrong must have its reign, In every tale the villain has his day; Gladness we see, contrasting it with pain, And truth is valued but by error’s sway. The right and wrong are alternate in power, The scene is now in sun, now shadow cast, But tho the wrong may triumph for an hour, The right is seated on the throne at last.

The Silent Drama (1920)

Out of the silence often comes A voice that breaks the stillness deep, And with an eloquence unheard Calls hidden mem’ries from their sleep. It carries power unknown to speech; It speaks directly to the heart, Grown thoughtful in the silences. Such is the screen’s appealing art.

It calls the strong to lost resolve. It thrills the weak to better things, It touches sleeping hopes to life And in the songless heart it sings. It opens scenes of loveliness For eyes long used to barren spot, This sacred silence that is heard Where thought is all and voice is not.

A Trouble Making World (1920)

There’s a word that keeps us from the best of things, Making some men peasants, making others kings, Making all to sorrow, forcing some to die, For uncounted sorrows the one reason why.

There’s a word begetting bitterness and strife, Evermore beclouding all the sky of life, Driving men to battle when they ought to be Linked in soul together by fraternity.

There’s a word that enters in the holy place, Writes its tale of trouble on the fairest face; Makes of life a struggle, fraught with grasping greed, When its years were given for high thought and deed.

There’s a word that robs us of the happy song; Makes the earth a treadmill, elevates the strong; Drives the weak from justice; grinds the poor and worn; Fills the years with hatred; seeds the world with scorn.

There’s a word absorbing manhood’s fruitful hour, Careless of life’s meaning, prodigal of power, Making regal spirits satisfied with pelf, It is short but powerful, and its name is self.

The Builders (1921)

Each stone that goes into the wall And lifts it higher from the clay Is but a life that heeds the call To serve its God from day to day. No hammers on their anvils beat, Yet in some wondrous time to be The finished work will stand complete-- The temple of humanity.

The patient builders--who are they, Whose hands have toiled and oft alone, Through many a hard, discouraged day To set e’er night another stone? They are the teachers who have brought The word of righteousness and truth, The great ideal, the noble thought, And dropped them in the heart of youth.

[Poem is on cover page with the following additional text: The Sunday School Journal, August 1921. Cover has an illustration of a path, lined by bushes and trees, leading to a large church. The view of the church is partially obscured by the trees, but its steeple rises above them. The sky is dominated by tall, white, billowing clouds.]

The Children v1921

WHEN two gray-haired old parents meet In quiet home or busy street, The talk will run in formal style On formal things a little while. Then, following a silent spell: “The children, are they doing well?”

Then faded eyes grow quickly bright. Worn features take a sudden light, As they recount with pride and joy The story of each girl and boy. How these old parents love to tell That every child is doing well!

The great All-Father up above, I often think, in words of love Recounts each vict’ry and success, Joys in His children’s happiness. I think He, too, delights to tell That all His own are doing well.

Climaxes v1921

One climax comes in every play, And only one; And after it has had its day The struggle’s won. Untangled is each vagrant thread; Sad hearts to happiness are led; And, with the days all fair ahead, The play is done.

One climax comes in every life, And only one-- The apex of our human strife, The race we run. Then woes are banished; tears are dried; Our answered questions put aside; Life’s dearest hope is satisfied; Then life is done.

Home v1921 [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]

The joy that some hearts treasure, the hope that others prize; The wistful wish that, buried deep, sometimes in others lies; A word so dear that men will die with gladness for its sake; The forge at which are welded strong the ties that naught can break;

A garden in the wildest waste of this world’s desert life; A spot where dwell both peace and calm amid the fiercest strife; A refuge from each storm that beats; the place in all the land Where there are souls who sympathize and hearts that understand;

The rock whereon the anchors hold that keep us safe and fast When else would perish all we are and have amid the blast; The shrine before whose holy light does fondest worship come; The choicest ideal of the heart--its sacred name is HOME.

The Magic Gateway (1921)

I turned the cover of a book, And found it was a gate Into a field where one might look, Unwearied, soon and late. The dreams of every land and sea Were all about me there. Kind spirits came and talked with me, And flowers bloomed everywhere.

I saw the years that long had sped, The wondrous scenes of yore. The mighty past gave up its dead, They lived and spoke once more. The greatest minds that ever thought, And hearts that ever beat, Came, and their richest treasures brought To lay them at my feet.

Shadows v1921

We are moving shadows cast On the world’s great picture screen; Shadows in a drama vast, Filled with varied act and scene.

Shadows flitting in the sun Like the bees among the flowers; Shadows hast’ning one by one Down the course of passing hours.

Shadows in the sunny space; Shadows on the tangled grass; Shadows on the river’s face; Shadows in the winds that pass.

Shadows playing in the lane; Shadows fighting battles brave; Shadows walking ways of pain; Shadows falling in the grave.

Shadows moving in the grove, Falling on the summer lawn. On and off the screen they move, But the play goes ever on.

The Sunbeam and the Shadow (1921)

The sunbeam and the shadow Are met upon the screen. Each mingles in the making Of yonder lovely scene. If all were only shadow, A leaden cloud would pall. If it were only sunshine, ’Twould be no scene at all.

In life are intermingled The sunshine and the rain. In each day strangely blended Are happiness and pain. Where’er is told life’s story, However grave or fair, The sunshine and the shadow Succeed each other there.

The Teacher v1921

WHO shapes a mind doth shape the years That are to be, the joys and tears Of those unborn. He lays his hand Upon the future of the land And turns by thought’s resistless force The stream of hist’ry in its course.

Who shapes a life, its hopes, its worth, Doth shape the future of the earth. His is a sculptor hand, to mold The periods as they unfold. His hand is laid upon the rod That speeds the purposes of God.

After-Images (1922)

The lights go low, the organ swells, And pours its rhythm everywhere-- Now thunder, now the ring of bells, Sounding at twilight o’er the dells, Now but a whisper in the air. The whisper and the thunder loud Are both reflected on the crowd.

The pictures come, and pass away, As morn departs or evening stills. Ambition fights its fevered fray. The wrong and right have each their day. Love walks with love upon the hills Life’s long procession there appears. And hurries onward thru the years.

The music dies. The crowds depart. Each goes his way, pursues his aim; But something in the thing of art Has left a mark upon his heart. Somehow the world is not the same. The music and the scenes so fair Have left their after-imagine there.

Almost (1922)

The fish we almost captured, The race we almost won, The task we almost finished Before the day was done. The plan almost accomplished, The dream almost come true-- These bring but little comfort Or help to me and you.

Near heroes win no laurels; Near victories are cheap; And near achievements bring us No crowns we care to keep. To come but near is failure. A miss is like a mile. The word “almost” can rob us Of all that is worth while.

Along the Road (1922)

The folks we meet along the road, They are a varied throng-- A pilgrim struggling with his load; The singer of the song; A youth with bright, expectant gaze, His face with hope alight; An old man bowed with many days, And stumbling toward the night.

The rich, the poor, the high, the low; The faithless and the true; The face of joy, the form of woe, All pass in grand review We meet, and see their forms no more; But when the eve is gray The sweetest thought we ponder o’er Is whom we’ve helped today.

Compensation (1922)

For everything that happens wrong A dozen things go right. For every tear a flood of song Rings out across the night. For every dark and stormy day A week of days are fair. However chill the clouds and gray, ’Tis always bright somewhere.

For every heart of bitterness A host of hearts are light. For every hour of deep distress A whole long day is bright. For every faithless friend we find That many friends are true. So, after all, God’s mighty kind To such as me and you.

A Creed (1922)

I DO believe That, while in this old world few things are sure, Right, truth, and love forevermore endure; That these are ’mongst the things most worth our while --A song, a smile, The wiping of a tear from eyes that grieve.

I do believe That in the day of famine or of feast That one is richest who has sought the least; That, spite of all earth’s woes, and tears, and pains, Love is, and reigns; And sunshine through the ages Time doth weave.

I do believe God plants some seeds of gladness in each day, And smiles on children happy at their play; That living men, though paupers, churls, or slaves, Are more than graves To which the grass and mosses damply cleave.

The Engineer (1922)

I MUST not be a minute late, Nor yet too hasty be. I have a load of human freight Depending upon me. I know that loving eyes tonight Are all along the line, Waiting to see them each alight-- These passengers of mine.

When at the finish of my run I reach the hour of rest I want to think on what I’ve done, And know it was my best. Of hearts that never felt a fear I want to dream tonight, Hearts that were sure the engineer Would bring them through all right.

[Illustration of a head crowned with a wreath made from a plant. The person is facing the viewer. A tree (perhaps the source for the wreath) is shown next to the head.]

The Flag at Sea (1922)

Have you ever felt a craving On the vastness of the sea, To behold the silken waving Of the banner of the free? Have you searched with tired precision, Far from where the land unbars, For a passing moment’s vision Of the flag of stripes and stars?

Does it thrill you to remember When it stood against the sky, How your heart was like an ember And a tear was in your eye? How the old flag thrilled your spirit, How it made you feel at home, When your ship that day sailed near it On the wideness of the foam?

The Gift of the Farm (1922)

We thank you, old farm, forever For the gift you have freely made To the world and its hard endeavor, Of the boys and the girls who played On your beautiful hills and meadows, Who digged in your kindly soil And who learned in your sun and shadows The lesson of honest toil.

We thank you for hands so ready Their manifold tasks to do, For minds that are keen and steady, For hearts that are strong and true, For people of lowly station, For those who have won renown, For the best who have served the nation In the country and the town.

The Gifts of the Church (1922) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]

The dearest friends that life has known In any time or place Were made before the wondrous throne Of mercy and of grace. The bonds of brotherhood were wrought In high communion there Where we have walked with God in thought, And bowed in common prayer.

The sweetest mem’ries of the years, The joys most keen and true, The kindest words that blessed our ears The sanctuary knew. The highest peaks our hearts have scaled, The fairest roads we trod, The hours by which all others paled Were in the house of God.

God of To-Day (1922)

OUR THANKS are thine, O Mighty One, that thou has safely led Our fathers through the grim and trying past And made a way for us in days now dead. Our gratitude before thy throne we cast, That hands divine Have kept our feet and ordered all our ways, God of the yesterdays.

We thank thee, too, For that blest hope we treasure fond and deep-- The hope our worn hearts lean so heavy on-- That somewhere in time’s mighty onward sweep The day of God and righteousness shall dawn Serene and true. For all of this we bring our thanks to thee, God of the years to be.

But most of all We thank thee for the golden fruitfulness Of fields now rich with grain or bright with flowers, For grace and pardon, joy and blessedness, And every good that even now is ours. And so we call In confidence that thou dost bless our way, God of this present day.

The Heart of a Child Is a Scroll (1922)

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.