Part 3
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.
The Lens (1922)
Here is a little piece of glass Set in a tube of shining brass. Through it had passed in grand review All that the world’s heart ever knew Of joy, hope, sorrow, love and fears, The ceaseless struggle of the years, The darkest schemes the evil know, The noblest service men can show.
Through it the risen dead have walked, The spectres of the past have stalked. Hope realized has lingered there, Likewise the shape of dark despair. This bit of glass is seasoned well, For human tongue could never tell The half it knows of peace and strife, And all that makes the old world’s life.
The Magic of the Screen (1922)
WE look down summer lanes on winter days, We see the snow amid the summer’s heat. Far lands are brought and laid before our gaze. The woodland stream runs by the city street. The light of noonday breaks the shades of night, And then is softened to the starlight’s sheen. The dawn and twilight mingle in our sight, Such is the fairy magic of the screen.
THE heavy-hearted slip away from tears And find the gladness of a fleeting hour In fairer spaces and more peaceful years, Where is no dearth of laughter, sun, and flower. Youth sees the future. Age with faded eye Looks back in joy on many a vanished scene, And walks again among the days gone by. Such is the fairy magic of the Screen.
[Photo of palm trees with the caption: Photography by Rice, Los Angeles]
The Making of Heaven (1922)
GOD took the paths we longed in vain to go, And built a golden street beside a river. He took the gates Time closed to us below, And built a portal that shall stand forever.
He took the longings that were vague and dim, And hedged about by human limitation; And built a world without a scar or rim To be our everlasting habitation.
He took the bitter pangs that life has cost; Transformed them into joy, and song, and wonder. He took the treasured blessings we have lost, And planted them beside the waters yonder.
He took our thoughts of hills, and woods, and streams; And made them real, with added beauty given. He took the shattered fragments of our dreams, And built a city fair, and called it Heaven.
The Man Who Knows (1922)
We owe our debt to the man who thinks, For he leads our minds afar Till they stand and tremble on the brinks Of the strangest things that are. We owe our debt to the man who hopes, For he keeps our courage strong. He speaks his cheer to the soul that gropes, And it wakens into song.
And here’s to the man whose soul believes, In whose heart convictions burn Through the day of life, and who dying leaves Them to others in their turn. But the old world’s mighty tasks are planned And done, as it onward goes, By the balanced mind and the steady hand That belong to the man who knows.
The Marine (1922)
He has made a hundred harbors. He has sailed the seven seas. He has trod the Arctic ice fields. He has felt the tropic breeze. He has dwelt in peaceful cities. He has taken shade and sun-- He has never hunted trouble Nor from trouble ever run.
Grim and rugged are his features, Brown his arms and hard his hands; Yet his eyes are frank and winsome, With a boyish air he stands. Readiest of all our fighters, True his aim, and dread his gun-- He has never hunted trouble Nor from trouble ever run.
The Measure of Life (1922)
Not what I get, but what I give As days go fleeting past. Not how I feel, but how I live Must tell the tale at last. Not what I have, but what I do, The loads I bear, the paths I hew Through forests no man ever knew, The highways that I cast.
Not the advantage that I take But give amid the strife. The service for some others’ sake Where selfishness is rife. The effort that I make to bless My time and fellows with success, And brotherhood, and happiness, Measures this little life.
Monuments (1922)
Sometimes the angels go searching For the graves of the sons of God. They traverse the reaching mountains, The sea, and the rolling sod. They never on earth would find them By the marks we so long have known, For they never stop to decipher Our records in bronze and stone.
They find the graves of God’s children By the monuments builded fair Through years of struggle and toiling By the hands that are buried there Or words that were fitly spoken, Of service devoted, true. We mortals may never see them, But God’s messengers always do.
My Riches (1922)
In no triumphal line I ride, No praise falls on my ears; But I’ve a flag that waves in pride, Above me through the years. A flag whose folds are dear to me, Whose glory I confess-- The symbol of my liberty, And peace, and happiness.
Little of riches have I known, Little perhaps deserve; But I’ve a land to call my own, A people I can serve. A country that’s as broad and fair, As any on the ball; With happy people everywhere-- An equal chance for all.
A Parents’ Prayer v1922
God bless our little ones tonight, Our little ones--and thine. Protect their slumber by thy might. Grant them thy peace divine. Help us no duty to forget We owe to them or thee, And leave us nothing to regret In years that are to be.
God, bless our little ones tonight, Our little ones--and thine. Help us to rear them true, and right, And clean, and strong, and fine. Lead them in ways more beautiful Than we have ever seen, And make them each more dutiful Than we have ever been.
Patchwork (1922)
A bit of cloud and a bit of blue Make the wide and mighty sky. A touch of drought with the rain and dew Make the seasons passing by. A bit of black and a bit of white On the canvas make the scene. A bit of shade and a gleam of light Make the drama on the screen.
A bit of toil and a bit of rest Make our winding human way. The rosy East and the flaming West Make the glory of a day. A bit of hope and a bit of fear Make the heart’s eternal strife. A song of joy and a falling tear Make the daily round of life.
A Perfect Day (1922)
A PERFECT day is made of perfect hours, And perfect hours of perfect moments run. Of blessings realized and gathered flowers Between the rising and the set of sun. Soon they are gone. Swiftly the light that played On crests of gladness all has passed away. Dawn turns to Noon. Noon dies to Evening’s shade. Each at its best helps make a perfect day.
A perfect day is in the reach of all Who will but fill each moment to the full With joy, and meaning, thought, and dream, and all That makes life deep, and rich, and wonderful. It is within the reach of all who hold The will to serve, and laugh, and sing, an play Until the sunset covers all with gold, And darkness falls upon a perfect day.
Picture Books (1922)
THEY are long gone, those pleasant hours, When we as girls and boys Turned from our play among the flowers, From all our painted toys, To turn the leaves of picture books, To live with lords, and kings, Swineherds, and chimney sweeps, and cooks, Soldiers, and such like things.
How still they stood! From day to day No figure ever stirred. The armies never marched away, Nor ever spoke a word. Now soldiers march with fife and drum. Men move in every scene. The picture books of old have come To life upon the screen.
Picture Writing (1922)
Of old our fathers wrote in pictures. ’Twas in an age of savage men. The years have rolled a mighty cycle, And we’ve got round to it again. They carved their story on the mountain Where it for ages might be seen. We write ours on a filmy ribbon, And throw it on a silver screen.
If they who carved on cliff and hillside Might but return today and see The picture writing of the present, Big with surprise their eyes would be. We learned their message from the pictures, Tho tiresome was the task and slow; But we shall pass along a story That all the world may read and know.
A Prayer for Thanksgiving (1922) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]
While we are seated at our board In comfort here today, With happy face, and kindly word, Let us not fail to pray For all who do not have their share Of comfort and of gain, For troubled people everywhere In hunger or in pain.
Where weary mothers toil unfed In places foul and dim, Where little children cry for bread And none is given them, Lord, let Thy mercy have its way. Sow plenty in the land, And teach us in our joy today To lend a helping hand.
A Psalm of the Movies (1922) _(With all due apologies.)_
Tell me not in sturdy measure What it says upon the screen. It does damage to my pleasure, And the words are plainly seen.
I am really in earnest, As the titles onward roll; And so, when to me thou turnest, Do not read aloud their scroll.
Many peevish eyes remind us, Tho each passage be sublime, Folks before and folks behind us All can read both prose and rhyme.
In the scene of love and battle, As the swift film pictures life, If you do not cease your prattle, There most surely will be strife.
Let us watch and see what’s doing Till the hast’ning drama ends, And not work the play’s undoing, Reading titles to our friends.
The Radio Neighborhood (1922)
While we have struggled patiently Toward the larger good, Friendship on every land and sea, A world-wide neighborhood, Space set its limits everywhere, Its hedging curtains swirled; But now we speed o’er land, through air, And talk around the world.
Who is our neighbor? Yesterday It was the man whose home Was down the road or o’er the way Where we might often come. Today the golden tie that binds Men’s souls in joy or care, The word uniting hearts and minds, Is vibrant everywhere.
The Section Foreman (1922)
“I LIKE to have my section here The cleanest on the line. I tell the men to keep it clear Of every weed and vine. The ties are new. The rails are bright. The ballast’s firm and strong. The road’s a shining groove of light The trains may slip along.”
“And on the road we all must take, The journey all pursue, Though ’tis not marked by line or stake, I have a section, too. ’Twill be inspected some bright day By the Great Judge divine, And how I’d like to hear Him say: ‛The cleanest on the line’!”
The Shadow World (1922)
There is a world of shadows; We see it on the screen --A world of grassy meadows, With sunlit streams between, Streams flowing to the ocean. They come from everywhere. Love, hope, despair, devotion, Joy, sorrow--all are there.
This world of wondrous seeming Is not a distant place. ’Tis a new way of dreaming To walk in it a space, To tread its flow’ring meadows, To sit beside its streams. It is a world of shadows, And yet how real it seems!
The Stars and Stripes for Me (1922)
I bare my head to banners That others know and love, But one I hold the fairest That decks the blue above. Whatever be their emblems, Wherever they may be, Stand, if you will, beneath them-- But the Stars and Stripes for me.
It stands for all I covet, It leads in all I seek; Its folds afford protection And succor to the weak; It stands for right and justice, And peace and liberty. To others you are welcome-- But the Stars and Stripes for me.
No flag shall wave above it On any purpose bent, Nor snatch its honor from it-- At least with my consent. It speaks of proud traditions, High hopes for years to be. No other scheme or banner But the Stars and Stripes for me.
The Station (1922)
THIS is a place of endings and of startings, Of journeys finished, journeys just begun. It is a place of meetings and of partings, Of heart-ties welded and of struggles done. It is a place of laughter and of sighing, And both commingled in some heart that swells; A place of whispered questions, low replying, Lost in the clanging din of engine bells.
It is a place of partings and of meetings, A place of hoping and a place of fear, A place of farewells and a place of greetings. The mountain crests of life are rounded here. Here does the world pass by in long procession. Here do the heart’s tides ebb, and flow, and surge. Earth’s best and worst are mingled in the station. Here do the paths of all the world converge.
[Poem title in cursive font is above an illustration surrounding the author’s name. Left side has city skyscrapers and a dollar sign. Middle has a train station. Right side has a simpler home in the countryside and a heart. White, billowing clouds form a prominent background for the city and country settings. One double-line encircles all structures and the author’s name.]
The Teacher v1922
The eyes of the ages are toward him. The love of the race is his own. The heart of the world will reward him With a name that is more than a throne. The life that he lives is unending, For he is the servant of youth. Earth is lit by the flame he is tending --This priest at the altar of truth.
[Poem is on cover page with the following additional text: The Sunday School Journal, August 1922. The cover has an illustration of a historical setting. A man wearing robes and headband, sitting in a prominent stone chair on a raised platform, is looking at an unrolled scroll in his hands. He faces the viewer while four nearby children dressed in chitons and sandals look at him: one stands on each side of the chair, the third sits in front, and the fourth stands in front. The chair and people are left of center. A large column frames the right side. The poem is between the people and column and prominently displayed in a housing resembling the facade of a temple. A tiger skin--head attached with gaping mouth--is in the foreground. Immediately behind all this is a stone wall with an engraving of a person whose activity is obscured by the publication’s title.]
The Temple (1922) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]
When each home is a temple, Its every room a shrine, Its hearth a sacred altar Inscribed to things divine; When each eye in the circle Reflects that altar flame, Each mealtime sacramental Unto the Wondrous Name;
When each morn is a prayer-time Each evening hour is blessed With all the grace of kindness And all the peace of rest; When each task is a service, Each word a psalm of praise, The world will swing in sunshine Through all the golden days.
Voices of the Dawn (1922)
Soft breaths of wind that gently pass, Sigh in the branches of a tree, And whisper in the tangled grass; The early droning of a bee, Shaking the dew from dripping wings Among the blossoms on the lawn; The sprightly chirp of waking things. These are the voices of the dawn.
The falling of a loosened leaf, That seems loud where all is so still; A field-mouse rustling in a sheaf; The low of kine around the hill; A little tinkling waterfall, Whose bubbles gurgle and are gone; A skylark’s song; a robin’s call. These are the voices of the dawn.
The Watchdog of the Sea (1922)
Her silent body, slim and gray, Hangs grimly off the bar, Then, like a wraith, she slips away, Through mist to ports afar. She tells not where her course may lie, Nor cares what perils be, She goes, nor ever questions why-- The watchdog of the sea.
She plows alike through light and dark, She scents the far wind’s breath; Only at foemen does she bark, And then her bark is death. She keeps our coasts from every threat, Guards home and liberty; Her courage has not failed us yet-- The watchdog of the sea.
Where Is Heaven? (1922)
WHO has not heaven in his soul May seek o’er land and main, From East to West, from Pole to Pole; But he will seek in vain. He may traverse the mighty sky, Ascend through spaces dim; But heaven with all its ecstacy Will not exist for him.
Who carries heaven in his heart, Its sunshine in his breast, Need never seek a place apart, For every place is blest --The hill, the vale, the sea, the air, The stream, the forest dim. The light of God from portals fair Shines everywhere for him.
Climaxes v1923
We live thru drab, prosaic days That slowly come and go; We tread a thousand weary ways, And heavy burdens know; We toil in patience thru the years, Alike in sun and shower, Paying the price of blood and tears For one climactic hour.
We tread the boards thru action long, Face conflict grim and hard, To gain one triumph over wrong, One moment of reward. We move upon the mighty screen From dawn to set of sun To make one little perfect scene Before our part is done.
The Creator (1923)
I looked in the face of a rose As it nodded in springtime and smiled. I saw where eternity glows In the sweet, tender eyes of a child. I looked in a sunbeam in air. They each bore an image divine. The Creator was everywhere.
I looked at the set of the sun, And the crag that reflected its light. I thought on the day that was done, And I pondered the stars of the night. And I looked in the eyes of a man Who had stumbled through sinning to prayer. God’s fingerprints there I could scan. He awaited me everywhere.
Electricity (1923)
Mankind’s great servant I, A servant long unknown And still unseen, save in the sky When I illume its zone. I sweep around the stars, Ascend through spaces dim. I light my lamps where night unbars Above the mountains grim.
But still my chief delight Is not to rock the deep, And flash my fires across the night Where angry tempests sweep. It is to drive the keel, Bear words from place to place, To swing the beam, and turn the wheel, And serve the human race.
[Illustration of a stormy night. Foreground fills bottom third of the frame with wind-swept grass. Pine tree fills the frame and is illuminated by a single lightning bolt. Behind the tree whiteness fills the middle third of the frame; its rounded top together with its juxtaposition with the rounded foreground gives it a crescent shape (the moon?). A few stars are visible.]
An Electric Personality (1923)
A most _electric_ gentleman He was his whole life through. Down busy ways his _current_ ran, As all his friends well knew. He was _live wire_, so to say, He liked to see things go, _Magnetic_ in most every way --_A human dynamo_.
One day a blue coat collared him When on some mischief bent, And in a jail cell dark and dim His next few days were spent. What was the _charge_ against him? Yes ’Twas natural, you see, So much so you could really guess --Assault and _Battery_.
The End of the Trail (1923)
I must travel the miles till the journey is done, Whatsoever the turn of the way. I shall bring up at last at the set of the sun, And shall rest at the close of the day. Let me deal as I journey with foeman and friends In a way that no man can assail, And find nothing but peace at the roadway’s last bend, When I come to the end of the trail.
We are brothers who travel a great, common road, And the journey is easy for none. We must succor the weary and lift on the load Of the pilgrim whose courage is done. Let me deal with them each on my way to the West With a mercy that never shall fail, And lie down to my dreams with a conscience at rest When I come to the end of the trail.
If Christ Is Not Divine (1923)
If Christ is not divine, Then lay the Book away, And every blessed faith resign That has so long been yours and mine, Through many a trying day; Forget the place of bended knee; And dream no more of worlds to be.
If Christ is not divine, Go seal again the tomb; Take down the Cross, Redemption’s sign; Quench all the stars of hope that shine; Forget the upper room; And let us turn and travel on Across the night that knows no dawn.
The Making of Home (1923)
God took a hearth-fire, warm and bright, And planted love beside it; Spun happy laughter through its light, So gay no gloom could hide it. He wove a golden thread of song Among the flick’ring shadows, Like that where days are bright and long Upon the summer meadows.
He made a sanctuary fair With His own presence gifted. He built a holy altar there Where hearts should oft be lifted. With His watch-care perennial He wrapped it ’round and framed it. He flung a roof above it all, And Home was what He named it.
No Room in the Inn (1923) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]
The stars in the heavens were gleaming On mountains, and meadows, and rills. The song of the angels was streaming While shepherds kept watch on the hills. The wise men bent low by a manger, Apart from Earth’s striving and din, To welcome the Heavenly Stranger, For there was no room in the inn.
The years have not halted their sweeping, It is Christmas again on the earth. Again the glad season we’re keeping, Recounting the tale of His birth. Let not our hearts be, as He sees us, So crowded with pleasure and sin They can offer no welcome to Jesus. Lord, let there be room in the inn.
Our Hearts Forget (1923) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]
Our hearts forget, Amid the daily round of toil and fret. They are so weak, so prone to lose their hold On dreams of yesterday, and treasures old. The thoughts that thrilled them in a vanished day, Forgotten now, are cold in ashes gray. Life brings us wondrous days and hours, but yet
Our hearts forget The times of joy and vision we have met, The binding vows we once so bravely made, The fond petitions that we trembling laid Before the Great, White, Shining Throne above, The tender, wistful, clinging bonds of love, Contrition’s anguished and tear-washed regret Our hearts forget.
A Prayer (1923)