Chapter I: 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.

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)