Chapter 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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

We thank Thee, Father, for the care
That did not come to try us,
The burden that we did not bear,
The trouble that passed by us,
The task we did not fail to do,
The hurt we did not cherish,
The friend who did not prove untrue,
The joy that did not perish.

We thank Thee for the blinding storm
That did not loose its swelling,
And for the sudden blight of harm
That came not nigh our dwelling.
We thank Thee for the dart unsped,
The bitter word unspoken,
The grave unmade, the tear unshed,
The heart-tie still unbroken.

The Second Wind (1923)

When “Lizzie” starts to climb a hill
Too hard to make “on high,”
She goes it very well until
Her power begins to die.
Then, shifting to another gear,
She leaves the slope behind,
And hustles on without a fear
Upon her second wind.

I notice it is so with men.
They start out with a will,
They go it well awhile, and then,
Slow down midway the hill.
But, seeing that their strength is run,
They change their gear, and find
The world’s best work is often done
On people’s second wind.

The Serving Giant (1923)

The mighty giant of the air, More ancient than the sun Whose power is vibrant everywhere That restless force may run Shakes the foundation of the hill, Or rends the ground in twain, Or blasts the forest at his will And levels all again.

And yet he stoops to hold the light That aged eyes may see. He warms the baby’s feet at night, And cooks for company. He does a thousand little things To help the world along. He who the most of service brings Is strongest of the strong.

The Teacher v1923

HE NEVER wandered far from his own town,
The little hamlet where he lived and died,
And yet his pupils traveled up and down
The whole wide world of town and countryside.
He sought no honor to adorn his name
Nor dreamed of crowns that tarnish and grow dim;
But those he taught achieved undying fame
And in their triumph hour remembered him.

He had no time to mold the wide world’s life
Or take a hand in the affairs of state;
But others did he send into the strife
And through them helped to shape his people’s fate.
He won no earthly riches for himself.
He had no time to waste in seeking gold
But every day bestowed on him a pelf
Of love whose value never could be told.

[Poem is on cover page with the following additional text: The Sunday School Journal, September 1923. The cover has an illustration of a rural scene. Bottom third is landscape. A dirt road in the foreground gradually descends into a town having a church on its outskirts. The road is lined with bushes. Fields extend from the bushes. A large oak tree in the foreground frames the scene’s left side and top half.]

Transforming Love (1923) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]

Love transforms all things. Lone days are touched with light, And trying moments lose their stings, And vexing things come right. Love’s ointment to our eyes applied, We see with vision glorified.

Love transforms all things-- Worn faces, hardened hands. To the poor hovel glory clings, For Love’s heart understands. Whatever it beholds is fair; It sees each hidden beauty there.

The Window of Dreams (1923)

There is a little window.
’Tis called, I think, a screen.
Thru it the strangest people
And fairest things are seen.
Calm valleys, silent woodlands,
Tall summits, shining streams,
Long roads and busy cities
Are in this world of dreams.

There weary hearts may travel,
Each to its wonted place;
And lonely ones may revel
In pictured act and face.
There to our hidden longings
The waiting answer gleams
The while our thoughts inhabit
This pictured world of dreams.

Brotherhood (1924) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]

Let black be black and white be white,
As they were meant to be;
But let the hearts of men be right
On every land and sea.
Let brown and yellow boast their race,
Their blood no taint e’er tell;
But let them each possess the grace
To wish a neighbor well.

Let us forget our foolish strife,
And all our groundless hate.
We needs must live a common life,
And share a common fate.
Whatever troubles we must stem,
Whate’er our place or name,
Beneath the crust that covers them
Our hearts are all the same.

The Builder v1924 [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]

The builder of the future
Is not the trader keen,
The driver of the turbine,
Nor any swift machine;
Not he who rides in triumph
Through the admiring town,
Fawning for public praises
And seeking for renown.

The builder of the future
Sits not upon a throne.
He toils among the shadows,
His struggles oft unknown.
He is the one who kindles
And keeps the fires of truth,
The teacher who is molding
The plastic heart of youth.

Childhood on the Farm (1924)

In many a crowded city
Where moves the human tide,
Eyes look with eager longing
To some old countryside.
Hearts that have long been sated
With earth recall the charm
Of life’s morning splendor
In childhood on the farm.

From many a path of glory
And many a throne of power
Is still recalled the wonder
Of some dear, distant hour.
Men look through years of toiling,
Of sorrow, strife, and harm,
And treasures unforgotten
Their childhood on the farm.

The Clock (1924)

WHAT is the matter with our clock I cannot understand. It sounds its steady old tick-tock With mien and manner grand. To look at its great open face You’d think it truthful quite. I’m sorry such is not the case. It’s hardly ever right.

Just yesterday when I was blue Because Tom didn’t call To play with me when work was through, Its hands scarce moved at all. When I went to his house today To spend an hour or so, We’d scarce got started at our play Till it was time to go.

The Dream (1924)

I had a dream the other night,
Too sweet for word of tongue,
Of days when, beautiful and bright,
The children all were young.
I saw them playing on the floor
And ’mongst the dooryard flowers.
Soft baby voices came once more
From unforgotten hours.

I came from work when eve was late
And all the sky was gold.
They ran to meet me at the gate
With greetings as of old.
I helped to tuck them in at night
With prayers of happiness,
But my arms ached when dawn was bright
With a great emptiness.

An Easter Vision (1924)

Whene’er I hear the Easter Bells Ring out their carols gay, The graves from all the hills and dells Dissolve from sight away. I see the mighty planet left Without a marble stone To tell of death, or one bereft Who comes to weep alone.

Dear hands, long folded to their rest, Return to touch my own, And voices memory has blessed In each familiar tone Speak as in other days to me; While on the springtime’s breath Is borne to every land and sea The news: “There is no death.”

The Electric Spark (1924)

SEE this snappy little spark Flashing pertly in the dark; Coming with its sudden gleam Out from nowhere, it would seem; Glowing here against the shade, Fire unkindled, light unmade, Brother to the bolt’s fierce blow And the driving dynamo.

Here is hid the mystery, Mayhap, of the land and sea. All creation’s story may Hide within this flashing ray. Light, and heat, and force it holds; Boundless energy unfolds; Tells the secret, if we find it, Of the God who stands behind it.

Fade-Outs (1924)

Faces, like stars, rise on our little ken;
Shine on our souls with warm and cheering ray.
Then, like the stars, they pass from us again,
Leaving the dreary world of yesterday.
Friends slip into our little world awhile.
Joys come to thrill us with their rapture keen.
The friends go trudging on their winding mile
The joys fade as a picture on the screen.

Altho unseen, they are not wholly gone.
A friendship once established cannot die.
A joy once tasted sweetly lingers on,
A perfumed presence never seen but nigh.
In the great drama of the fleeting years
They come upon the stage and play their part.
Then, tho each wondrous vision disappears,
It leaves its deathless image on the heart.

Film Judgment (1924)

The man who reads the titles,
The man who tramps our toes,
The man who holds the end seat
Whatever comes and goes,
The man who laughs so loudly
That all the house can hear,
The man who with his snoring
Outrages every ear.

All died, and took their journey
Where the unseen begins,
And stood before the judgment
To answer for their sins.
They got a common sentence.
Each one was ordered flat
To sit and fume forever
Behind a picture hat.

Finding God (1924)

I found Him in the whisp’ring pines,
And in the beauty of the rose;
I found Him where the first star shines,
Above the Summer day’s soft close;
I found Him where the storms grew wild;
I found Him in the happy face
And manner of a little child,
Revealing loveliness and grace.

I found Him in the swinging suns
That wheel their way through endless space,
And in the humblest path that runs
To love’s sequestered dwelling place;
I found Him where the violets dwell,
And where the bluebirds wheel and dart;
But never really knew Him well
Until I found Him in my heart.

The Firefly (1924)

We’ve never gotten to it, With all our learning keen. We simply cannot do it With any fine machine. Old Nature’s lanterns greet us When dusk succeeds the sun. A thousand miles they beat us On all we’ve ever done.

In spite of shining crescent And starbeam’s boasted light, The firefly’s incandescent Most glorifies the night. Across the meadows flying Cold light it generates. We, too, have long been trying, But Time still stands and waits.

The God of the Beginning (1924)

IN the beginning was God. Beyond Time’s threshold he hovered, Back of the earliest dawn or the flush of the first fair spring. Farther than eye has disclosed or the keenest thought has discovered, Moved in the silences vast the Maker of everything. Back of the first heart-ties and the first warm heart-fires lighted, Back of gleaming sky, the sea, and the shining sod, Back of the first fond dream that a hopeful heart e’er sighted, Lingered the Soul Divine and brooded the Love of God.

IN the beginning was God. O’er struggle and strife diurnal, The void, and the mist, and the darkness, the mire, and the slime, and the clay, Through the long course of the ages has watched the Spirit Eternal Seeking for men the dawn of a better and kindlier day. Brooding, watching, and hoping--but, withal, ever beseeching, Over the track of time a saving shade it has cast, And into the distant future as far as the years are reaching. In the beginning was God, and God shall be at the last.

Jove’s Plaint (1924)

The good old days have vanished, And I suppose forever. My thunderbolt once quivered O’er mountain, plain and river. But now they have it captured, These humans so audacious. They dole it out through cables, To serve their plans rapacious.

They sell it through a meter, Howe’er the gods may scoff it. They send a monthly statement, And make a profit off it. Alas, my bolt of thunder (And what worse could befall it?) Is hopelessly commercialized. “Juice” now I think they call it.

The Land of Heart’s Desire (1924)

There is a land of wonder With fields and towers agleam. I often see it yonder Beyond the Hills of Dream, Touched by the glow of morning, Lit by the sunset’s fire, Or with starbeams adorning-- The Land of Heart’s Desire.

Along the road of duty We daily struggle on; But e’er we touch its beauty, Eluding us, ’tis gone. Yet through the clinging shadows, The brambles, and the mire, It lures us toward its meadows-- The Land of Heart’s Desire.

Minds (1924)

SOME minds are flaming rockets That flit among the stars; And some are gaily nickeled And painted motor cars; And some are lumbering wagons That slowly make their way, With nothing keen to offer And nothing fine to say.

THE swiftly flaming rocket Loses its brilliancy. The fine car is supplanted By one more fair to see. But the slow-moving wagon That lumbers down the road Is certain of arrival And bears the heavy load.

Miracle (1924)

Whoever saw a garden grow,
Or watched a robin build her nest,
Or lingered in the flaming glow
Of sunset blazing in the West;
Whoever walked the fruitful plain,
And saw the green stalks reach, and swell,
And ripen to a field of grain
Knows earth is full of miracle.

Whoever wandered in the wood,
And rambled down its aisle of dreams,
Or sought the orchard path, or stood
Where falls the murmur of a stream;
Whoever watched a cloudland wild,
Or sensed the twilight’s gentle spell,
Or prattled with a little child
Knows life is full of miracle.

The Picture’s Lament (1924)

They take great liberties with me, Nor ever ask me yea or nay. I’m just as weary as can be From prancing on a screen all day. I’ve dug, and climbed, and laughed, and wept, Loitered, and danced to make a show; And not a moment have I slept. They keep me always on the go.

No choice is mine. I needs must move, Swiftly, obedient, silently. No fields of freedom do I rove. My course is parceled out for me. But this I cannot quite forget --If I can wake some old refrain Or still a rush of wild regret, I shall not then have toiled in vain.

Prayer for Normal Men (1924)

For every poor, defective soul that wanders In the dark shades of subjectivity, For each deluded mind that glibly flounders In the foul mire of abnormality, Give us a host who cheerful laughter scatter, Whose willing hands toil on in love’s sweet right, Who plant the roses, guide the feet that patter Around the hearth of happiness at night.

Give us, O God, a race of normal people Who walk no paths of morbidness apart; Who dwell not in the bog, nor yet the steeple, But in the dusty way, the busy mart; Who like their work, care for the folks about them, And make each day a thing of joy and song. This world of our’s could never do without them. They are the men who make it move along.

The Railroad (1924)

WHERE do they go, these shining rails That ramble so far away That seem to reach where the twilight pales At the beautiful gates of day?” “They run to the wider world, my boy, Of dreaming, and strife, and again, With its mingling of weariness and joy, To the city--and back again.

Out of the valley and o’er the hill Where childhood has had its day, Out of the hamlet so small and still And into the far away, On, on to the world of toil, my lad, With its struggle of brawn and brain, Some of it good and some of it bad, To the city--and back again.

Shadows on the Wall (1924)

Coming, going, thru the play, Flashing on the screen, Do the actors take their way. Briefly each is seen. What are they--these shapes that move, Forms that rise and fall, Urged by hope, or fear, or love? Shadows on the wall.

In the daily strain and strife Shift and change appear. On the larger stage of life Mingle smile and tear. Here our little race we run, Then are vanished all. What are we when all is done? Shadows on the wall.

Sorrow (1924)

God sometimes drops the shadows o’er us, And leaves them for a space, That we may clearly see before us The image of the love he bore us Reflected on his face.

He sometimes sends us hours of grieving, That we may slip away From sounds and voices so deceiving, And once again in faith believing Kneel at his throne and pray.

He sometimes leaves us to our weeping, Though bitter seem our tears, That briny drops from we eyes creeping May wake some happiness long sleeping For gladder, sweeter years.

The Things That I Believe (1924)

The things that I believe
--These things are life to me.
Some all the senses might deceive,
For some I cannot see;
But in the tempest fierce and old
I feel their strong truth grip and hold.

The things that I believe
--I cannot let them go;
And empty-hearted grope and grieve
In darkness and in woe.
So, God, I thank my every star
They are no fewer than they are.

Today and Tomorrow (1924)

Could something only make today
As lovely as tomorrow,
As free from care and shadows gray,
As void of tears and sorrow,
The world would be a perfect place,
Without a woe to blight it.
Earth would be rich in every grace,
With happiness to light it.

Yet day is day, and life is life.
Time e’er repeats its story.
Each morning brings its toil and strife,
Likewise its gleam of glory.
Each brings its mingled shine and shade,
Its mingled joy and sorrow,
For each today God ever made
Was wrought from a tomorrow.

The Tree (1924)

It stood upon a meadow fair, A green and leafy tree. Gaily it met the breezes there, Lovely it was to see. One night a storm of wind and rain Rent it from earth apart. The reason then was very plain. Decay was at its heart.

He was a youth of promise fine, The strongest of the crowd. His features wore the stamp divine, His eye was clear and proud. He could have lived to purpose high And played a noble part. But no, he fell. The reason why? Decay was at his heart.

The Unknown Soldier (1924)

The guns are silent in the valley now. The river creeps serenely on its way. Still clings the ivy to the rugged brow; Of yonder hill, and roses grace the day. No grave was heaped. No word of prayer was said. No stone was reared against the pitying sky. None ever knew where rests the silent dead As unrevealing years go drifting by.

And yet he is not lost. This quiet sod; Can rest him quite as well as anywhere, Beneath the gentle, sleepless eye of God, Whose robins sing for him when Spring is fair. His life is wrought into the victory. Glory is his. He need not urge his claim. He lives on in the better age to be, Though sleeping in a grave without a name.

What Does It Matter? (1924)

What does it matter if here or there Is a strand of joy or a thread of care, If when the web has been finished all The final pattern is beautiful? The One who weaves on the world’s great loom Must make His fabric of shine and gloom. It takes the gold and the somber hue To make it lovely when He is through.

What does it matter if there or here Is a song of joy or a falling tear, If at the hour of the setting sun A lovely product is held forth done? The One who orders the passing hours With ceaseless cycle of sun and showers Fashions the color and rare design Of a growing tapestry divine.

Why We Are Here (1924)

OUR minds were made to search the deeps
Of Truth’s clear-flowing stream;
Our feet to scale the rugged steeps
Of faith and hope and dream;
Our hands to toil and serve and lift,
To help and heal and bless;
Our hearts to bring the priceless gift
Of love and tenderness.

Our lives were made to struggle on,
The upward path to plod;
Our souls to catch the glint of dawn
From the white throne of God;
Our lips the helpful word to speak,
The tender song to sing;
Our eyes to search the world and seek
The good in everything.

The Age of a Heart (1925)

SO LONG as stars are bright and fair And skies are blue and clear; So long as joy is in the air And Dreamland hovers near; So long as roses blossom gay And song is on the tongue-- Tho brow be lined and hair be gray That long the heart is young.

But when the sky grows dull and sere And roses fade and die; When song no longer holds the ear Nor Dreamland hovers nigh; When passing days no wonder bring, No great adventure hold-- In spite of time or anything [Transcriber’s note: Last line is missing from source.]

The Children v1925

The dear little children that climb on the knee, The promise and hope of the morrows to be --Their song is unfailing; their spirits are bright; Their hearts are courageous from morning till night, How helpless they are! On our mercy they wait. The hands of their elders must fashion their fate. They are frail little barks to be launched on the sea --These dear little children that climb on the knee.

Oh guide them with hands that are tender and true. The voyage is long and the lighthouses few. What struggles await them! What conflicts and fears! What dream castles shattered! What heartaches and tears! Their skies will have clouds, and the clouds will bring rain. Then all will give way to the sunshine again. Bound upon their souls are the ages to be --These dear little children that climb on the knee.

Credo (1925)

Lord, I believe That thou hast made the earth, the sky, the sea, And all the members of immensity, The rose that blooms beside the traveled way; That thou didst weave The fabric of the dawn and close of day.

Lord, I believe That thou hast fashioned me to be thine own, Hast made my human heart to be thy throne, Hast made this voice of mine that it should sing From morn till eve, These hands the precious gift of love to bring.

Lord, I believe That yonder, past the valley’s shaded rim, The lifting crest that seems so cold and dim Is but the outlines of another shore That doth receive The loved and lost of earth forevermore.

The Fabulous City (1925)

There rises in the distance Across the Vale of Dreams A fair and lovely city, Built on get-rich-quick schemes. Its towers are bright and shining. Its streets are paved with gold, Paid for by mine promotions And stock sales bad and bold. Wondrous that shining city Before our vision stands, But when we come to touch it It crumbles ’neath our hands. Ethereal its fabric, Intangible its soil. ’Twas builded with the fortunes We never made in oil.

Home v1925

Standing beside a quiet path they found it.
A humble little house it was, and low.
With patient hands they planted flowers around it,
And flung its windows to the sun’s warm glow.
They laid an open book upon the table,
And hung a simple picture on the wall.
They trained a vining rose around the gable.
They built a throne and crowned love Lord of all.

They kindled on the hearth a fair flame gleaming,
And set a row of chairs before its light
Where happy eyes should cast their cheerful beaming
With rest and song that come with falling night.
They reared with loving hands a fireside altar
Where hungry hearts in reverence might come,
Where trembling lips might their petitions falter
Before the Throne of Grace, and lo, ’twas HOME.

Palm Sunday v1925

Adown the ringing street he came, The Lord of all the years. A thousand voices of acclaim Were ringing in his ears. Silent was he who knew his way Of mingled joy and loss Began where Bartimaeus lay, And ended at a cross.

And ever it has been as then. The path of triumph trod Amid the loud acclaim of men, Beneath the smile of God, Begins where need holds forth its hands, And pleads with weary eyes, And ends where, grim and silent, stands The Hill of Sacrifice.

Roads v1925

There is a road to happiness;
There is a road to pain;
A road to failure and success;
A road to loss and gain;
A road to meadows gay with flowers;
A road to evenfall;
A road to bright and shadowed hours--
God lets me tread them all.

There is a quiet road that finds
The little singing streams;
A road that reaches till it winds
Along the Hills of Dreams;
A road to hope, to duty done,
And to that last clear call
Across the gates of setting sun--
God lets me tread them all.

The Teacher’s Reward (1925)

Who dwells with everlasting truth
And lets that truth possess his soul;
Who has companionship with youth
To keep him young as swift years roll;
Who writes his story on the page
Of history by labor hard;
And builds his life into his age,
Has his reward.

Who opens eyes that else were blind
Till they behold the earth and sky;
Who wakens interest in the mind
That else were barren, dead, and dry;
Who gently takes a weary hand
And lays it in the Palm that’s scarred;
Though others own the gold and land,
Has his reward.

Via Dolorosa (1925)

Out the Damascus Gate it ran,
A weary, cheerless road
Along which stumbled once a Man,
A cross-tree for His load.
The street was teeming with the throng.
The air was chill and gray,
The hour when Jesus passed along
That Dolorosa Way.

It wound a slope that flung its height
Against a sullen sky.
Upon a summit--tragic sight--
Three crosses lifted high.
But lo, beyond them, manifold
The lifting glow of day.
It ended at the gates of gold,
That Dolorosa Way.

The Chameleon (1926)

Upon a green leaf he is green, Upon a red one ruddy. He suits his color to the scene-- Blue, brown, or grey, or muddy.

Wherever he may chance to go He meets the crowd’s demanding. In Rome he does as Romans do, And so he keeps his standing.

I know not his philosophy-- Platonic or Aurelian. No matter. Who would want to be Reputed a chameleon?

The City’s Nerves (1926)

Somewhere is closed a circuit, And miles and miles away A filament is lighted; A wheel goes into play; A thought is carried quickly, In clearest tones expressed, Because an impulse flashes North, South, or East, or West.

And how? Beneath the pavement, Away from human gaze, Across the humid darkness Wires run in countless ways. In cables, ever-reaching Through subterranean curves, They carry thought and action. They are the city’s nerves.

Doing It Well (1926)