THE SOUL SPEAKS 'Here is Honor, the dying knight, And here is Truth, the snuffed-out light, And here is Knowledge, the throttled laugh, Virtue, the uncontested prize, And here the wilted flower, Pride. Under the crust of things that die Living, unfathomed, here am I." From The Step Ladder (Chicago). EPITAPH FOR A POET EDWARD H. PFEIFFER. Here lies a spendthrift who believed A failure who might well have risen, And only those who fail are free: Who took what little life had given, And watched it blaze, and watched it die; Who could not see a distant heaven Because of dazzling nearer sky: Who never flinched till earth had taken The most of him back home again, And the last silences were shaken By songs too lovely for his pen. From The Bookman, DUBOSE HEYWARD. BYRON (On the One Hundredth Anniversary of His Death.) To waken dark mistrust or slander stinging? Dreamer of dreams, in tears you learned your singing, Dead, though in youth! A heart that loved so keenly Published first in The Dallas News. CLYDE WALTON HILL. FELLOWSHIP OF BOOKS I care not who the man may be, If books have won the love of him, He'll always own, when he's alone, A friend who understands him. Though other friends may come and go, His books remain, through loss or gain, And season after season The faithful friends for every mood, His joy and sorrow sharing, For old time's sake, they'll lighter make The burdens he is bearing. Oh, he has counsel at his side, And wisdom for his duty, And laughter gay for hours of play, And tenderness and beauty, And fellowship divinely rare, True friends who never doubt him, EDGAR ALBERT GUEST. By permission of Mr. Guest's publishers, the Reilly & Lee Co., Chicago, Ill. THE THREE ARTS Fame comes to the artist who paints all alone; To author who writes in his den. But we of the stage, when our sketches are shown, The pictures we paint are the largest of all; The stories we tell are most true We carve them in life, when we answer their call. But after the last final curtain is drawn, No tangible art do we give. Enriching the world with no work of renown, And soon will this tribute fade quickly away, Achievements forgotten, our names nought convey; We join the great host-the unknown. MINERVA FLORENCE SWIGERT. The Interlude, Baltimore, Md. 刀 SPRING IN FLORIDA There's a mockin' bird a-singin' in a tall pine tree, An' the meadowlarks are chirpin' jus' as merry as can be; You can see the jasmine bloomin' and the vi'lets in the grass, Night time comes a-stealin' with the tide a creepin' slow, C. B. ROTH. From The Sunshine Magazine. We were settin' there an' smokin' of our pipes discussin' things. "The trouble ain't with statutes or with systems-not at all; "I reckon all these problems are jest ornery like the weeds. They grow in soil that oughta nourish only decent deeds, An' they waste our time an' fret us when, if we were thinkin' straight A good horse needs no snaffle, an' a good man, I opine, "If we ever start in teachin' to our children, year by year, EDGAR ALBERT GUEST. By permission of Mr. Guest's publishers, The Reilly & Lee Co., Chicago. INDIA "For East is East, and West is West And never the twain shall meet."-Kipling. In this laborious world of Thine, tumultuous with toil and struggle, Among hurrying crowds, shall I stand before Thee, face to face! And when my work is done in this world, O King of Kings, alone and speechless shall I stand before Thee, face to face. * Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high, Where knowledge is free, Where the world has not been broken up by narrow domestic walls, Where words come out the depth of truth, Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way in the dreary desert sand of dead habit, Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever widening thought and actionInto that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake! SIR RABINDRANATH TAGORE. From "India's Nation Builders"-Brentano's. So I be written in the Book of Love CLOUDS Elyphants an' chariots a-ridin' in th' sky, An' you an' me a-sittin' an' a-watchin' of 'em ride, Watchin' of a camel an' a lion flittin' by Ghostly sort o' camel in a ghostly sort o' glide, Glidin' out o' Noah's ark that's emptyin' its load An' you an' me a-watchin' of 'em on a summer day. Here's a ship a-floatin' in a dazzlin' sea o' white, Scuddin' off in pieces an' Seems as though th' western sky is gettin' sort o' dark I jes' felt a drop o' rain! Come on, we better run! CHARLES R. ANGELL. From Harper's Magazine, March, 1924. |