There comes a time to every mortal being,
Whate'er his station or his lot in life,
When his sad soul yearns for the final freeing
From all this jarring and unceasing strife.

There comes a time, when, having lost its savor,
The salt of wealth is worthless; when the mind
Grows wearied with the world's capricious favor,
And sighs for something that it cannot find.

There comes a time, when, though kind friends are thronging
About our pathway with sweet acts of grace,
We feel a vast and overwhelming longing

The church has pieces jutting out
Where corners of the walls begin.
I have one for my little house,
And I can feel myself go in.

I feel myself go in the bricks,
And I can see myself in there.
I'm always waiting all alone,
I'm sitting on a little chair.

And I am sitting very still,
And I am waiting on and on
For something that is never there,
For something that is gone.

When I am playing by myself,
And all the boys are lost around,
Then I can hear the water go—
It makes a little talking sound.

Peace I leave with you!” From the days departed
Floats down the blessing, simple and serene,
Which to His followers, few and fearful-hearted,
With yearning love thus spake the Nazarene,—
“Peace I leave with you!”

“Peace I leave with you!”—and His words I borrow
To wrap about you like a suit of mail,—
The power to give I earned in bitter sorrow,
And by your faith in me, it shall not fail;—
“Peace I leave with you!”

“My peace I give unto you!”—but bestowing
Robbed not his soul of its tranquillity,—
While I,—the peace I give to you, in going,

Here in this wild, primeval dell
Far from the haunts of man,
Where never fashion's footsteps fell,
Where shriek of steam nor clang of bell,
Nor din of those who buy and sell,
Has broken Nature's perfect spell,
May one not hear, who listens well,
The mystic pipe of Pan?

So virgin and unworldly seem
All things in this deep glade
Thick curtained from the noonday beam,
That, hearkening, one may almost dream
Fair naiads plashing in the stream,
While graceful limbs and tresses gleam
Along the dim green shade.

I had wandered from morn till the twilight was gray
In a lonely and wearisome quest,
When I came to a love-lighted home in my way,
And the dear ones who dwelt there besought me to stay
With pleadings so warm that I could but obey;
So they led me, by slumber oppressed,
To a dear little room, which I think of to-day
As the Beautiful Chamber of Rest.

For it seemed as though angels, in visible form,
Kept watch o'er the travel-worn guest;
And though the dark midnight was frantic with storm,
All bright with love's atmosphere, rosy and warm,

His young bride stood beside his bed,
Her weeping watch to keep;
Hush! hush! he stirred not—was he dead,
Or did he only sleep?

His brow was calm, no change was there
No sigh had filled his breath;
Oh! did he wear that smile so fair
In slumber or in death?

“Reach down his harp,” she wildly cried
“And if one spark remain,
Let him but hear ‘Loch Erroch's side;’
He'll kindle at the strain.

“That tune e'er held his soul in thrall;
It never breathed in vain;
He'll waken as its echoes fall,
Or never wake again.”

Her lyric laughter ripples down the street;
The echoing tread of feet
Goes surging by the door
As in the countless April tides of yore;
A tender touch of green
Amid the parks is seen,
And down the bay
The blue-gold flag of day
Has been unfurled across a height of sky;
A breeze drifts by …
Bringing a hint of dancing daffodils
And some quaint garden where the sunlight spills
Its mellow loveliness; the tired streets sing
Beneath the magic of another spring;
And yet how much, how more than much they miss
Who know no other April day than this

I LOOKED one night, and there Semiramis,
With all her mourning doves about her head,
Sat rocking on an ancient road of Hell,
Withered and eyeless, chanting to the moon
Snatches of song they sang to her of old
Upon the lighted roofs of Nineveh.
And then her voice rang out with rattling laugh:
“The bugles! they are crying back again—
Bugles that broke the nights of Babylon,
And then went crying on through Nineveh.


Stand back, ye trembling messengers of ill!
Women, let go my hair: I am the Queen,
A whirlwind and a blaze of swords to quell

O brother, lift a cry, a long world cry
Sounding from sky to sky—
The cry of one great word,
Peace, peace, the world will clamoring to be heard—
A cry to break the ancient battle-ban,
To end it in the sacred name of Man!

O brother, lift a cry, a long world cry
Sounding from sky to sky—
The cry of one great word,
Peace, peace, the world will clamoring to be heard—
A cry to break the ancient battle-ban,
To end it in the sacred name of Man!

The Indian maid who lightly trips,
The Dryad of the Guava grove,
The zone of Venus round her hips,
And graced with youth, and blessed in love!
Gold rings adorn her nose and arms,
And leaves of beads veil naked charms.

Or if she quits the golden wood,
Pierced by the scorching solar beam,
She plunges in the cooler flood,
And swims the Naiad of the stream:
Adores the god in ev'ry air,
And smiles the maid without a care.

Or if more distant creeks invite
To fish, to fowl, or seek her love,
She paddles the canoe upright,