See the grey silver of the oak-boughs,
As they swarm up the hill-slope
And down towards the sea.
The branches twist and twine one over the other,
And the trunks, with the growth of saplings,
Are misshapen and crooked.
The Atlantic winds
Have smoothed them and silvered them,
And then have added the beauty
Time puts upon the work of the silversmith
Carved centuries ago.

But was it for this confusion of boughs,
This profusion of locking twig,
This mingling of leaves,
One twisted tree with another,
That the acorn fell and took root?

World wide over this is said:
“I don't want to go to bed.”
Dads and mothers, far and near,
Every night this chorus hear;
Makes no difference where they are,
Here or off in Zanzibar,
In the igloos made of snow
Of the fur-clad Eskimo,
In the blistering torrid zone,
This one touch of nature's known;
In life's various tongues it's said:
“I don't want to go to bed!”

This has ever been the way
Of the youngsters at their play.
Laughter quickly dries their tears,
Trouble swiftly disappears,
Joy is everywhere about,

In the corner she's left the mechanical toy,
On the chair is her Teddy Bear fine;
The things that I thought she would really enjoy
Don't seem to be quite in her line.
There's the flaxen-haired doll that is lovely to see
And really expensively dressed,
Left alone, all uncared for, and strange though it be,
She likes her rag dolly the best.

Oh, the money we spent and the plans that we laid
And the wonderful things that we bought!
There are toys that are cunningly, skillfully made,
But she seems not to give them a thought.

Dear George, in serio-cynic way
We turn our thoughts to you to-day;
Not George the singularly pure
Tongued laddie
Who could not lie, but George the man
Who could. . . . Sometimes we wonder, can
This be the country of which you're
The daddy?

The same, George. No, not quite the same.
We've gathered wealth, and strength, and fame,
Improved upon the parent stock,
Grown wiser.
(One moment, George. Prince Henry's here.
Excuse us while we add our cheer:
“Hoch!”—or, as most of us say, “Hock!—
Der Kaiser!”)

Courage isn't a brilliant dash,
A daring deed in a moment's flash;
It isn't an instantaneous thing
Born of despair with a sudden spring
It isn't a creature of flickered hope
Or the final tug at a slipping rope;
But it's something deep in the soul of man
That is working always to serve some plan.

Courage isn't the last resort
In the work of life or the game of sport;
It isn't a thing that a man can call
At some future time when he's apt to fall;
If he hasn't it now, he will have it not
When the strain is great and the pace is hot.

He argues best who never girds,
But puts Hard Facts in clear, Soft Words.

It helps alike both Him and You
To get Another's Point of View.

One Lying Argument may wreck your Plea,
However Strong in Truth your Cause may be.

The Talker used his Eloquence amiss
Who argued scrambling down the Precipice.

He knows the Truest Way to Teach
Who puts Great Thoughts in Simple Speech.

The Secret's safe from Friend and Foe
That you let No One know you know.

Walls have Ears; but no one cares
Unless a Tongue is also theirs.

What Greedy Ears receive, Loose Tongues betray;
But no one can Repeat what you Don't Say.

It was your Secret, yet you couldn't hold it!
And will he keep it, then, to whom you told it?

If , when done, you'd wish none knew it, Don't do it!

When I the winter wind can hear,
And blithely sings the hemlock tree,
And the moon's slim sickle glitters clear,
On a November sea.

So brave a mood the season shows,
He finds me jolly day by day;
I let my cares die with the rose,
And all my songs are gay!

So merrily then the frost king shakes
The snowy powder from his locks;
So merrily through the frozen brakes
I track the hungry fox;

Or when the enchanted floods congeal
By night to crystal pavements, bind
On eager feet the sounding steel,
And leave the wind behind!

I am stronger for having gone
Where I have never been.
I was nourished on milk of the dawn
That was mine for the drinking in.

I am better for what is mine
And for tonic of what I lack,
Better for the tremulous design
Of a leaf the moon made black.

Here comes the thief
Men nickname Time,
Oh, hide you, leaf,
And hide you, rhyme.
Leaf, he would take you
And leave you rust.
Rhyme, he would flake you
With spotted dust.
Scurry to cover,
Delicate maid
And serious lover.
Girl, bind the braid
Of your burning hair;
He has an eye
For the lusciously fair
Who passes by.
O lover, hide—
Who comes to plunder
Has the crafty stride
Of unheard thunder.
Quick—lest he snatch,
In his grave need,
And sift and match,
Then sow like seed
Your love's sweet grief
On the backward air,