English

Oh where have you been all the day
That you have been so long away?
Oh, I have been a woodland child,
And walked alone in places wild,
Bright eyes peered at me everywhere,
And voices filled the evening air;
All sounds of furred and feathered things,
The footfall soft, the whirr of wings.
Oh, I have seen grey squirrels play
At hide-and-seek the live-long day;
And baby rabbits full of fun
Poked out their noses in the sun,
And, unafraid, played there with me
In that still place of greenery.
A thousand secrets I have heard

1. O thou whose gracious presence shone A
2. Thy grace and truth, thy life that shed Un-
light to bless thy fellow men, To
dying radiance through all time, Thy
thee we fondly turn again, As
tender love, thy faith sublime, Re-
to a friend that we have known.
membering these, we break the bread.

3. And lo! again we seem to hear
Thy blessing on the loaf and cup;
The presence that was lifted up
Again to loving hearts brought near.

4. Our lesser lives, thus touching thine,
Are joined, with all the pure and good,

O Master of the common weal,
The shop, the field, the market place!
Thou knowest all the pangs we feel.
Thou knowest all our need of grace;
And where the world's injustice goads
The weary, on the climbing roads,
Stoop once again with tender voice,
Though clanging discord fills the air,
To whisper hope and bid rejoice
All who the world's oppression bear.
O Master of the toiling clan,
Thou Son of God! Thou Son of Man!

O Master of the common weal,
The shop, the field, the market place!

O hill-hung city of my West,
Where oft my heart goes home to rest,
There came an hour when all went by,
A cruel splendor on the sky.

Out of the Earth men saw advance
The front of Ruin and old Chance.
A groan of chaos shook your frame,
And a red wilderness of flame
Darkened the nations with your name.

Now, sons of the West, I see you rise,
The world's young courage in your eyes.
Sons of broad-shouldered Pioneers,
Seasoned by struggle and stern tears—
I see you rising, girt and strong,

O' de wurl' ain't flat,
An' de wurl' ain't roun',
H'it's one long strip
Hangin' up an' down—
Jes' Souf an' Norf;
Jes' Norf an' Souf.

Talkin' 'bout sailin' 'round de wurl'—
Huh! I'd be so dizzy my head 'ud twurl.
If dis heah earf wuz jes' a ball
You no the people all 'ud fall.

O' de wurl' ain't flat,
An' de wurl' ain't roun',
H'it's one long strip
Hangin' up an' down—
Jes' Souf an' Norf;
Jes' Norf an' Souf.

Talkin' 'bout the City whut Saint John saw—
Chile you oughta go to Saginaw;

Now, fie on foolish love! It not befits
Or man or woman know it;
Love was not meant for people in their wits,
And they that fondly show it
Betray the straw and feathers in their brain,
And shall have Bedlam for their pain.
If single love be such a curse,
To marry is to make it ten times worse.

Not mine to draw the cloth-yard shaft
From straining palm to thrilling ear;
Then launch it through the monster's hulk,
One thrust, from front to rear.

Mine is the Bushman's tiny bow,
Whose wounds the foeman hardly feels;
He laughs, and lifts his hand to smite,
Then suddenly he reels.

Three then came forward out of darkness, one
An old man bearded, his old eyes red with weeping,
A peasant, with hard hands. ‘Come now,’ he said,
‘And see the road, for which our people die.
Twelve miles of road we've made, a little only,
Westward winding. Of human blood and stone
We build; and in a thousand years will come
Beyond the hills to sea.’

I went with them,
Taking a lantern, which upon their faces
Showed years and grief; and in a time we came
To the wild road which wound among wild hills

This is the forest primeval.
This the spruce with the glorious plume
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the lumberman big and browned
Who felled the spruce tree to the ground
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the man with the paper mill
Who bought the pulp that paid the bill
Of the husky lumberjack who chopped
The lofty spruce and its branches lopped
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the publisher bland and rich
Who bought the roll of paper which

This beauty made me dream there was a time
Long past and irrecoverable, a clime
Where any brook so radiant racing clear
Through buttercup and kingcup bright as brass
But gentle, nourishing the meadow grass
That leans and scurries in the wind, would bear
Another beauty, divine and feminine,
Child to the sun, a nymph whose soul unstained
Could love all day, and never hate or tire,
A lover of mortal or immortal kin.

And yet, rid of this dream, ere I had drained
Its poison, quieted was my desire