Republished by special request.

Take thy pen and write, O man!
Chronicle thy every thought;
Hath thy life been full of joy?
Hath this world all pleasure wrought?
If, before thou cam’st to earth,
Knowing what thou knowest now,
Free to choose to be, or not,
To life’s problems wouldst thou bow?
Wouldst thou think thy life a boon?
It with thankfulness accept,
Or wouldst say O Lord, me spare!
I must weep, for man hath wept.
Dost thou think that life is sweet?
Dost thou think its joys are more
Than its griefs and misery?
Hath thy bark ne’er touched bleak shore.
Stranded hath it never been?
Thy sweet hopes forever lost,
Wrecked thy bark on shoals by storm,
On rough sea of life been tossed?
Is the wind and tide with thee?
And is life without a tear?
Manned is bark with happiness?
Hath thy sky been ever clear?
Dost thou bless thy natal day?
Long’st thou not for day of death?
Art thou willing to live on
Blessing God that thou hast breath?
Then, to thee, is life a joy,
Blessed heritage of peace
Was bequeathed to thee by Love,
God gave unto thee the lease.

I will write in book of life,
Trace my thoughts with fadeless ink,
With a pen of gold will write;
Into hearts my words may sink.
Born to earth I wished it not,
Earth conditions knew not I,
E’en though filled with misery;
I will never question why.
I am here; will do my work,
Even though life stranded be,
E’en though storms beset my way,
Wrecked my ship on life’s rough sea.
Sunshine, aye, I look not for,
Wind and tide are often wrong
For my ship to leave its port;
Sad, yea mournful, is life’s song.
But I love, and I am loved,
Hope is strong within my heart,
Courage, too, I’ll stem life’s tide,
In the world do well my part.
Tears are shed. Then why should I
E’er from care and grief be free?
I must live, though oft I weep,
Do my work, what e’er it be.
Born of Love—O blessed thought!
Earth conditions I can bear;
God is Love, in Him I live,
Utter plaint I will not dare.
I will sail my ship of life,
Steer it over shoals and rocks,
Bring it safely into port,
It will bear all storms and shocks.
When, at last, Life’s dream is o’er,
Time—true censor—takes his flight,
Death, as Captain of my fleet,
In his Log my life will write.

DREAMLAND.

In our dreamland we are soaring
’Mong the stars, above the clouds,
Naught seems strange, our dress is moonlight;
Not one grief our heart enshrouds.
In this dreamland not one sorrow.
All the world is filled with joy.
There is naught but sweet contentment,
All is peace with no alloy.
’Mong the clouds we e’er are soaring,
All the heavens we control.
Stars, and planets, are our footstools
In the dreamland of the soul.
Butterflies are our companions,
Singing birds make love for aye.
Chariots are drawn by fire-flies;
And ’tis sunshine every day.
When we wake, our dreams all vanish.
We are in the work-day world.
We are simply common mortals;
From the uplands we are hurled.
Vanished now is shadowy dreamland;
Most prosaic is the dawn.
Chariots are common waggons,
Not by fireflies are they drawn.
There are clouds, and rain is falling.
Trouble meets us everywhere.
We must battle with conditions;
Many griefs we now must bear.
But we dream, e’en though not sleeping,
Nothing ever us debars,
Nothing seems to us unreal,
Though we soar above the stars.

WHAT WILL THE HARVEST BE?

We are sowing, we are reaping,
We are laughing, we are weeping
For the seeds we sow.
We are giving, we are hoarding,
Are withholding or dispersing
Broadcast o’er the land.
Are they thorns, or are they roses?
Are they weeds, or are they posies?
That we cull from life?
What confronts us at Life’s evening?
What will greet us on awaking?
Will it be Love’s flowers?
O the joy of loving, living,
If to others we are giving
Out of our heart’s store.
Let us do what is before us,
Not discouraged, not unhappy,
If some good we’ve done.
When we wake in the hereafter,
Is it tears, or is it laughter,
That will meet us there?
We shall sometimes be confronted,
And by phantoms shall be haunted—
Phantoms of our past.
Let no thought of dire deception
In our hearts have e’er inception,
Then not haunted we
By the ghosts of indiscretion,
By ill deeds and degradation.—
Let us all beware
Of temptations e’er surrounding,
And of evil e’er abounding.—
We must shun them all.

WE KNOW WHAT THE HARVEST WILL BE.

We plant a bright flower for the butterfly;
We plant a sweet flower for the bee.
We feed and we clothe the hungry and cold,
“We know what the harvest will be.”
We plant a good thought in some weary heart,
The thought that we plant goes to seed;
Increasing in strength full an hundred fold,
The thought will become a good deed.
A deed that will live in many a heart,
Will travel forever, and on;
Forgotten will never be words nor deeds;
They live and will thrive when we’re gone.
A well we may dig in a desert land,
Some traveler stops on the road,
And quenches his thirst in the living spring,
And lighter will now seem his load.
We may plant a tree, and its cooling shade
Will shelter some traveler worn,
And never from memory will it fade,
And never from heart can be torn.
In all of this life, ’tis the little things
That help and will cheer our lone way,
A sip of cold water, a little word,
Will many a sorrow allay.
And if in our hearts no envy doth reign,
From malice we ever are free,
Have nothing but love for even a foe;
“We know what the harvest will be.”