BOOKS
'Tis early morn and on the green
The children are at play;
The sunlight falls in sparkling sheen,
Their hearts are blithe and gay:
A shadow flits across the scene—
The hour has come that sadness brings,
The master rings, the master rings,
'Tis books!
'Tis late at eve, and o'er the green
The weary toilers pass;
The shadows fall, the sky's serene,
And dew is on the grass:
A light breaks in upon the scene—
The hour has come that gladness brings,
The Master rings, the Master rings,
'Tis books!
SONGS UNSUNG
Unvoic-ed songs that always die
On the strings of the harp that gives them birth,
The flutter of hope, a breath, a sigh,
The song nor asks nor gives a why—
The poet's song he deems most worth.
The silent music of the heart is sweet
To listen to. The slow and measured beat
Of the imprisoned soul that finds a voice
In melodious sound oft may rejoice
Us much; but that which sometimes plays on strings
Too fine to sympathize with words e'er sings
The sweetest melodies, though never heard
Except by ear of him whose soul is stirred.