When ye sing of the lace Tjemara tree—
When ye speak of the swaying Palm—
When ye talk of the ferned Pitcairnia,
And the monkey’s wild alarm:
When ye tell of the blazing sunsets—
When ye know ye are nearly through—
Bend ye a knee to a Sovereign Lord—
As my flat-nosed children do.
MARK TWAIN
Died, April 21st, 1910
Fresh as the break o’ the dawning—
Clear as the sunlit pool;
Ye came on a World of weariness—
Lord of a kingly school.
Shuttle and lathe and hammer—
Mill and mine and mart—
They paused awhile to linger and smile—
Children again in heart.
And a World of work and trouble
Bent to their tasks anew,
With strength reborn of the joyous morn
Made manifest by you.
. . . . . . . . . .
Again the marts are silenced—
There’s a hush o’er land and sea—
With only the sobs of a Nation,
That loved and honored thee.
THE SUMMIT
Out of the murky valleys
By the sweat of brow and brain;
Out of the dank morasses—
On to the spreading plain:
Climbing the broken ranges—
Falling and driving through,
While the toil and tears of the countless years
Bid ye back to the task anew.
Glory and fame and honor
Perched on the distant peak—
Beckoning over land and sea
To the gaze of the men who seek.
Lifting the faltering footstep—
Bathing the tired brow,
Till out of the lanes of the sunken plains
Ye come to the golden Now.