"'Tis but a common thing," one coldly said,
"Nay, call it not a flower—this little weed,
If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed—
Better the world were if it lay there dead."
"Ah—rather let it live!" a second cried,
"Weed it may be, and yet it has its use,
Here in its healing essence its excuse
For blooming lies, and here its only pride."
"Destroy it not!" another pled, "Behold
This tapering leaf—this soft and tender green,
Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene—
This tiny chalice-fleck of living gold."
Then one bent over it, "Ah, flowret bright!
For only flowers in this garden grow,—
His earth, His sunshine made thee, o'er thee blow
His winds, frail thing! In thee He shows His might."
THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON (IN MEMORY)
Sage of the silver pen!
Wherever thy thought was heard,
Thou wert a leader of men.
Poet of honored word!
Knight of the eagle glance,
Piercing the depths of wrong,
"Justice" thy cry, and thy lance
True in its aim, and strong.
Man of the ruddy heart
Beating warm for our kind!
Thine was the hero's part;
Eyes wert thou to the blind:
Thou a staff to the weak,
Here we our tribute lay—
Homage thou didst not seek—
Twined with a wreath of bay,
A garland woven of love,
Woven of love and tears,
Pure as the note of a dove,
Voicing thy peaceful years.
(Read at the Memorial Meeting Nov. 20, 1911.)
LIGHTER VERSE