He knew the truth, deep as the sea, high as the heaven above,
Knew that the Fatherhood of God was made and crowned with Love.
At Quebec
QUEBEC, the grey old city on the hill,
Lies with a golden glory on her head,
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair—so still—
Of other days and all her mighty dead.
The white doves perch upon the cannons grim,
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim
Above the battlefield so grim and wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
Of pride, of tenderness—her stirring past—
The strife, the valor, of the long ago
Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast,
She lies, touched with the sunsets golden grace,
A wondrous softness on her grey old face.
The Tea Kettle’s Tune
I LIKE to hear the kettle sing
At this time of the day,
Such cheery thoughts it seems to bring,
All worries flee away.
Now spread your table cloth so white,
It tells me as I wait,
Come, bustle ’round, ’tis almost night—
The goodman’s at the gate.
Long time ago it heard John say
Some foolish lover things,
And do you know that to this day
They’re in the song it sings.
It caught the gladness in my tone
When baby Grace arrived,
My pride when Jim first stood alone,
My joy when Robbie thrived.