Our Friendships.
HOW do our friendships come to us?
As unbidden Guest to festal board,
Ere the jests pass round and the wine is poured;
When the hostess’ plan is disarranged,
And the place of each is slightly changed
To make room for the Guest unbidden.
Thus do our friendships come to us!
And the currents of life are strangely stirred,
And we never again, by glance or word,
Assign the guests to the old-time place,
Nor so lightly murmur the wonted “grace,”
Because of the Guest unbidden!
Bric-a-Brac.
THERE are hearts and hearts—Some like specimens fine
Of rare old china of classic design;
We find them when least we expect them in store,
In pawn-broker shop, and in dainty boudoir.
Oh those delicate hearts, full of love’s priceless wine,
In their beauty and fulness of grace half divine;
When cherished with reverent caring, they stand;
Or lie shattered at touch of the World’s ruthless hand.
There are hearts and hearts—Some as strong and as pure
As the thrice-heated metal in yon golden ewer;
Within them may seethe the wild passions of time,
E’en passion in such hearts must needs grow sublime.
Love may falter—then duty shall stand in its place;
Ease vanish—stern action must win in the race;
Earth’s sorrows o’erwhelm—life’s tempests sweep by—
The Soul’s beacon light still gleams brightly on high!
There are hearts and hearts—Some like commoner clay,
Of necessity chosen for use every day
By those in whose hard lives the gold would grow dim,
And the Sevres unfit for the draught at its brim.
But the Potter—He knoweth! He fashioned each one,
His the care for the vessel, the final “Well done”—
Nor fineness of texture, nor beauty, nor grace,
But fitness for service, determines its place.
Indifference.
If a soul is struggling alone in the dark,
When the flood-gates are open, and doubt waves loom high;
And you, in your white-canvassed, well balanced barque,
Should unfurl its strong sails, and calmly pass by;
And that soul be o’erwhelmed, borne ruthlessly down
’Neath the pitiless waves—what gladness or cheer
Could come to your soul, when the darkness has flown,
Though the bright golden morning, break ever so clear?