It was belief that gave it wing,
That weakling voice of mine,
And carried it where angels sing
God’s Melody Divine.
GYPSIES
(To R. B.)
Little gypsies of the city,
Little sparrows—more’s the pity,
Homeless, heedless of the weather,
Happy, banding all together,
Never giving thought to trouble,
Never seeing evil double,
Would that we who proudly mention
Every honorable intention
To the world with trumpet blaring,
Could, like sparrows, take uncaring
All the little earthly struggles,
Cast them gypsy-like aside
And fly happily, and gladly
All about earth’s countryside.
Why do the birds chant the psalm of glory?
Only because they alone are free throated and unafraid. Do they realize the danger in the sling-shot of civilization? No—they are only conscious of the Joy within.
Why sing of Joy—
If Joy is to be unheard.
Why sing of Faith,
If Faith is to be barred.
For all that is good
Is forever alive,
And all that is bad
Is dead before it be born.
THE CARRIER
(To J. K.)
A poor little messenger clad in gray,
Sent as a go-between—they say.
Took a betrayal under its wing
And guarded and cherished the slimy thing.