Let us, therefore,
Choose in reason,
Whereby all that good is ours,
And by knowing rightful season
Pass forever—happy hours.
ITALY
(To Caruso)
The earth is earth—that is its worth,
To men who walk below.
But to the soul that seeks its goal,
Each land is all they know.
One calls it Home, another Heart, another Property,
But to the one who loves the sun
He calls it Italy.
ERIN
The green sod is red now—
Rebellion
The green sod is white now—
Purity
The green sod is blue now,
With truth
And the green sod is ever green,
It is growth—none can stop natural growth
Erin—land of dreams—Awaken.
BEES
The air is alive with buzzing bees
The little workers of destinies.
We grasp and strive to make our way,
Each life a hive and so our day
Is fraught with honey sweet, if we
Know all is good in destiny.
(To M. T.)
A certain lad had a long way to go, so he sat still and waited until—well, another lad also had a long way to go—so he hurried along and before long he received several gifts not to be sneezed at. No, they were not to be sneezed at, though I must say they made his eyes water a bit. The gifts were lovely little blisters on his pedal extremities, so he had to sit down and take care of his poor feet and in pain tarried, looking at his poor feet. Ah, yes, our other little lad took it very slowly, almost like the proverbial snail, but kept on the lookout and pretty soon a nice, comfortable wagon came along, and took the slow little boy for a nice ride, and the good little slow boy rode merrily by the poor little fast boy, who still sat nursing his blisters. He had really gone stepping on some little brimstones,—though he said they were pebbles. The good little slow boy turned back and put his hand to the poor little fast boy, but I regret to say he raised his digits to his nose—O, world where is thy sting.
Note—This is not a moral, it is only something that happens every day on our best trafficked roads.