He must have been a lonely little boy. The cold stone Temple for a nursery floor, and the Sanctuary Lamp for a glittering toy, and a Tamarix tree by the Temple door. (A Tamarix tree with scarcely a leaf to comfort a homesick child in his grief.) No woman's lips on his baby face; no woman's arms to hug him tight. Who put his sandals, each night, in place, and hung up his ephod, small and white? (Sometimes, I fear, when the old priest slept, the little child Samuel wept and wept.) What did he think, when once a year, Hannah, the mother, with love-lit eyes, held him close and whispered, "Dear! See, I have brought my babe a prize," and gave him a coat that she had made (I hope it was cut of rich brocade!) I hope it had friendly birds and flow'rs, embroidered in threads of blue and gold, playmates for his long, lonely hours in the silent Temple dim and cold. With such a coat to wear and touch—he might not miss his mother much.
THE PERFECT FRIEND
Shabby and down at heel? What does he care, so long as he can steal next to my chair? Sombre and dull of wit; feeling morose? He doesn't mind a bit, snuggles up close. Silence I may require. He's quite content. Silence is his desire, till my mood's spent. Ready to run a race, swim, fetch a stone. Yet will, with perfect grace, leave me alone. Some folks oft misconstrue words we let fall. Alter the shade and hue, turn sweet to gall. Not so this friend of mine; he understands. Gives me his secret sign, licks both my hands! Never misjudges, trusts to the end, pattern of loyalty—Doggie, the Friend.
MAKING THE BEST OF IT
The day was like a garment that I perforce must wear. I didn't like its colour much, it didn't suit my hair. I didn't like its line or cut, it didn't please my eye. "You look so very drab and mean," said I with heavy sigh. But since I had to wear it, this garment made for me, I said: I will embellish it and trim it prettily. Around its neck I stitched some smiles, a frill of them, all gold. And at the wrists, bright fancy's braid, quite lovely to behold. I girdled it with rosy dreams ('tis wrong to look a dowd!) and for a little 'kerchief, I chose a snow-white cloud. I gathered shining, gleaming thoughts and looped them here and there. The day it was a garment that I just loved to wear.
A TOAST
Here's to the days that are yet to be, to the life we're going to lead, to the aim achieved successfully, to the prisoned hope that's freed. Here's to the strength we're going to find, here's to the work we'll soon begin, strength of body and strength of mind and the hill we're going to win. Here's to the El Dorado, friends, the land of dreams we're soon to sight. Here's to the hour the striving ends and we stake our claim to the heart's delight. Here's to the road that winds afar, here's to the courage we'll never lack, to the dauntless will, the beckoning star, to the eyes that look not back. Here's to the days that are yet to be, here's to the work that lies ahead, to the joy in striving constantly—till the last mile's paced, and the last word's said.
THE GARDENER'S PRAYER
I pray You, let this garden be a gentle advocate for me before Your throne. Lord, it is fair and orderly and through its sweet serenity, my faults I own. My life at times has gone awry, but here beneath Your arch of sky, the pattern's true. The wind that softly passes by; tall trees, bright blossoms, grass, all try to pleasure You. With zest I've weeded day by day. Judge that my sins I cast away and am now shriven. And here Your sunbeams come to play, and moonbeams on this path do stray. Your stars look down from heaven. Will You not take this pattern bright as handiwork for Your delight and bless this little garden? See how the lilies tall and white stand unafraid within Your sight, and ask, for me, Your pardon.