Whene'er you care to turn my hair from brown to grey or white; whene'er you line this face of mine with wrinkles left and right, I shall not mind nor call unkind these changes that you bring; nor shall I pray for you to stay your swift, relentless sting. But Father Time, please read this rhyme and grant me this request. Take not from me the power to see a joke and merry jest. Let me not tire of my desire to try adventures new, nor e'er destroy my deep keen joy in flowers of vivid hue. Though eyes grow dim and stiff each limb, please leave untouched my heart. So I will heed another's need and act a friendly part. Pile on the years, give cause for tears, but keep my courage strong. Then come what may, I'll ease the day with laughter and with song. Do what you will, you cannot kill my dreams, for ever fair. For they are mine, old Father Time. In them you have no share!
MIRACLE OF SPRING
Were I to live a thousand years I still would know that flaming thrill, that rush of joy when first appears—the golden daffodil. A thousand times my heart would sing when purple irises unfold; or when forsythia's branches bring their dazzling showers of gold. I could not see an almond tree with branches all a rosy glow but that a tide of ecstasy would through my being flow. Were I to see, a thousand times, blue scilla bells amid green grass, I know I'd hear their fairy chimes as I would pass. Were I to live a thousand years I'd never watch the nesting birds except through eyes bedimmed with tears, my tongue bereft of words. Were I to weave ten thousand lays, knew I a thousand songs to sing, I still would lack the power to praise—the miracle of Spring.
EASTER THOUGHTS
Little growing things, pushing through the earth, petals for soft wings, bells to echo mirth. Little bud and leaf, spite of winter's pain, spite of nature's grief, they are here again. Little growing things, roots are in my heart. Hark! the robin sings. Sorrow must depart. Doubts and chilly fears! winter now is o'er, wipe away your tears. Courage! rise once more. Courage has not fled, simply slept awhile. Hope, that you deemed dead, revived beneath a smile. Good cannot be slain, beauty never dies, spring has come again, soul of man, arise. Arise and go forth now, Easter calls to you. Blossoms on the bough, spirit burgeons, too. The Lenten lilies sing "From dead self, arise," while every growing thing says, "Beauty never dies."
SENSE OF HUMOUR
What it is, can't just say, only know it saved the day, drove the gathering clouds away. Just a twinkle in the eye, just a smile instead of sigh; Lo! the storm soon passed right by—all through a sense of humour. What it is, don't just know, but it made rich laughter flow, life took on a rosy glow: troubles shrank to half their size; sorrow wore a cheerful guise; work appeared to be the prize—all through a sense of humour. Things were going very wrong, flowers no colour, birds no song; weakness ousted courage strong—stepped in a sense of humour: put the balance right again, saved two people lots of pain, brought the sunshine after rain—and that's a sense of humour.
TO A PETULANT HEART
Such a resentful voice—"I didn't ask to be born," it said. But being here, 'tis fitting to rejoice. In gratitude lift up your voice. "What for?" it said. For these and many things. For the flowers' gay hue; the bird that sweetly sings, for grass bedecked with sparkling dew, for being born an heir to all the beauty that the world enfolds. Come! have you not your share in sea and sky, in hills and vales and wolds? But more for this, oh, petulant heart. That for your strength there is provided toil. And for your soul's sake, the chance to do your part in planting fruitful seeds in barren soil. Oh, lad, oh, petulant lad, cast off the foolish mood; be glad. Be glad that there are battles you must fight; and hills to climb; defeats to suffer; goals to keep in sight. Be glad, yea, all the time.