No harder to praise than to scorn, no harder to love than to hate; no harder to sing than to mourn, as easy to act as to wait. No harder to smile than to frown. It's as easy to stand as to lean, as easy to lift as pull down, to be generous rather than mean. It's not very hard to be glad, it's not very hard to rejoice, it's harder indeed to be sad. Let happiness then be our choice. No harder to trust than to doubt, and courage is easy as fear, and foes are quite easy to rout with weapons of Good Sense and Cheer. No harder to sing than to cry, as easy to do as to plan; no harder to laugh than to sigh, and gulfs aren't to dread but to span. And giving is easier, too, than withholding your hand from a friend; no harder to aid than to rue—and sweeter the day at the end.
TO AN ALMOND TREE
Oh, little wakeful tree, how beautiful art thou, curving so gracefully each pink blossomed bough. Thou child, in dainty party dress, to think that thou wouldst brave—to give us mortals happiness—a wind-blown, frost-lined grave! Oh, little wakeful one, why didst thou stir so soon? The Spring has scarce begun, thou wouldst have graced fair June. Thy blossoms will ne'er see thy prophecies come true, nor summer's pageantry with happy blushes view. Pink petals soon will fall (oh, little tree, be still); soon will the thrushes call and Spring trip o'er the hill. Bare will thy branches be, thy day of beauty o'er, but little wakeful tree, we will but love thee more—that thou didst dare to sing: "Oh, heart, prepare for Spring!"
MICHAEL INSISTS
On the grass the sunlight falls, near at hand a blackbird calls; a squirrel races up a tree. All this, and more, engrosses me. "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Such a gentle breeze now passes; how graceful are the bending grasses. Here and there the children play; I could sit and dream all day. "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Peace and quiet and sweet repose; someone has a cold, wet nose; something scratches at my knees (lovely sun and gentle breeze). "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Michael's head is on one side, Michael's mouth is opened wide; brown eyes look beseechingly. Michael! take your eyes from me. "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Who can sit in selfish ease, just admiring grass and trees, deeming life most kind and sweet, when a branch lies at one's feet—"Throw a stick," pants Michael.
RAINY DAY
"Rainy day," said Mother Dawn, "rise from out your cloud-lined bed. Look upon each field and lawn, a coverlet of mist I've spread." Rainy Day slipped from her cloud, shook bright rain-drops from her hair. As they fell, she laughed aloud, "Mother Dawn, what shall I wear?" "Take, my child, this dress of grey, fashioned from a frowning sky. Rainy Day, now run away, the patient, panting earth is dry." Rainy Day played hide-and-seek, in and out among the flowers. Cooled a hollyhock's hot cheek with her gift of gentle showers. Red roofs shone with great delight when she touched them for a space. Dry leaves trembled with delight, pressed against her loving face. Suddenly, a flashing gem, heralded from mighty sun, settled on the grey gown's hem—Rainy Day her work had done.
BEGONE, DULL CARE!
No! little, whining, fretting care, you cannot come a walk with me. So lovely is the morning air I do not want your company. Oh! little, whining, fretting care, you have no part in graceful trees; in waving grass you have no share; you have no kinship with a breeze. I'm going to a shady place where little children laugh and play. You'd cast a shadow on each face if you came out with me to-day. I'm going where a little stream bears lovely lilies on its breast. I could not sit awhile to dream if you're to be my morning guest. I'm going where the poppies blow among the friendly golden corn. No little care would dare to go and show its face this sunny morn. I'm going where sweet peace is found within a fern-grown fragrant dell, where silence wraps the spirit round—so carking care farewell!