|
Thou hear'st the star songs clear, When all is silent here, And I, asleep. Spheres, ringing music rare Through upper realms of air, 'Round thy crowned head, may dare Their vigils keep. |
| —Bernice E. Newell |
|
"Great Mountain, who once to a pagan race meant God, Make us to realize our shame, That, failing to sing praises to thy wondrous form, We stoop to quarrel o'er a name." |
| —Anon. |
|
"The mountain-lover does not always gaze at Rainier and Olympus. He has learned that the foot-hills have a charm and an interest of their own. And they too point upward." |
| —Club Stories |
UP, MY HEART
|
The dark, dark night is gone, The lark is on the wing, From black and barren fields he soars, Eternal hope to sing. And shall I be less brave, Than you sweet lyric thing? From deeps of failure and despair Up, up, my heart, and sing. The dark, dark year is gone; The red blood of the spring Will quicken nature's pulses soon, So up, my heart, and sing. |
| —Ella Higginson |
THAT SOMETHING
A man's success depends alone on That Something. That Something of his soul. Abraham Lincoln found it and it warmed the cold floor on which he lay and studied. It added light to the flickering glow of the wood fire, that he might see to read.
It spurred him on and on and on.
That Something is an awful force.