I hold all else named piety
A selfish scheme, a vain pretense;
Where center is not—can there be
Circumference?
This I moreover hold, and dare
Affirm where'er my ryme may go—
Whatever things be sweet or fair
Love makes them so.
Whether it be the lullabies
That charm to rest the nursling bird,
Or the sweet confidence of sighs
And blushes, made without a word.
Whether the dazzling and the flush
Of softly sumptuous garden bowers,
Or by some cabin door a bush
Of ragged flowers.
'Tis not the wide phylactery,
Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers,
That makes us saints; we judge the tree
By what it bears.
And when a man can live apart
From works, on theologic trust,
I know the blood about his heart
Is dry as dust. —Alice Cary.
VICTORY
How poor his triumph is whose venture pays
Because strong friends of his have willed it so;
Have pulled the strings and schemed in cunning ways
To drag him up or boost him from below.
How evanescent his poor pride must be,
How often he must nurse a vain regret,
How often weakly wish that he were free
To scorn those who have placed him in their debt.
How splendid in his triumph who has won
Alone, unaided, honor and renown,
Who owes no thanks and rises to his own,
Despite the world's attempt to keep him down.
—Ellsworth Kaye.