POEMS.
Poems are holy things. Eternal Truth,
Borrowing the robes of song and lovely grown,
In them her glory unto man proclaims
And fills his longing soul. They softly speak
Of Nature's beauty and the secrets old
Concealed behind the shadows of the hills,
And love on angel fingers borne to men,
Naming them over in so sweet a voice
That music leads their footsteps in the ways
Where God has walked; and with a lofty Harp,
As wondrous as the gentle harps of heaven,
Uplifts, ennobles, soothes and leads the race
Unto its last great ultimate of power,
To words of tenderness and goodly deeds.
SINGER AND SONG.
A singer sang in sorrow long
And breathed his life into his song.
Unknown, unheard, the song went wide,
Until the singer, starving, died.
Now in their hearts the nations write
And wear the singer's song of might.
Ah, singers fail and fall from view,
But songs are always, always new!
If garlands none to singers cling,
Bays wreathe above the songs they sing.
TO ONE WHO PLEDGED HER FRIENDSHIP.
Within this false world we may count ourselves blest,
If we have but one friend who is faithful and true;
And so in your friendship contented I'll rest,
And believe I have found that one blessing in you.
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