Part 2 (1/2)

And of raindrops turned to snow, If I knew what poets know?

Did I know what poets do, Would I sing a song Sadder than the pigeon's coo When the days are long?

Where I found a heart in pain, I would make it glad again; And the false should be the true, Did I know what poets do.

If I knew what poets know, I would find a theme Sweeter than the placid flow Of the fairest dream: I would sing of love that lives On the errors it forgives; And the world would better grow If I knew what poets know.

_Ike Walton's Prayer_

I crave, dear Lord, No boundless h.o.a.rd Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, Nor lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything--.

Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstone I may hear The cricket sing, And have the s.h.i.+ne Of one glad woman's eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine--; Just the wee cot-- the cricket's chirr-- Love and the smiling face of her.

I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates and castle-halls--, Give me to hear the bare footfalls Of children o'er An oaken floor New-rinsed with suns.h.i.+ne, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby's head; And pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, With after-hushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again-- The cricket's call And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not!

I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place And lordly sway--, I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day-- Yield me his h.o.r.n.y palm to hold.

And I'll not pray For gold--; The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth; The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet.

And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseech Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr, Love and the glad sweet face of her!

_A Rough Sketch_

I caught, for a second, across the crowd-- Just for a second, and barely that-- A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed, Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim'd hat-- With small gray eyes, of a look as keen As the long, sharp nose that grew between.

And I said: 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own, Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear, On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown Hither and thither and everywhere-- With its keen little sinister eyes of gray, And nose like the beak of a bird of prey!

_Our Kind of a Man_

1 The kind of a man for you and me!

He faces the world unflinchingly, And smites, as long as the wrong resists, With a knuckled faith and force like fists: He lives the life he is preaching of, And loves where most is the need of love; His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears, And his face sublime through the blind man's tears; The light s.h.i.+nes out where the clouds were dim, And the widow's prayer goes up for him; The latch is clicked at the hovel door And the sick man sees the sun once more, And out o'er the barren fields he sees Springing blossoms and waving trees, Feeling as only the dying may, That G.o.d's own servant has come that way, Smoothing the path as it still winds on Through the golden gate where his loved have gone.

2 The kind of a man for me and you!

However little of worth we do He credits full, and abides in trust That time will teach us how more is just.

He walks abroad, and he meets all kinds Of querulous and uneasy minds, And sympathizing, he shares the pain Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain; And knowing this, as we grasp his hand We are surely coming to understand!

He looks on sin with pitying eyes-- E'en as the Lord, since Paradise--, Else, should we read, Though our sins should glow As scarlet, they shall be white as snow--?

And feeling still, with a grief half glad, That the bad are as good as the good are bad, He strikes straight out for the Right-- and he Is the kind of a man for you and me!

_The Harper_

Like a drift of faded blossoms Caught in a slanting rain, His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp In a tremulous refrain:

Patter and tinkle, and drip and drip!

Ah! But the chords were rainy sweet!

And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip, As he played there in the street.

Patter, and drip, and tinkle!

And there was the little bed In the corner of the garret, And the rafters overhead!