Chapter 2

For life was made for loving, and love alone repays, As passing years are proving for all of Time's sad ways. There lies a sting in pleasure, And fame gives shallow measure, And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days, For life was made for loving, and only loving pays.

When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes, And silences are melting to soft, melodious rhymes, Let Love, the world's beginning, End fear and hate and sinning; Let Love, the God Eternal, be worshiped in all climes When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes.

=The River=

I am a river flowing from God's sea Through devious ways. He mapped my course for me; I cannot change it; mine alone the toil To keep the waters free from grime and soil. The winding river ends where it began; And when my life has compassed its brief span I must return to that mysterious source. So let me gather daily on my course The perfume from the blossoms as I pass, Balm from the pines, and healing from the grass, And carry down my current as I go Not common stones but precious gems to show; And tears (the holy water from sad eyes) Back to God's sea, from which all rivers rise Let me convey, not blood from wounded hearts, Nor poison which the upas tree imparts. When over flowery vales I leap with joy, Let me not devastate them, nor destroy, But rather leave them fairer to the sight; Mine be the lot to comfort and delight. And if down awful chasms I needs must leap Let me not murmur at my lot, but sweep On bravely to the end without one fear, Knowing that He who planned my ways stands near. Love sent me forth, to Love I go again, For Love is all, and over all. Amen.

=Sorry=

There is much that makes me sorry as I journey down life's way. And I seem to see more pathos in poor human lives each day. I'm sorry for the strong brave men, who shield the weak from harm, But who, in their own troubled hours find no protecting arm.

I am sorry for the victors who have reached success, to stand As targets for the arrows shot by envious failure's hand. I'm sorry for the generous hearts who freely shared their wine, But drink alone the gall of tears in fortune's drear decline.

I'm sorry for the souls who build their own fame's funeral pyre, Derided by the scornful throng like ice deriding fire. I'm sorry for the conquering ones who know not sin's defeat, But daily tread down fierce desire 'neath scorched and bleeding feet.

I'm sorry for the anguished hearts that break with passion's strain, But I'm sorrier for the poor starved souls that never knew love's pain. Who hunger on through barren years not tasting joys they crave, For sadder far is such a lot than weeping o'er a grave.

I'm sorry for the souls that come unwelcomed into birth, I'm sorry for the unloved old who cumber up the earth. I'm sorry for the suffering poor in life's great maelstrom hurled, In truth I'm sorry for them all who make this aching world.

But underneath whate'er seems sad and is not understood, I know there lies hid from our sight a mighty germ of good. And this belief stands firm by me, my sermon, motto, text-- The sorriest things in this life will seem grandest in the next.

=The Old Wooden Cradle=

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle The rude hand of Progress has thrust it aside. No more to its motion o'er sleep's fairy ocean, Our play-weary wayfarers peacefully glide.

No more by the rhythm of slow-moving rocker, Their sweet dreamy fancies are fostered and fed; No more to low singing the cradle goes swinging-- The child of this era is put into bed.

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle, It lent to the twilight a strange, subtle charm; When bees left the clover, when play-time was over, How safe seemed this shelter from danger or harm.

How soft seemed the pillow, how distant the ceiling, How weird were the voices that whispered around, What dreams would come flocking, as rocking and rocking, We floated away into slumber profound.

Good-bye to the cradle, the old wooden cradle, The babe of to-day does not know it by sight. When day leaves the border, with system and order, The child goes to bed and we put out the light.

I bow to Progression and ask no concession, Though strewn be her pathway with wrecks of the past; So off with old lumber, that sweet ark of slumber, The old wooden cradle, is ruthlessly cast.

=Ambition's Trail=

If all the end of this continuous striving Were simply _to attain_, How poor would seem the planning and contriving The endless urging and the hurried driving Of body, heart and brain!

But ever in the wake of true achieving, There shines this glowing trail-- Some other soul will be spurred on, conceiving, New strength and hope, in its own power believing, Because _thou_ didst not fail.

Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow, If thou doth miss the goal, Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrow From thee their weakness or their force shall borrow-- On, on, ambitious soul.

=The Traveled Man=

Sometimes I wish the railroads all were torn out, The ships all sunk among the coral strands. I am so very weary, yea so worn out, With tales of those who visit foreign lands.

When asked to dine, to meet these traveled people, My soup seems brewed from cemetery bones. The fish grows cold on some cathedral steeple, I miss two courses while I stare at thrones.

I'm forced to leave my salad quite untasted, Some musty, moldy temple to explore. The ices, fruit and coffee all are wasted While into realms of ancient art I soar.

I'd rather take my chance of life and reason, If in a den of roaring lions hurled Than for a single year, ay, for one season, To dwell with folks who'd traveled round the world.

So patronizing are they, so oppressive, With pity for the ones who stay at home, So mighty is their knowledge so aggressive, I ofttimes wish they had not _ceased_ to roam.

They loathe the new, they quite detest the present; They revel in a pre-Columbian morn; Just dare to say America is pleasant, And die beneath the glances of their scorn.

They are increasing at a rate alarming, Go where I will, the traveled man is there. And now I think that rustic wholly charming Who has not strayed beyond his meadows fair.

=Uncontrolled=

The mighty forces of mysterious space Are one by one subdued by lordly man. The awful lightning that for eons ran Their devastating and untrammeled race, Now bear his messages from place to place Like carrier doves. The winds lead on his van; The lawless elements no longer can Resist his strength, but yield with sullen grace.

His bold feet scaling heights before untrod, Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold He bids go forth and bring him power and pelf. And yet though ruler, king and demi-god He walks with his fierce passions uncontrolled The conquerer of all things--save himself.

=The Tulip Bed At Greeley Square=

You know that oasis, fresh and fair In the city desert, as Greeley square?

That bright triangle of scented bloom That lies surrounded by grime and gloom?

Right in the breast of the seething town Like a gleaming gem or a wanton's gown?

Ah, wonderful things that tulip bed Unto my listening soul has said.

Over the rattle and roar of the street I hear a chorus of voices sweet,

Day and night, when I pass that way, And these are the things the voices say:

"Here, in the heart of the foolish strife, We live a simple and natural life.

"Here, in the midst of the clash and din, We know what it is to be calm within.

"Here, environed by sin and shame, We do what we can with our pure white flame.

"We do what we can with our bloom and grace, To make the city a fairer place.

"It is well to be good though the world is vile, And so through the dust and the smoke we smile,

"We are but atoms in chaos tossed, Yet never a purpose for truth was lost."

Ah, many a sermon is uttered there By the bed of blossoms in Greeley square.

And he who listens and hears aright, Is better equipped for the world's hard fight.

=Will=

You will be what you will to be; Let failure find its false content In that poor word "environment," But spirit scorns it, and is free,

It masters time, it conquers space, It cows that boastful trickster Chance, And bids the tyrant Circumstance Uncrown and fill a servant's place.

The human Will, that force unseen, The offspring of a deathless Soul, Can hew the way to any goal, Though walls of granite intervene.

Be not impatient in delay, But wait as one who understands; When spirit rises and commands, The gods are ready to obey.

The river seeking for the sea Confronts the dam and precipice, Yet knows it cannot fail or miss; _You will be what you will to be_!

=To An Astrologer=

Nay, seer, I do not doubt thy mystic lore, Nor question that the tenor of my life, Past, present and the future, is revealed There in my horoscope. I do believe That yon dead moon compels the haughty seas To ebb and flow, and that my natal star Stands like a stern-browed sentinel in space And challenges events; nor lets one grief, Or joy, or failure, or success, pass on To mar or bless my earthly lot, until It proves its Karmic right to come to me.

All this I grant, but more than this I _know_! Before the solar systems were conceived, When nothing was but the unnamable, My spirit lived, an atom of the Cause. Through countless ages and in many forms It has existed, ere it entered in This human frame to serve its little day Upon the earth. The deathless Me of me, The spark from that great all-creative fire Is part of that eternal source called God, And mightier than the universe.

Why, he Who knows, and knowing, never once forgets The pedigree divine of his own soul, Can conquer, shape and govern destiny And use vast space as 'twere a board for chess With stars for pawns; can change his horoscope To suit his will; turn failure to success, And from preordained sorrows, harvest joy.

There is no puny planet, sun or moon, Or zodiacal sign which can control The God in us! If we bring _that_ to bear Upon events, we mold them to our wish, 'Tis when the infinite 'neath the finite gropes That men are governed by their horoscopes.

=The Tendril's Faith=

Under the snow in the dark and the cold, A pale little sprout was humming; Sweetly it sang, 'neath the frozen mold, Of the beautiful days that were coming.

"How foolish your songs," said a lump of clay, "What is there, I ask, to prove them? Just look at the walls between you and the day, Now, have you the strength to move them?"

But under the ice and under the snow The pale little sprout kept singing, "I cannot tell how, but I know, I know, I know what the days are bringing."

"Birds, and blossoms, and buzzing bees, Blue, blue skies above me, Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees, And the great glad sun to love me."

A pebble spoke next: "You are quite absurd." It said, "with your song's insistence; For _I_ never saw a tree or a bird, So of course there are none in existence."

"But I know, I know," the tendril cried, In beautiful sweet unreason; Till lo! from its prison, glorified, It burst in the glad spring season.

=The Times=

The times are not degenerate. Man's faith Mounts higher than of old. No crumbling creed Can take from the immortal soul the need Of that supreme Creator, God. The wraith Of dead beliefs we cherished in our youth Fades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.

Man may not worship at the ancient shrine Prone on his face, in self-accusing scorn. That night is past. He hails a fairer morn, And knows himself a something all divine; No humble worm whose heritage is sin, But, born of God, he feels the Christ within.

Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time, But deep his reverence for that mighty force. That occult working of the great all Source, Which makes the present era so sublime. Religion now means something high and broad, And man stood never half so near to God.

=The Question=

Beside us in our seeking after pleasures, Through all our restless striving after fame, Through all our search for worldly gains and treasures, There walketh one whom no man likes to name. Silent he follows, veiled of form and feature, Indifferent if we sorrow or rejoice, Yet that day comes when every living creature Must look upon his face and hear his voice.

When that day comes to you, and Death, unmasking, Shall bar your path, and say, "Behold the end," What are the questions that he will be asking About your past? Have you considered, friend? I think he will not chide you for your sinning, Nor for your creeds or dogmas will he care; He will but ask, "_From your life's first beginning How many burdens have you helped to bear_?"

=Sorrow's Uses=

The uses of sorrow I comprehend Better and better at each year's end.

Deeper and deeper I seem to see Why and wherefore it has to be.

Only after the dark, wet days Do we fully rejoice in the sun's bright rays.

Sweeter the crust tastes after the fast Than the sated gourmand's finest repast.

The faintest cheer sounds never amiss To the actor who once has heard a hiss.

To one who the sadness of freedom knows, Light seem the fetters love may impose.

And he who has dwelt with his heart alone, Hears all the music in friendship's tone.

So better and better I comprehend, How sorrow ever would be our friend.

=If=

Twixt what thou art, and what thou wouldst be, let No "If" arise on which to lay the blame. Man makes a mountain of that puny word, But, like a blade of grass before the scythe, It falls and withers when a human will, Stirred by creative force, sweeps toward its aim.

Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. Circumstance Is but the toy of genius. When a soul Burns with a god-like purpose to achieve, All obstacles between it and its goal Must vanish as the dew before the sun.

"If" is the motto of the dilettante And idle dreamer; 'tis the poor excuse Of mediocrity. The truly great Know not the word, or know it but to scorn, Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died, Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.

=Which Are You?=

There are two kinds of people on earth to-day; Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and the saint, for it's well understood, The good are half bad and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth, You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span, Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean, Are the people who lift, and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses, Are always divided in just these two classes.

And oddly enough, you will find too, I ween, There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you? Are you easing the load, Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner, who lets others share Your portion of labor, and worry and care?

=The Creed To Be=

Our thoughts are molding unmade spheres, And, like a blessing or a curse, They thunder down the formless years, And ring throughout the universe.

We build our futures, by the shape Of our desires, and not by acts. There is no pathway of escape; No priest-made creeds can alter facts.

Salvation is not begged or bought; Too long this selfish hope sufficed; Too long man reeked with lawless thought, And leaned upon a tortured Christ.

Like shriveled leaves, these worn out creeds Are dropping from Religion's tree; The world begins to know its needs, And souls are crying to be free.

Free from the load of fear and grief, Man fashioned in an ignorant age; Free from the ache of unbelief He fled to in rebellious rage.

No church can bind him to the things That fed the first crude souls, evolved; For, mounting up on daring wings, He questions mysteries all unsolved.

Above the chant of priests, above The blatant voice of braying doubt, He hears the still, small voice of Love, Which sends its simple message out.

And clearer, sweeter, day by day, Its mandate echoes from the skies, "Go roll the stone of self away, And let the Christ within thee rise."

=Music In The Flat=

When Tom and I were married, we took a little flat; I had a taste for singing and playing and all that. And Tom, who loved to hear me, said he hoped I would not stop All practice, like so many wives who let their music drop. So I resolved to set apart an hour or two each day To keeping vocal chords and hands in trim to sing and play.

The second morning I had been for half an hour or more At work on Haydn's masses, when a tap came at my door. A nurse who wore a dainty cap and apron, and a smile, Ran down to ask if I would cease my music for awhile. The lady in the flat above was very ill, she said, And the sound of my piano was distracting to her head.

A fortnight's exercises lost, ere I began them, when, The following morning at my door, there came that tap again; A woman with an anguished face implored me to forego My music for some days to come--a man was dead below. I shut down my piano till the corpse had left the house, And spoke to Tom in whispers and was quiet as a mouse.

A week of labor limbered up my stiffened hand and voice, I stole an extra hour from sleep, to practice and rejoice; When, ting-a-ling, the door-bell rang a discord in my trill-- The baby in the flat across was very, very ill. For ten long days that infant's life was hanging by a thread, And all that time my instrument was silent as the dead.

So pain and death and sickness came in one perpetual row, When babies were not born above, then tenants died below. The funeral over underneath, some one fell ill on top, And begged me, for the love of God, to let my music drop. When trouble went not up or down, it stalked across the hall, And so in spite of my resolve, I do not play at all.

=Inspiration=

Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy, Is inspiration, eager to pursue, But rather like a maiden, fond, yet coy, Who gives herself to him who best doth woo.

Once she may smile, or thrice, thy soul to fire, In passing by, but when she turns her face, Thou must persist and seek her with desire, If thou wouldst win the favor of her grace.

And if, like some winged bird she cleaves the air, And leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth, Still must thou strive to follow even there, That she may know thy valor and thy worth.

Then shall she come unveiling all her charms, Giving thee joy for pain, and smiles for tears; Then shalt thou clasp her with possessing arms, The while she murmurs music in thine ears.

But ere her kiss has faded from thy cheek, She shall flee from thee over hill and glade, So must thou seek and ever seek and seek For each new conquest of this phantom maid.

=The Wish=

Should some great angel say to me to-morrow, "Thou must re-tread thy pathway from the start, But God will grant, in pity, for thy sorrow, Some one dear wish, the nearest to thy heart."

This were my wish! from my life's dim beginning _Let be what has been!_ wisdom planned the whole; My want, my woe, my errors, and my sinning, All, all were needed lessons for my soul.

=Three Friends=

Of all the blessings which my life has known, I value most, and most praise God for three: Want, Loneliness and Pain, those comrades true,

Who, masqueraded in the garb of foes For many a year, and filled my heart with dread. Yet fickle joys, like false, pretentious friends, Have proved less worthy than this trio. First,

Want taught me labor, led me up the steep And toilsome paths to hills of pure delight, Trod only by the feet that know fatigue, And yet press on until the heights appear.

Then loneliness and hunger of the heart Sent me upreaching to the realms of space, Till all the silences grew eloquent, And all their loving forces hailed me friend.

Last, pain taught prayer! placed in my hand the staff Of close communion with the over-soul, That I might lean upon it till the end, And find myself made strong for any strife.

And then these three who had pursued my steps Like stern, relentless foes, year after year, Unmasked, and turned their faces full on me, And lo! they were divinely beautiful, For through them shone the lustrous eyes of Love.

=You Never Can Tell=

You never can tell when you send a word, Like an arrow shot from a bow By an archer blind, be it cruel or kind, Just where it may chance to go. It may pierce the breast of your dearest friend. Tipped with its poison or balm, To a stranger's heart in life's great mart, It may carry its pain or its calm.

You never can tell when you do an act Just what the result will be; But with every deed you are sowing a seed, Though the harvest you may not see. Each kindly act is an acorn dropped In God's productive soil You may not know, but the tree shall grow, With shelter for those who toil.

You never can tell what your thoughts will do, In bringing you hate or love; For thoughts are things, and their airy wings Are swifter than carrier doves. They follow the law of the universe-- Each thing must create its kind, And they speed o'er the track to bring you back _Whatever went out from your mind_.

=Here And Now=

Here, in the heart of the world, Here, in the noise and the din, Here, where our spirits were hurled To battle with sorrow and sin, This is the place and the spot For knowledge of infinite things; This is the kingdom where Thought Can conquer the prowess of kings.

Wait for no heavenly life, Seek for no temple alone; Here, in the midst of the strife, Know what the sages have known. See what the Perfect Ones saw-- God in the depth of each soul, God as the light and the law, God as beginning and goal.

Earth is one chamber of Heaven, Death is no grander than birth. Joy in the life that was given, Strive for perfection on earth. Here, in the turmoil and roar, Show what it is to be calm; Show how the spirit can soar And bring back its healing and balm.

Stand not aloof nor apart, Plunge in the thick of the fight. There in the street and the mart, That is the place to do right. Not in some cloister or cave, Not in some kingdom above, Here, on this side of the grave, Here, should we labor and love.

=Unconquered=

However skilled and strong art thou, my foe, However fierce is thy relentless hate Though firm thy hand, and strong thy aim, and straight Thy poisoned arrow leaves the bended bow, To pierce the target of my heart, ah! know I am the master yet of my own fate. Thou canst not rob me of my best estate, Though fortune, fame and friends, yea love shall go.

Not to the dust shall my true self be hurled; Nor shall I meet thy worst assaults dismayed. When all things in the balance are well weighed, There is but one great danger in the world-- _Thou canst not force my soul to wish thee ill_, That is the only evil that can kill.

=All That Love Asks=

"All that I ask," says Love, "is just to stand And gaze, unchided, deep in thy dear eyes; For in their depths lies largest Paradise. Yet, if perchance one pressure of thy hand Be granted me, then joy I thought complete Were still more sweet."

"All that I ask," says Love, "all that I ask, Is just thy hand clasp. Could I brush thy cheek As zephyrs brush a rose leaf, words are weak To tell the bliss in which my soul would bask. There is no language but would desecrate A joy so great."

"All that I ask, is just one tender touch Of that soft cheek. Thy pulsing palm in mine, Thy dark eyes lifted in a trust divine And those curled lips that tempt me overmuch Turned where I may not seize the supreme bliss Of one mad kiss.