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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:27:57 -0700 |
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diff --git a/6666-h/6666-h.htm b/6666-h/6666-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a55358b --- /dev/null +++ b/6666-h/6666-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3147 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Hello, Boys!, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Hello, Boys!, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Hello, Boys! + + +Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox + + + +Release Date: July 7, 2014 [eBook #6666] +[This file was first posted on January 10, 2003] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HELLO, BOYS!*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1919 Gay and Hancock edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" +src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>HELLO, BOYS!</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">BY</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">ELLA WHEELER WILCOX</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON</p> +<p style="text-align: center">GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">1919</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iv</span><i>N.B.</i>—The only volumes of +my Poems issues<br /> +with my approval in the British Empire are<br /> +published by Messrs. Gay & Hancock.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.</p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>FORWARD</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> greater part of these verses +dealing with the war were written in France during my recent +seven months’ sojourn there, and for the purpose of using +in entertainments given in camps and hospitals to thousands of +American soldiers.</p> +<p>They were the result of coming into close contact with the +soldiers’ mind and heart, and were intentionally expressed +in the simplest manner, without any consideration of methods +approved by modern critics. The fact that I have been asked +to autograph scores of copies of many of these verses (and one of +them to the extent of 350 copies) is more gratifying to me than +would be the highest encomiums of the purely literary critic.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.</p> +<p>London,<br /> + <i>October</i> 1918.</p> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Thanksgiving</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Brave Highland Laddies</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Men of the Sea</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page6">6</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ode to the British Fleet</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page9">9</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The German Fleet</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page11">11</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Deep unto deep was calling</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page12">12</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Song of the Allies</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ten thousand men a day</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">America will not turn +back</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">War</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page20">20</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Hour</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page23">23</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Message</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page25">25</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">Flowers of +France</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Our Atlas</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Camp Followers</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Come Back Clean</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Camouflage</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Awakening</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Khaki Boys who were not at the +Front</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Time’s Hymn of Hate</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Dear Motherland of France</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page48">48</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Spirit of Great Joan</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Speak</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page52">52</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Girl of the U.S.A.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page54">54</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +viii</span><span class="smcap">Passing the Buck</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page56">56</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Song of the Aviator</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Stevedores</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Song of Home</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Swan of Dijon</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Veils</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">In France I saw a Hill</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">American Boys, Hello</span>!</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page70">70</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">De Rochambeau</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">After</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Blasphemy of Guns</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Crimes of Peace</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page78">78</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">It May Be</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Then and Now</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Widows</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Conversation</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">I, too</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">He that hath ears</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page99">99</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Answers</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page101">101</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">How is it?</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>‘<span class="smcap">Let us give +thanks</span>’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page107">107</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Black Sheep</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">One by one</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page112">112</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Prayer</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page114">114</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Be not Dismayed</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page116">116</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ascension</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page118">118</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Deadliest Sin</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page121">121</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Rainbow of Promise</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page124">124</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">They shall not win</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>THANKSGIVING</h2> +<p class="poetry">Thanksgiving for the strong armed day,<br /> +That lifted war’s red curse,<br /> +When Peace, that lordly little word,<br /> +Was uttered in a voice that stirred—<br /> +Yea, shook the Universe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thanksgiving for the Mighty Hour<br /> +That brimmed the Victor’s cup,<br /> +When England signalled to the foe,<br /> +‘The German flag must be brought low<br /> +And not again hauled up!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Thanksgiving for the sea and air<br /> +Free from the Devil’s might!<br /> +Thanksgiving that the human race<br /> +Can lift once more a rev’rent face,<br /> +And say, ‘God helps the Right.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +2</span>Thanksgiving for our men who came<br /> +In Heaven-protected ships,<br /> +The waning tide of hope to swell,<br /> +With ‘Lusitania’ and ‘Cavell’<br /> +As watchwords on their lips.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thanksgiving that our splendid dead,<br /> +All radiant with youth,<br /> +Dwell near to us—there is no death.<br /> +Thanksgiving for the broad new faith<br /> +That helps us know this truth.</p> +<h2><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>THE +BRAVE HIGHLAND LADDIES</h2> +<p class="poetry">I had seen our splendid soldiers in their khaki +uniforms,<br /> + And their leaders with a Sam Brown belt;<br /> +I had seen the fighting Britons and Colonials in swarms,<br /> + I had seen the blue-clad Frenchmen, and I felt<br /> +That the mighty martial show<br /> +Had no new sight to bestow,<br /> + Till I walked on Piccadilly, and my word!<br /> +By the bonnie Highland laddies<br /> +In their kilts and their plaidies,<br /> + To a wholly new sensation I was stirred.</p> +<p class="poetry">They were like some old-time picture, or a +scene from out a play,<br /> + They were stalwart, they were young, and +debonnair;<br /> +<a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>Their jaunty +little caps they wore in such a fetching way,<br /> + And they showed their handsome legs, and +didn’t care—<br /> +And they seemed to own the town<br /> +As they strode on up and down—<br /> + Oh, they surely were a sight for tired eyes!<br /> +Those braw, bonnie laddies<br /> +In their kilts and their plaidies,<br /> + And I stared at them with pleasure and surprise.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had read about the valour of old +Scotland’s warrior sons—<br /> + How they fought to a finish, or else fell;<br /> +I had heard the name bestowed on them by agitated Huns,<br /> + Who called these skirted soldiers ‘Dames of +Hell’;<br /> +And I gave them right of way<br /> +On their London holiday,<br /> + As I met them swinging down the street and +Strand,<br /> +Those bonnie, bonnie laddies<br /> +In their kilts and their plaidies,<br /> + And I breathed a blessing on them and their land</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>Now the world is all rejoicing that the end of war has +come—<br /> + And no heart is any gladder than my own,<br /> +That the brutal, blatant voices of the guns at last are dumb,<br +/> + And the Dove of Peace from out her cage has +flown.<br /> +Yet, when men no more march by,<br /> +Making pictures for the eye,<br /> + There’s a vital dash of colour earth will +lack,<br /> +When the brave Highland laddies<br /> +Drop their kilts and their plaidies,<br /> + And return to common clothes of grey or black!</p> +<h2><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>MEN OF +THE SEA</h2> +<p class="poetry"><i>Many the songs of the brave boys sent</i><br +/> +<i>Over The Top in the battle’s thunder</i>;<br /> +<i>But mine is the song of the men who went</i><br /> +<i>Over the top of the waves—and under</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Men of the sea, Men of the sea,<br /> +I lift mine eyes to the Flags unfurled—<br /> +The Flags of Victory blowing free<br /> +Over the new-born world.<br /> +And I cry ‘Thank God! these things can be!<br /> +Thank God, and the Men of the Sea!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Little it matters to what they belong,<br /> +Marine or Navy—or Merchant Ship—<br /> +To the Men of the Sea I sing my song;<br /> +A song that rises from heart to lip.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +7</span>I sing of the valour that ploughed a path<br /> +Straight through the snares of a crafty foe,<br /> +Through billows raging with wintry wrath,<br /> +And over the dens of the devils below.</p> +<p class="poetry">To the splendid heroes of Jutland Bank<br /> +And the Royal Navy I give their due;<br /> +And cheek by jowl with them all, I rank<br /> +The brave mine-sweepers and merchant crew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Trawler—Drifter—or English +Fleet—<br /> +All are manned by the Men of the Sea,<br /> +And all together in my heart meet,<br /> +For a boat is a boat to the mind of me.</p> +<p class="poetry">And who ever over the dread seas fared,<br /> +And however humble his work or place,<br /> +To the great Christ spirit must be compared—<br /> +Since he offered his life for the good of the race.</p> +<p class="poetry">And how many lie in the deep-sea bed,<br /> +No man can reckon, and no man number;<br /> +But not one Soul of them all is dead,<br /> +For death is only the body’s slumber.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>And the Men of the Mist, who from dark to dawn<br /> +On the deck or the bridge stand guard at night,<br /> +Oft feel the presence of comrades gone<br /> +Who keep watch with them, though veiled from sight.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Many the songs of the brave boys sent</i><br +/> +<i>Over The Top in the battle’s thunder</i>;<br /> +<i>But mine is the song of the men who went</i><br /> +<i>Over the top of the waves—and under</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>ODE TO +THE BRITISH FLEET</h2> +<p class="poetry">‘Invisible and +silent’—Mystery<br /> +Surrounded that great Guardian of the Sea.<br /> +That Father—Mother—of the mighty main.<br /> +While loud in valley and on field and hill—<br /> +And over anguished plain<br /> +The battles thundered. God himself is still<br /> +And hidden from men’s view; and it were meet<br /> +That this subliminal force<br /> +Should move in utter silence on its course<br /> +Invisible—Inaudible—till that hour<br /> +When Time, Fate’s Minister, should speak and say—<br +/> +‘Come forth! and show thy power!’<br /> +When Time commands, even the gods obey.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Invisible and silent’; yet the +foe<br /> +Was driven from the Sea. All impotent<br /> +The brazen braggart went.<br /> +While commerce sent her brave ships to and fro;<br /> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>And from +Columbia’s shores there sailed away<br /> +Ten thousand men a day—<br /> +Ten thousand men a day! who reached their goals<br /> +Bringing new courage to war-weary souls.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, silent wonder of the noisy sea!<br /> +Though alien, with the blood of Bunker Hill<br /> +Down filtering through my veins, the heart of me<br /> +Seems with a mingled love and awe to fill<br /> +And overflow at thought of that sublime,<br /> +Unparalleled large hour of Time;<br /> +When bloodless Victory saw the foes’ flag furled—<br +/> +That insolent menace to a righteous world.</p> +<p class="poetry">Great Britain’s Fleet unshaken in its +might,<br /> +Proclaimed itself again in all men’s sight<br /> +The Mistress of the Main. Fair Freedom’s friend,<br +/> +May peace and glory on thy path attend.</p> +<h2><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>THE +GERMAN FLEET</h2> +<p class="poetry">Lie down, and let the billows hide your +shame,<br /> +Oh, shorn and naked outcast of the seas!<br /> +You who confided to each ocean breeze<br /> +Your coming conquests, and made loud acclaim<br /> +Of your own grandeur and exalted fame;<br /> +You who have catered to they world’s disease;<br /> +You who have drunk hate’s wine, and found the lees;<br /> +Lie down! and let all men forget your name!</p> +<p class="poetry">You dreamed of world dominion! you! the +spawn<br /> +Of hell and hatred—Foe to all things free—<br /> +Sworn enemy to honour, truth and right;<br /> +Too poor a thing now for the Devil’s pawn,<br /> +Let the large mercy of the outraged sea<br /> +Engulf and hide you evermore from sight.</p> +<h2><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>DEEP +UNTO DEEP WAS CALLING</h2> +<p class="poetry">They rode through the bannered city—<br +/> +The King and the Commoner,<br /> +And the hopes of the world were with them,<br /> +And the heart of the world was astir.<br /> +For the moss-grown walls seemed falling<br /> +That have shut away men from Kings;<br /> +And Deep unto Deep was calling<br /> +For the coming of greater things.</p> +<p class="poetry">They rode to an age-old Palace<br /> +Where the feet of the Mighty go—<br /> +(A Palace that stands unshaken<br /> +Despite the boast of the foe!)<br /> +And the King from Kings descending—<br /> +And the Man of the People’s choice<br /> +In a Super-Man seemed blending,<br /> +And they spoke as with one voice.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>And one voice now and for ever<br /> +Will speak from sea to sea,<br /> +Wherever the British Banner<br /> +And the Starry Flag float free.<br /> +For our fettering chains are sundered<br /> +By the evil that turned to good,<br /> +And Deep unto Deep has thundered<br /> +Its message of Brotherhood.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was not a pageant of Victors—<br /> +Or a triumph hour of man,<br /> +That ride through the bannered City,<br /> +It was part of a Mighty Plan;<br /> +And the sound of old barriers falling<br /> +Rose there where those Rulers trod,<br /> +For Deep unto Deep was calling<br /> +In the resonant Voice of God.</p> +<h2><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>THE +SONG OF THE ALLIES</h2> +<p class="poetry">We are the Allies of God to-day,<br /> +And the width of the earth is our right of way.<br /> +Let no man question or ask us why,<br /> +As we speed to answer a wild world cry;<br /> +Let no man hinder or ask us where,<br /> +As out over water and land we fare;<br /> +For whether we hurry, or whether we wait,<br /> +We follow the finger of guiding fate.</p> +<p class="poetry">We are the Allies. We differ in faith,<br +/> +But are one in our courage at thought of death.<br /> +Many and varied the tongues we speak,<br /> +But one and the same is the goal we seek.<br /> +And the goal we seek is not power or place,<br /> +But the peace of the world, and the good of the race.<br /> +And little matters the colour of skin,<br /> +When each heart under it beats to win.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>We are the Allies; we fight or fly,<br /> +We wallow in trenches like pigs in a sty,<br /> +We dive under water to foil a foe,<br /> +We wait in quarters, or rise and go.<br /> +And staying or going, or near or far,<br /> +One thought is ever our guiding star:<br /> +We are the Allies of God to-day,<br /> +We are the Allies—make way! make way!</p> +<h2><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>TEN +THOUSAND MEN A DAY</h2> +<p class="poetry">All the world was wearying,<br /> + All the world was sad;<br /> +Everything was shadow-filled;<br /> + Things were going bad.<br /> +Then a rumour stirred all hearts<br /> + As a wind stirs trees—<br /> +Ten thousand men a day<br /> + Coming over seas!</p> +<p class="poetry">Soon we saw them marching by—<br /> + God! what a sight!—<br /> +Shoulders back, and heads erect,<br /> + Faces full of light.<br /> +Smiling like a morn in May,<br /> + Moving like a breeze,<br /> +Ten thousand men a day<br /> + Coming over seas.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>Weary soldiers worn with war<br /> + Lifted up their eyes,<br /> +Shadows seemed to fade a bit,<br /> + Dawn was in the skies.<br /> +Hope sprang to troubled hearts,<br /> + Strength to tired knees:<br /> +Ten thousand men a day<br /> + Were coming over seas.</p> +<p class="poetry">France and England swarmed with them,<br /> + Khaki-clad and young,<br /> +Filled with all the joy of life—<br /> + Into line they swung.<br /> +Waning valour rose anew<br /> + At the sight of these<br /> +Ten thousand men a day<br /> + Coming over seas.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still they come—and still they come<br /> + In their strength and pride.<br /> +Victory with radiant mien<br /> + Marches on beside.<br /> +Victory is here to stay,<br /> + Every heart agrees,<br /> +With ten thousand men a day<br /> + Coming over seas.</p> +<h2><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>‘AMERICA WILL NOT TURN BACK’</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Woodrow +Wilson</span></p> +<p class="poetry">America will not turn back;<br /> + She did not idly start,<br /> +But weighed full carefully and well<br /> + Her grave, important part.<br /> +She chose the part of Freedom’s friend,<br /> +And will pursue it, to the end.</p> +<p class="poetry">Great Liberty, who guards her gates,<br /> + Will shine upon her course,<br /> +And light the long, adventurous path<br /> + With radiance from God’s Source.<br /> +And though blood dye that ocean track,<br /> +America will not turn back.</p> +<p class="poetry">She will not turn until that hour<br /> + When thunders through the world<br /> +The crash of tyrant monarchies<br /> + By Freedom’s hand down-hurled.<br /> +<a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>While +Labour’s voice from sea to sea<br /> +Sings loud, ‘My country, ’tis of thee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then will our fair Columbia turn,<br /> + While all wars’ clamours cease,<br /> +And with our banner lifted high<br /> + Proclaim, ‘Let there be Peace.’<br /> +But till that glorious day shall dawn<br /> +She will march on, she will march on.</p> +<h2><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>WAR</h2> +<h3>I</h3> +<p class="poetry">There is no picturesqueness and no glory,<br /> + No halo of romance, in war to-day.<br /> + It is a hideous thing; Time would turn grey<br /> +With horror, were he not already hoary<br /> +At sight of this vile monster, foul and gory.<br /> + Yet while sweet women perish as they pray,<br /> + And new-born babes are slaughtered, who dare say<br +/> +‘Halt!’ till Right pens its ‘Finis’ to +the story!<br /> +There is no pathway, but the path through blood,<br /> + Out of the horrors of this holocaust.<br /> +Hell has let loose its scalding crimson flood,<br /> + And he who stops to argue now is lost.<br /> +Not brooms of creeds, not Pacifistic words<br /> +Can stem the tide, but swords—uplifted swords!</p> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>II</h3> +<p class="poetry">Yet, after Peace has turned the clean white +page<br /> + There shall be sorrow on the earth for years;<br /> + Abysmal grief, that has no eyes for tears,<br /> +And youth that hobbles through the earth like age.<br /> +But better to play this part upon life’s stage<br /> + Than to aid structures that a tyrant rears,<br /> + To live a stalwart hireling torn with fears,<br /> +And shamed by feeding on a conqueror’s wage.<br /> +Death, yea, a thousand deaths, were sweet in truth<br /> + Rather than such ignoble life. God gave<br /> +Being, and breath, and high resolve to youth<br /> + That it might be Wrong’s master, not its +slave.<br /> +Our road to Freedom is the road to guns!<br /> +Go, arm your sons! I say, Go, arm your sons!</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p class="poetry">Arm! arm! that mandate on each wind is +whirled.<br /> + Let no man hesitate or look askance,<br /> + For from the devastated homes of France<br /> +And ruined Belgium the cry is hurled.<br /> +<a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>Why, +Christ Himself would keep peace banners furled<br /> + Were He among us, till, with lifted lance,<br /> + He saw the hosts of Righteousness advance<br /> +To purify the Temples of the world.<br /> +There is no safety on the earth to-day<br /> + For any sacred thing, or clean, or fair;<br /> +Nor can there be, until men rise and slay<br /> + The hydra-headed monster in his lair.<br /> +War! horrid War! now Virtue’s only friend;<br /> +Clasp hands with War, and battle to the end!</p> +<h2><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>THE +HOUR</h2> +<p class="poetry">This is the world’s stupendous +hour—<br /> + The supreme moment for the race<br /> +To see the emptiness of power,<br /> + The worthlessness of wealth and place,<br /> +To see the purpose and the plan<br /> +Conceived by God for growing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">And they who see and comprehend<br /> + That ultimate and lofty aim<br /> +Will wait in patience for the end,<br /> + Knowing injustice cannot claim<br /> +One lasting victory, or control<br /> +Laws that bar progress for the whole.</p> +<p class="poetry">This is an epoch-making time;<br /> + God thunders through the universe<br /> +A message glorious and sublime,<br /> + At once a blessing and a curse.<br /> +Blessings for those who seek His light,<br /> +Curses for those whose law is might.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>Ephemeral as the sunset glow<br /> + Is human grandeur. Mortal life<br /> +Was given that souls might seek and know<br /> + Immortal truths; and through the strife<br /> +That shakes the earth from land to land<br /> +The wise shall hear and understand.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out of the awful holocaust,<br /> + Out of the whirlwind and the flood,<br /> +Out of old creeds to Bedlam tossed,<br /> + Shall rise a new earth washed in blood—<br /> +A new race filled with spirit power,<br /> +<i>This is the world’s stupendous hour</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>THE +MESSAGE</h2> +<p class="poetry">I have not the gift of vision,<br /> + I have not the psychic ear,<br /> +And the realms that are called Elysian<br /> + I neither see nor hear;<br /> +Yet oft when the shadows darken<br /> + And the daylight hides its face,<br /> +The soul of me seems to hearken<br /> + For the truths that speak through space.</p> +<p class="poetry">They speak to me not through reason,<br /> + They speak to me not by word;<br /> +Yet my soul would be guilty of treason<br /> + If it did not say it had heard.<br /> +For Space has a message compelling<br /> + To give to the ear of Earth;<br /> +And the things which the Silence is telling<br /> + In the bosom of God have birth.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>Now this is the truth as I hear it—<br /> + That ever through good or ill,<br /> +The will of the Ruling Spirit<br /> + Is moving and ruling still.<br /> +In the clutch of the blood-red terror<br /> + That holds the world in its might,<br /> +The Race is learning its error<br /> + And will find its way to the light.</p> +<p class="poetry">And this is the Truth as I see it—<br /> + Whoever cries out for peace,<br /> +Must think it, and live it, and <i>be it</i>,<br /> + And the wars of the world will cease.<br /> +Men fight that man may awaken,<br /> + And no longer want to kill;<br /> +Wars rage, and the heavens are shaken<br /> + That man may learn how to be still.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the silence he finds his Saviour—<br +/> + The God Who is dwelling within;<br /> +And only by Christ-behaviour<br /> + Is the soul of him saved from sin.<br /> +There is only one Source—no other—<br /> + One Light, and each soul is a ray;<br /> +And he who would slaughter his brother,<br /> + <i>Himself</i> he is seeking to slay.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>Now these are the Truths we are learning<br /> + Through evils and horrors untold;<br /> +For the thought of the race is turning<br /> + Away from its methods of old.<br /> +And the mind of the race is sated,<br /> + With the things that it prized of yore,<br /> +And the monster of war is hated,<br /> + As never on earth before.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, slow are God’s mills in the +grinding,<br /> + But they grind exceedingly small;<br /> +And slow is man’s soul in the finding,<br /> + That he is a part of the All.<br /> +Through æons and æons, his story<br /> + Is bloody and blackened with crime;<br /> +But he will come out into glory<br /> + And stand on the summits sublime.</p> +<p class="poetry">He will stand on the summits of Knowledge,<br +/> + In the splendour of Light from the Source;<br /> +And the methods of church and of college<br /> + Will all of them change by his force.<br /> +For the creeds that are blind and cruel,<br /> + And the teachings by rule and by rod,<br /> +Will all be turned into fuel<br /> + To light up the pathway to God.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>This is the Truth as I hear it—<br /> + <i>The clouds are rolling away</i>,<br /> +<i>And Spirit will talk with Spirit</i><br /> + <i>In the swift approaching day</i>.<br /> +<i>War from the world shall be driven</i>,<br /> + <i>From evil shall come forth good</i>;<br /> +<i>And men shall make ready for Heaven</i><br /> + <i>Through living in Brotherhood</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>‘FLOWERS OF FRANCE’</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">DECORATION +POEM FOR SOLDIERS’ GRAVES, TOURS,</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">FRANCE, MAY 30, 1918</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Flowers of France in the Spring</i>,<br /> +<i>Your growth is a beautiful thing</i>;<br /> +<i>But give us your fragrance and bloom</i>—<br /> +<i>Yea</i>, <i>give us your lives in truth</i>,<br /> +<i>Give us your sweetness and grace</i><br /> +<i>To brighten the resting-place</i><br /> +<i>Of the flower of manhood and youth</i>,<br /> +<i>Gone into the dust of the tomb</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">This is the vast stupendous hour of Time,<br /> +When nothing counts but sacrifice and faith,<br /> +Service and self-forgetfulness. Sublime<br /> +And awful are these moments charged with death<br /> +And red with slaughter. Yet God’s purpose thrives<br +/> +In all this holocaust of human lives.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>I say God’s purpose thrives. Just in the +measure<br /> +That men have flung away their lust for gain,<br /> +Stopped in their mad pursuit of worldly pleasure,<br /> +And boldly faced unprecedented pain<br /> +And dangers, without thinking of the cost,<br /> +So thrives God’s purpose in the holocaust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Death is a little thing: all men must die;<br +/> +But when ideals die, God grieves in Heaven.<br /> +Therefore I think it was the reason why<br /> +This Armageddon to the world was given.<br /> +The Soul of man, forgetful of its birth,<br /> +Was losing sight of everything but earth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Up from these many million graves shall +spring,<br /> +A shining harvest for the coming race.<br /> +An Army of Invisibles shall bring<br /> +A glorified lost faith back to its place.<br /> +And men shall know there is a higher goal<br /> +Than earthly triumphs for the human soul.</p> +<p class="poetry">They are not dead—they are not dead, I +say,<br /> +These men whose mortal forms are in the sod.<br /> +A grand Advance-Guard marching on its way,<br /> +Their Souls move upwards to salute their God!<br /> +<a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>While to +their comrades who are in the strife<br /> +They cry, ‘Fight on! Death is the dawn of +life.’</p> +<p class="poetry">We had forgotten all the depth and beauty<br /> +And lofty purport of that old true word<br /> +Deplaced by pleasure—that old good word <i>duty</i>.<br /> +Now by its meaning is the whole world stirred.<br /> +These men died for it; for it, now, we give,<br /> +And sacrifice, and serve, and toil, and live.<br /> +From out our hearts had gone a high devotion<br /> +For anything. It took a mighty wrath—<br /> +Against great evil to wake strong emotion,<br /> +And put us back upon the righteous path.<br /> +It took a mingled stream of tears and blood<br /> +To cut the channel through to Brotherhood.</p> +<p class="poetry">That word meant nothing on our lips in +peace:<br /> +We had despoiled it by our castes and classes.<br /> +But when this savage carnage finds surcease<br /> +A new ideal will unite the masses.<br /> +And there shall be True Brotherhood with men—<br /> +The Christly Spirit stirring earth again.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>For this our men have suffered, fought, and died.<br /> +And we who can but dimly see the end<br /> +Are guarded by their spirits glorified,<br /> +Who help us on our way, while they ascend.<br /> +They are not dead—they are not dead, I say,<br /> +These men whose graves we decorate to-day.</p> +<p class="poetry">America and France walk hand in hand;<br /> +As one, their hearts beat through the coming years:<br /> +One is the aim and purpose of each land,<br /> +Baptized with holy water of their tears.<br /> +To-day they worship with one faith, and know<br /> +Grief’s first Communion in God’s House of Woe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Great Liberty, the Goddess at our gates,<br /> +And great Jeanne d’Arc, are fused into one soul:<br /> +A host of Angels on that soul awaits<br /> +To lead it up to triumph at the goal.<br /> +Along the path of Victory they tread,<br /> +Moves the majestic cortège of our dead.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span><i>Flowers of France in the Spring</i>,<br /> +<i>Your growth is a beautiful thing</i>;<br /> +<i>But give us your fragrance and bloom</i>—<br /> +<i>Yea</i>, <i>give us your lives in truth</i>,<br /> + <i>Give us your sweetness and grace</i><br /> + <i>To brighten the resting-place</i><br /> + <i>Of the flower of manhood and youth</i>,<br /> + <i>Gone into the dust of the tomb</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>OUR +ATLAS</h2> +<p class="poetry">Not Atlas, with his shoulders bent beneath the +weighty world,<br /> +Bore such a burden as this man, on whom the Gods have hurled<br +/> +The evils of old festering lands—yea, hurled them in their +might<br /> +And left him standing all alone, to set the wrong things +right.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is the way the Fates have done since first +Time’s race began!<br /> +They open up Pandora’s box before some chosen man;<br /> +And then, aloof, they wait and watch, to see if he will find<br +/> +And wake the slumbering God that dwells in every mortal’s +mind.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>Erect, our modern Atlas stands, with brave uplifted +head,<br /> +And there is courage in his eyes, if in his heart be dread.<br /> +Not dread of foes, but dread of friends, who may not pull +together,<br /> +To bring the lurching ship of State safe through the stormy +weather.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, never were there wilder waves or more +stupendous seas,<br /> +Or rougher rocks or bleaker winds, or darker days than these.<br +/> +Not Washington, not Lincoln knew so grave an hour of Time<br /> +As he who now stands face to face with War’s world-shaking +crime.</p> +<p class="poetry">His brain is clear, his soul is brave, his +heart is just and right,<br /> +He asks no honours of the earth, but favour in God’s +sight;<br /> +His aim is not to wear a crown or win imperial power,<br /> +But to use wisely for the race life’s terrible great +hour.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>O Liberty, who lights the world with rays that come from +God,<br /> +Shine on Columbia’s troubled track, and make it bright and +broad;<br /> +Shine on each heart, and give it strength to meet its pains and +losses,<br /> +And give supernal strength to one who bears the whole +world’s crosses;<br /> +Take from his thought the fear of friends who may not pull +together,<br /> +And bring the glorious ship of State safe through wild waves and +weather.</p> +<h2><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>CAMP +FOLLOWERS</h2> +<p class="poetry">In the old wars of the world there were camp +followers,<br /> +Women of ancient sins who gave themselves for hire,<br /> +Women of weak wills and strong desire.<br /> +And, like the poison ivy in the woods<br /> +That winds itself about tall virile trees<br /> +Until it smothers them, so these<br /> +Ruined the bodies and the souls of men.<br /> +More evil were they than Red War itself,<br /> +Or Pestilence, or Famine. Now in this war—<br /> +This last most awful carnage of the world—<br /> +All the old wickedness exists as then:</p> +<p class="poetry">But as a foul stream from a festering fen<br /> +Is met and scattered by a mountain brook<br /> +Leaping along its beautiful, bright course,<br /> +So now the force<br /> +<a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>Of these +new Followers of the camp has come<br /> +Straight from God’s Source<br /> +To cleanse the world and cleanse the minds of men.<br /> +Good women, of great courage and large hearts,<br /> +Women whose slogan is self-sacrifice,<br /> +Willing to pay the price<br /> +God asks of pioneers, now play their parts<br /> +In this stupendous drama of the age<br /> +As Followers of the Camps.</p> +<p class="poetry">They come in the name of God our Father,<br /> +They come in the name of Christ our Brother,<br /> +They come in the name of All Humanity,<br /> +To give their gold, their labour, and their love<br /> +To help the suffering souls in this war-riddled earth,<br /> +The New Women of the Race—<br /> +The New Camp Followers—<br /> +The Centuries shall do honour to their names.</p> +<h2><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>COME +BACK CLEAN</h2> +<p class="poetry">This is the song for a soldier<br /> + To sing as he rides from home<br /> +To the fields afar where the battles are<br /> + Or over the ocean’s foam:<br /> +‘Whatever the dangers waiting<br /> + In the lands I have not seen,<br /> +If I do not fall—if I come back at all,<br /> + Then I will come back clean.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I may lie in the mud of the trenches,<br +/> + I may reek with blood and mire,<br /> +But I will control, by the God in my soul,<br /> + The might of my man’s desire.<br /> +I will fight my foe in the open,<br /> + But my sword shall be sharp and keen<br /> +For the foe within who would lure me to sin,<br /> + And I will come back clean.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>‘I may not leave for my children<br /> + Brave medals that I have worn,<br /> +But the blood in my veins shall leave no stains<br /> + On bride or on babes unborn;<br /> +And the scars that my body may carry<br /> + Shall not be from deeds obscene,<br /> +For my will shall say to the beast, <i>Obey</i>!<br /> + And I will come back clean.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh, not on the fields of slaughter<br /> + And not in the prison-cell,<br /> +Or in hunger and cold is the story told<br /> + By war, of its darkest hell.<br /> +But the old, old sin of the senses<br /> + Can tell what that word may mean<br /> +To the soldiers’ wives and to innocent lives,<br /> + And I will come back clean.’</p> +<h2><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>CAMOUFLAGE</h2> +<p class="poetry">Camouflage is all the rage.<br /> +Ladies in their fight with age—<br /> +Soldiers in their fight with foes—<br /> +Demagogues who mask and pose<br /> +In the guise of statesmen—girls<br /> +Black of eyes with golden curls—<br /> +Politicians, votes in mind,<br /> +Smiling, affable and kind,<br /> +All use camouflage to-day.<br /> +As you go upon your way,<br /> +Walk with caution, move with care;<br /> +Camouflage is everywhere!</p> +<h2><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>THE +AWAKENING</h2> +<p class="poetry">I said, ‘I will place my heart, my heart +all broken,<br /> + Beside the world’s torn heart, that it may +know<br /> +The comradeship of sorrow that is not spoken,<br /> + But is carried on wings of all the winds that +blow.<br /> +I will go homeless into homes of grieving,<br /> + And find my own grief easier to be borne.’<br +/> +So over menacing seas I went, believing<br /> + Where all was mourning, I would cease to mourn.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now I am here, close to the great +world-sorrow,<br /> + Here where each heart some mighty grief has +known;<br /> +But from each suffering soul I seem to borrow<br /> + A poignant pain that but augments my own.<br /> +<a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>The earth +is like one vast tempestuous ocean,<br /> + Where struggling beings fight for light and +breath:<br /> +I feel their anguish, feel each keen emotion—<br /> + Yet through it all, <i>I know there is no +death</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">And as we toss on billows red with +slaughter,<br /> + Unto each tortured, anguished soul I cry,<br /> +‘There are green lands beyond this raging water,<br /> + We shall come into harbour by and by.<br /> +Our dead dwell near, life is a thing eternal:<br /> + And I have talked with One from that fair shore.<br +/> +We are but passing through a dream infernal;<br /> + We shall awake, we shall be glad once +more.’</p> +<h2><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>THE +KHAKI BOYS WHO WERE NOT AT THE FRONT</h2> +<p class="poetry">Oh! it is not just the men who face the +guns,<br /> +Not the fighters at the Front alone, to-day<br /> +Who will bring the longed-for close to the bloody fray, for +those<br /> +Could not carry on that fray without the ones<br /> +Who are working at war’s problems far away.</p> +<p class="poetry">You are <i>all</i> our splendid heroes in the +strife,<br /> +And we class you with the warriors maimed and scarred,<br /> +Though you never have been near enough the battle din to hear,<br +/> +While you laboured in the dull routine of life<br /> +In your khaki suits with sleeves that are not barred.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>You have offered up yourselves to save the world;<br /> +You have felt the abnegation of the Christ:<br /> +And whatever work you do is a noble work and true;<br /> +Though it be not done with banners all unfurled,<br /> +You will find it has, in sight of God, sufficed.</p> +<p class="poetry">While you carry back no medals when you go,<br +/> +Not without you had the fighters borne war’s brunt:<br /> +So just lift your heads uncowed, for your country will be +proud<br /> +And its lasting love and honour will bestow<br /> +On the khaki boys who were not at the Front.</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>TIME’S HYMN OF HATE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><i>Oh</i>, <i>boastful</i>, <i>wicked land</i>, +<i>that once was beautiful and great</i>,<br /> +<i>How bitter and how black must be your self-invited +fate</i>,<br /> +<i>While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of +hate</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Time’s voice is just. His words +ring true. For as the past recedes,<br /> +The clear-eyed Future slowly writes the story of its deeds;<br /> +And as Time toward the Infinite his ceaseless flight is +winging<br /> + He shall go singing<br /> +The hymn of hate, of men and gods, for all your deeds of lust,<br +/> +For all your acts of cruelty and hell-concocted schemes<br /> +<a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>(More +hideous than the darkest plot of which a devil dreams)<br /> +Which sprang from your Medusa head before it touched the +dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beneath the strangling hand of Fate<br /> +That strident voice of yours<br /> +Shall hush to silence, soon or late<br /> +That Justice that endures<br /> +Will mobilise its mighty ranks and free the human race,<br /> + Then shall all Space,<br /> +Yea, all the chains of sphere on sphere,<br /> +With that loud hymn be ringing,<br /> + Which Time goes singing<br /> + His far flight winging<br /> +And all the cherubims of God that dwell in regions o’er +us<br /> + Shall swell the chorus.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Oh</i>, <i>boastful</i>, <i>wicked land</i>, +<i>that once was beautiful and great</i>,<br /> +<i>How desolate and dark must be your self-invited fate</i>,<br +/> +<i>While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of +hate</i>!</p> +<h2><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>DEAR +MOTHERLAND OF FRANCE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">DEDICATED +TO</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE MEN AND WOMEN OF FRANCE</span></p> +<p class="poetry">Our Motherland, dear Motherland,<br /> +The source of beauty and of Art,<br /> +Who but thy children understand<br /> +The love which permeates each heart!<br /> +We see, through rainbow-tints of tears,<br /> +Thy glory of a thousand years.<br /> +O country of the Great and Free,<br /> +We live for thee, we live for thee,<br /> +Dear Motherland of France.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Motherland, both blithe and brave,<br /> +What magic lies in thy name—France!<br /> +Yet can thy radiant mien be grave,<br /> +And stern thy ever-smiling glance.<br /> +And when thy sons and daughters know<br /> +That enemies would lay thee low<br /> +<a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>And dim +thy fame on land and sea,<br /> +We fight for thee, we fight for thee,<br /> +Dear Motherland of France.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dear Motherland of joy and mirth,<br /> +Dear Motherland of faith divine,<br /> +A thousand years the wondering earth<br /> +Has seen thy star in splendour shine.<br /> +Still shall it see that star of France<br /> +Its splendour and its light enhance.<br /> +Dear Motherland, when it need be<br /> +We die for thee, we die for thee,<br /> +Dear Motherland of France.</p> +<h2><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>THE +SPIRIT OF GREAT JOAN</h2> +<p class="poetry">Back of each soldier who fights for France,<br +/> + Ay, back of each woman and man<br /> +Who toils and prays through these long tense days,<br /> + Is the spirit of Great Joan.<br /> +For the love she gave, and the life she gave,<br /> + In the eyes of God sufficed<br /> +To crown her with light, and power, and might,<br /> + That made her second to Christ.</p> +<p class="poetry">And so in that hour at the Marne she came,<br +/> + To the seeing eyes of men;<br /> +And the blind of view still felt and knew<br /> + That her spirit had come again.<br /> +And she will come in each crucial hour<br /> + And joy shall follow despair,<br /> +For Joan sees her France on its knees<br /> + And she hears the voice of its prayer.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +51</span>There is no hate in the heart of France,<br /> + But a mighty moral force<br /> +That takes its stand for her worshipped land,<br /> + And cannot be swerved from its course.<br /> +For this is the way with France to-day,<br /> + Her courage comes from faith,<br /> +And she bends her knee ere she straightens her arm;<br /> + In her forward rush toward death.</p> +<p class="poetry">A jungle of beasts in the heart of the +Hun—<br /> + War to the world laid bare.<br /> +And war has revealed, that France concealed,<br /> + Only the lion’s lair.<br /> +A lioness fighting to save her own,<br /> + She fights as a lioness can,<br /> +And strength to the end shall the Unseen send,<br /> + In the spirit of Great Joan.</p> +<h2><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>SPEAK</h2> +<p class="poetry">Obscured the sun, the world is dark;<br /> +Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc,<br /> + Send down thy spark.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let every heart in France be stirred,<br /> +By such an all-compelling word<br /> + As thou once heard.</p> +<p class="poetry">Say to each soul, ‘Lo! I am near;<br /> +My voice still speaks in accents clear.<br /> + Be still and hear.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The France I saved can not be lost;<br +/> +Though tempest-torn and terror-tossed,<br /> + Count not the cost.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Give as the maid of Domrémy<br /> +Gave all—gave life itself to see<br /> + Her country free.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>‘Back of great France my spirit towers<br /> +To aid her through the darkest hours<br /> + With God’s own powers!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc,<br /> +Shine through the night, speak through the dark<br /> + The while we hark.</p> +<h2><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>THE +GIRL OF THE U.S.A.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Oh! the maidens of France are certainly +fine,<br /> + And I think every fellow will state<br /> +That the ‘what-you-may-call-it’ coiffured way<br /> + They put up their hair is great!<br /> +And they know how to dress, and they wear their clothes<br /> + In a fetching, Frenchy way;<br /> +And yet to me, there is just one girl—<br /> + The girl of the U.S.A.</p> +<p class="poetry">I like to listen when French girls talk,<br /> + Though I’m weak in the +‘parlez-vous’ game;<br /> +But the language of youth in every land<br /> + Is somehow about the same,<br /> +And I’ve learned a regular code of shrugs,<br /> + And they seem to know what I say!<br /> +But the girl whose voice goes straight to my heart<br /> + Is the girl of the U.S.A.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>I haven’t a word but words of praise<br /> + For these dear little girls of France;<br /> +And I will confess that I’ve felt a thrill<br /> + As I faced their line of advance!<br /> +But I haven’t been taken a prisoner yet,<br /> + And I won’t be, until the day<br /> +When I carry my colours to lay at the feet<br /> + Of a girl of the U.S.A.</p> +<h2><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>PASSING THE BUCK</h2> +<p class="poetry">Whatever the task that comes your way,<br /> + Just take it as part of your luck.<br /> +Look it right square in the eyes, and say,<br /> +‘This is <i>my</i> task, I’ll do it to-day’:<br +/> + Don’t pass the buck.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! whether you cook, or whether you fight,<br +/> + Or whether you trundle a truck,<br /> +Just tackle your job and do it right:<br /> + Don’t pass the buck.</p> +<p class="poetry">The wheels of the earth have gone, alack!<br /> + Deep into war’s mire and muck.<br /> +If you want to put it again on its track,<br /> +Don’t shift your load on another man’s back:<br /> + Don’t pass the buck.</p> +<h2><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>SONG +OF THE AVIATOR</h2> +<p class="poetry">You may thrill with the speed of your +thoroughbred steed,<br /> +You may laugh with delight as you ride the ocean,<br /> +You may rush afar in your touring car,<br /> +Leaping, sweeping, by things that are creeping—<br /> +But you never will know the joy of motion<br /> +Till you rise up over the earth some day,<br /> +And soar like an eagle, away—away.</p> +<p class="poetry">High and higher above each spire,<br /> +Till lost to sight is the tallest steeple,<br /> +With the winds you chase in a valiant race,<br /> +Looping, swooping, where mountains are grouping,<br /> +Hailing them comrades, in place of people.<br /> +Oh! vast is the rapture the birdman knows,<br /> +As into the ether he mounts and goes.<br /> +<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>He is over +the sphere of human fear;<br /> +He has come into touch with things supernal.<br /> +At each man’s gate death stands await;<br /> +And dying, flying, were better than lying<br /> +In sick-beds, crying for life eternal.<br /> +Better to fly half-way to God<br /> +Than to burrow too long like a worm in the sod.</p> +<h2><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>THE +STEVEDORES</h2> +<p class="poetry">We are the army stevedores, lusty and virile +and strong,<br /> +We are given the hardest work of the war, and the hours are +long.<br /> +We handle the heavy boxes, and shovel the dirty coal;<br /> +While soldiers and sailors work in the light, we burrow below +like a mole.<br /> +But somebody has to do this work, or the soldiers could not +fight!<br /> +And whatever work is given a man, is good if he does it +right.</p> +<p class="poetry">We are the army stevedores, and we are +volunteers.<br /> +We did not wait for the draft to come, to put aside our fears;<br +/> +We flung them away on the winds of fate, at the very first call +of our land,<br /> +<a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>And each +of us offered a willing heart and the strength of a brawny +hand.<br /> +We are the army stevedores, and work as we must and may,<br /> +The cross of honour will never be ours to proudly wear away.</p> +<p class="poetry">But the men at the Front could never be +there,<br /> +And the battles could not be won,<br /> +If the stevedores stopped in their dull routine<br /> +And left their work undone.<br /> +Somebody has to do this work; be glad that it isn’t you!<br +/> +We are the army stevedores—give us our due!</p> +<h2><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>A SONG +OF HOME</h2> +<p class="poetry">I am singing a song to the boys to-day,<br /> +A song of the home that is far away.<br /> +And I know that an echo the word is waking<br /> +In many a heart that is secretly aching,<br /> +Yes, almost breaking, thinking of Home, dear Home.<br /> +But thought, dear boys, is a carrier dove,<br /> +And it flies straight into the hearts you love.</p> +<p class="poetry">You picture the days of your youthful joys,<br +/> +The old home circle, the girls and boys<br /> +You knew in that wonderful world of pleasure,<br /> +When life danced on to a lilting measure;<br /> +Each scene you treasure, thinking of Home, dear Home.<br /> +And here is a thought that is sweet and true—<br /> +The ones you long for are longing for you.<br /> +<a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>You +picture the day when the war is done,<br /> +The duty accomplished, the victory won,<br /> +And over the billows our ships go leaping,<br /> +Into our beautiful harbour sweeping,<br /> +And with laughter and weeping, you go back Home, Home, Home.<br +/> +On the walls of your heart you must hang with care<br /> +This beautiful picture, framed in prayer.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thinking of Home, you are blazing a trail<br /> +For that glorious day when our ships shall sail;<br /> +Where the Goddess of Liberty lights the water<br /> +To guide you back from the fields of slaughter,<br /> +Fair Freedom’s daughter, who welcomes us Home, Home, +Home.<br /> +So hold your vision, and work and pray,<br /> +As you dream of the Home that is far away.</p> +<h2><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>THE +SWAN OF DIJON</h2> +<p class="poetry">I was in Dijon when the war’s wild +blast<br /> +Was at its loudest; when there was no sound<br /> +From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past,<br /> +Or rattle of their wagons in the street.<br /> +When every engine whistle would repeat<br /> +Persistently, with meaning tense, profound,<br /> +‘We carry men to slaughter’ or ‘we bring<br /> +Remnants of men back as war’s offering.’</p> +<p class="poetry">And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye<br /> +Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene;<br /> +But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by<br /> +Where war was not; a little lake whereon<br /> +Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan,<br /> +Majestic and imposing, yet serene.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>I was in Dijon, when no sound or sight<br /> +Woke thoughts of peace, save this one speck of white,<br /> +Sailing ’neath skies of menace, unafraid<br /> +While silver fountains for his pleasure played.<br /> +Dear Swan of Dijon, it was your good part<br /> +To rest a tired heart.</p> +<h2><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>VEILS</h2> +<p class="poetry">Veils, everywhere float veils; veils long and +black,<br /> +Framing white faces, oft-times young and fair,<br /> +But, like a rose touched by untimely frost,<br /> +Showing the blighting marks of sorrow’s track.</p> +<p class="poetry">Veils, veils, veils everywhere. They tell +the cost<br /> +Of man-made war. They show the awful toll<br /> +Paid by the hearts of women for the crimes,<br /> +The age-old crimes by selfishness ill-named<br /> +‘Justice’ and ‘Honour’ and ‘The +call of Fate’—<br /> +High words men use to hide their low estate.<br /> +About the joy and beauty of this world<br /> +A long black veil is furled.<br /> +Even the face of Heaven itself seems lost<br /> +Behind a veil. It takes a fervent soul<br /> +In these tense times<br /> +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>To +visualise a God so long defamed<br /> +By insolent lips, that send out prayers, and prate<br /> +Of God’s collaboration in dark deeds,<br /> +So foul they put to shame the fiends of hell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet One <i>does</i> dwell<br /> +In Secret Centres of the Universe—<br /> +The Mighty Maker; and He hears and heeds<br /> +The still small voice of soulful, selfless faith;<br /> +And He is lifting now the veil of death,<br /> +So long down-dropped between those worlds and earth.<br /> +Yea! He is giving faith a great new birth<br /> +By letting echoes from the hidden places<br /> +Where dwell our dead, fall on love’s listening ear.<br /> +Hearken, and you shall hear<br /> +The messages which come from those star-spaces!<br /> +That is the reason why<br /> +God let so many die;<br /> +That the vast hordes of suffering hearts might wake<br /> +Mighty vibrations, and the silence break<br /> +<a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>Between +the neighbouring worlds, and lift the veil<br /> +’Twixt life on earth, and life Beyond. All hail<br /> +To great Jehovah, Who has given life<br /> +Eternal, everlasting, after strife!</p> +<p class="poetry">Veils, long black veils, you shall be bridal +white.<br /> +Eyes, blind with tears, you shall receive your sight,<br /> +And see your dead alive in Worlds of Light.</p> +<h2><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>IN +FRANCE I SAW A HILL</h2> +<p class="poetry">In France I saw a hill—a gentle slope<br +/> +Rising above old tombs to greet the gleam<br /> +From soft spring skies. Beyond these skies dwells hope,<br +/> +But those green graves bespeak a broken dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was a row of narrow beds, new-made;<br /> +Each bore a starry banner and a cross.<br /> +And each the name of one who, ere he played<br /> +His rôle of warrior, met earth’s final loss.</p> +<p class="poetry">They were so young, so eager for the fray!<br +/> +And thoughts of glory filled each boyish heart,<br /> +When over dangerous seas they sailed away<br /> +To face the foe and play some splendid part.</p> +<p class="poetry">But in the tedious toil, the dull routine<br /> +Which must precede achievement on the field,<br /> +Disease, that secret enemy with mean<br /> +Sly tactics, forced them to disarm and yield.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>So they were buried on that hill in France,<br /> +Before their ears had heard the battle din;<br /> +Before life gave them its dramatic chance—<br /> +A lasting fame, or glorious death to win.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet, looking up beyond their graves of +green,<br /> +I seem to see them wearing band and star;<br /> +Men are rewarded in the Worlds Unseen<br /> +Not for the way they die, but what they are.</p> +<h2><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>AMERICAN BOYS, HELLO!</h2> +<p class="poetry">Oh! we love all the French, and we speak in +French<br /> +As along through France we go.<br /> +But the moments to us that are keen and sweet<br /> +Are the ones when our khaki boys we meet,<br /> +Stalwart and handsome and trim and neat;<br /> +And we call to them—‘Boys, hello!’<br /> +‘Hello, American boys,<br /> +Luck to you, and life’s best joys!<br /> +American boys, hello!’</p> +<p class="poetry">We couldn’t do that if we were at +home—<br /> +It never would do, you know!<br /> +For there you must wait till you’re told who’s +who,<br /> +And to meet in the way that nice folks do.<br /> +Though you knew his name, and your name he knew—<br /> +<a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>You never +would say ‘Hello, hello, American boy!’<br /> +But here it’s just a joy,<br /> +As we pass along in the stranger throng,<br /> +To call out, ‘Boys, hello!’</p> +<p class="poetry">For each is a brother away from home;<br /> +And this we are sure is so,<br /> +There’s a lonesome spot in his heart somewhere,<br /> +And we want him to feel there are friends <i>right there</i><br +/> +In this foreign land, and so we dare<br /> +To call out ‘Boys, hello!’<br /> +‘Hello, American boys,<br /> +Luck to you, and life’s best joys!<br /> +American boys, hello!’</p> +<h2><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>DE +ROCHAMBEAU</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">ON THE +PRESENTATION OF AN AMERICAN BANNER</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO CAMP ROCHAMBEAU BY THE MARQUISE +DE</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">ROCHAMBEAU AT TOURS, FRANCE, JUNE 1, +1918</span></p> +<p class="poetry">Here is a picture I carry away<br /> +On memory’s wall. A green June day,<br /> +A golden sun in an amethyst sky,<br /> +And a beautiful banner floating as high<br /> +As the lofty spires of the city of Tours,<br /> +And a slender Marquise, with a face as pure<br /> +As a sculptured saint: while staunch and true<br /> +In new-world khaki and old-world blue,<br /> +Wearing their medals with modest pride,<br /> +Her stalwart bodyguard stand at her side.</p> +<p class="poetry">Simple the picture; but much it may mean<br /> +To one who reads into and under the scene,<br /> +For there, in that opulent hour and weather,<br /> +Two great Republics came closer together;<br /> +<a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>A little +nearer came land to land<br /> +Through the magical touch of a woman’s hand.<br /> +And once again as in long ago<br /> +The grand old name of de Rochambeau<br /> +Shines forth like a star, for our world to see—<br /> +Our Land of the Brave, and our Home of the Free.</p> +<h2><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>AFTER</h2> +<p class="poetry">Over the din of battle,<br /> +Over the cannons’ rattle,<br /> +Over the strident voices of men and their dying groans,<br /> +I hear the falling of thrones.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out of the wild disorder<br /> +That spreads from border to border,<br /> +I see a new world rising from ashes of ancient towns;<br /> +And the rulers wear no crowns.</p> +<p class="poetry">Over the blood-charged water,<br /> +Over the fields of slaughter,<br /> +Down to the hidden vaults of Time, where lie the worn-out +things,<br /> +I see the passing of kings.</p> +<h2><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>THE +BLASPHEMY OF GUNS</h2> +<p class="poetry">There must be lonely moments when God feels<br +/> +The need of prayer—<br /> +Such lonely moments, knowing not anywhere,<br /> +In any spot or place,<br /> +In all the far recesses of vast space,<br /> +Dwells any one to whom His prayers may rise,<br /> +And then, methinks—so urgent is His need—<br /> + God bids His prayers descend.<br /> +He that has ears to hear, let him take heed,<br /> + For much God’s prayers portend.</p> +<p class="poetry">God flings His solar system forth to be<br /> + Finished by beings who befit each sphere.<br /> +Not ours to pry the secrets out of Mars;<br /> + Our work lies here.<br /> +To star-folk leave the stars.<br /> +<a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>There must +be many worlds that give God care:<br /> + Young worlds that glow and burn,<br /> +Old worlds that freeze and fade.<br /> + This world is man’s concern.<br /> +Methinks God must be very much dismayed,<br /> + Seeing the use we make of earth to-day,<br /> + While loud we pray.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Last night</i>, <i>in sleep</i>, <i>beyond +the earth’s small zone</i>,<br /> +<i>Adventurously my spirit went alone</i>,<br /> +<i>Past lesser hells and heavens</i>, <i>where souls may +pause</i><br /> +<i>To learn the meaning of death’s larger laws</i>,<br /> +<i>Past astral shapes and bodies of desire</i>,<br /> +<i>Past angels and archangels</i>, <i>high and higher</i>,<br /> +<i>Until the pinnacles of space it trod</i>,<br /> +<i>Then</i>, <i>awestruck</i>, <i>paused</i>, <i>hearing the +voice of God</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Mortals of earth, for whom I shaped a +sphere<br /> +(So spake the Voice), ‘there rises to Mine ear<br /> +Eternal praises and eternal pleas.<br /> +Now, after centuries, I tire of these.<br /> +Have ye no knowledge of the Maker’s needs,<br /> +Ye who ask favours and who praise by creeds?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>Why has it not sufficed<br /> +That unto this small earth I sent great Christ,<br /> +Divine expression of the mortal man,<br /> +To aid my plan?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why ask for more when all has been +refused?<br /> +Why praise My name Who hourly am abused?<br /> +Why seek for Me or heaven, when in you dwells<br /> +Hate’s lurid hells?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Persistent praises and persuasive +pleas—<br /> +I tire, I tire of these;<br /> +But I, the Maker of a billion suns,<br /> +Ask men to stop the blasphemy of guns.’<br /> +This is God’s prayer.</p> +<p class="poetry">(<i>There must be many worlds that give God +care</i>.)</p> +<h2><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>THE +CRIMES OF PEACE</h2> +<p class="poetry">Musing upon the tragedies of earth,<br /> +Of each new horror which each hour gives birth,<br /> +Of sins that scar and cruelties that blight<br /> +Life’s little season, meant for man’s delight,<br /> +Methought those monstrous and repellent crimes<br /> +Which hate engenders in war-heated times,<br /> +To God’s great heart bring not so much despair<br /> +As other sins which flourish everywhere<br /> +And in all times—bold sins, bare-faced and proud,<br /> +Unchecked by college, and by Church allowed,<br /> +Lifting their lusty heads like ugly weeds<br /> +Above wise precepts and religious creeds,<br /> +And growing rank in prosperous days of peace.<br /> +Think you the evils of this world would cease<br /> +With war’s cessation?<br /> + If God’s eyes know tears,<br +/> +Methinks He weeps more for the wasted years<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>And the +lost meaning of this earthly life—<br /> +This big, brief life—than over bloody strife.<br /> +Yea; there are mean, lean sins God must abhor<br /> +More than the fatted, blood-drunk monster, War.<br /> +Looking from His place, looking from His high place among the +stars, God saw a peaceful land—<br /> +A land of fertile fields and golden harvests—and great +cities whose innumerable spires pierced the vault of heaven, like +bayonets of an invading army.<br /> +And God said, speaking unto Himself aloud, God said:<br /> +‘Peace and power and plenty have I given unto this land; +and those tall steeples are monuments to Me.<br /> +Now let My people reveal themselves, that I may see their works, +done in My name in a fertile land of peace.<br /> +I will withdraw Mine eyes from other worlds that I may behold +them, that I may behold these people to whom I sent +Christ—they whose innumerable spires pierce My blue vault +like bayonets.’<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>God saw +the restless, idle rich in club and cabaret,<br /> +Meat-gorged, wine-filled, they played and preened and danced till +dawn o’ day;<br /> +They played at sports; they played at love; they played at being +gay.<br /> +They were but empty, silk-clad shells; their souls had leaked +away.<br /> +He saw the sweat-shop and the mill where little children +toiled,<br /> +The sunless rooms where mothers slaved and unborn souls were +spoiled;<br /> +While those whose greedy, selfish lives had thrust the toilers +there,<br /> +He saw whirled down broad avenues, clothed all with raiment +fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">He saw in homes made beautiful with all that +gold can give<br /> +Unhappy souls at odds with life, not knowing how to live.<br /> +He saw fair, pampered women turn from motherhood’s sweet +joy,<br /> +Obsessed with methods to prevent or mania to destroy.<br /> +<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>He saw men +sell their souls to vice and avarice and greed;<br /> +He heard race quarrelling with race and creed decrying creed;<br +/> +And shameful wealth and waste He saw, and shameful want and +need.</p> +<p class="poetry">He saw bold little children come from church +and schoolroom, blind<br /> +To suffering of lesser things, unfeeling and unkind;<br /> +He heard them taunt the poor, and tease their furred and +feathered kin;<br /> +And no voice spake from home or church to tell them this was +sin.<br /> +He heard the cry of wounded things, the wasteful gun’s +report;<br /> +He saw the morbid craze to kill, which Christian men called +sport.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then God hid His grieving face behind a +wall of cloud,<br /> +On earth they said, ‘A thunder-storm’—but God +had wept aloud.</p> +<h2><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>IT MAY +BE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><i>Let us be silent for a little while</i>;<br +/> +<i>Let us be still and listen</i>. <i>We may hear</i><br /> +<i>Echoes from other worlds not far a way</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">City on city rising, steeple out-topping +steeple,<br /> +Gaining and hoarding and spending, and armies on battle bent,<br +/> +People and people and people, and ever more human +people—<br /> +This is not all of creation, this is not all that was meant!<br +/> +Earth on its orbit spinning,<br /> +This is not end or beginning;<br /> +That is but one of a trillion spheres out into the ether +hurled:<br /> +<a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>We move in +a zone of wonder,<br /> +And over our planet and under<br /> +Are infinite orders of beings and marvels of world on world.</p> +<p class="poetry">There may be moving among us curious people and +races,<br /> +Folk of the fourth dimension, folk of the vast star spaces.<br /> +They may be trying to reach us,<br /> +They may be longing to teach us<br /> +Things we are longing to know.<br /> +If it is so,<br /> +Voices like these are not heard in earth’s riot,<br /> +Let us be quiet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Classes with classes disputing, nation warring +with nation,<br /> +Building and owning and seeking to lead—this is not all!<br +/> +Endless the works of creation,<br /> +There may be waiting our call<br /> +Beings in numberless legions,<br /> +Dwellers in rarefied regions,<br /> +Journeying Godward like us,<br /> +<a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>Alist for +a word to be spoken,<br /> +Awatch for a sign or a token.<br /> +If it be thus,<br /> +How they must grieve at our riotous noise<br /> +And the things we call duties and joys!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Let us be silent for a little while</i>;<br +/> +<i>Let us be still and listen</i>. <i>We may hear</i><br /> +<i>Echoes from other worlds not far away</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>THEN +AND NOW</h2> +<p class="poetry">A little time agone, a few brief years,<br /> +And there was peace within our beauteous borders;<br /> +Peace, and a prosperous people, and no fears<br /> +Of war and its disorders.<br /> +Pleasure was ruling goddess of our land; with her attendant +Mirth<br /> +She led a jubilant, joy-seeking band about the riant earth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Do you recall those laughing days, my +Brothers,<br /> +And those long nights that trespassed on the dawn?<br /> +Those throngs of idle dancing maids and mothers<br /> +Who lilted on and on—<br /> +Card mad, wine flushed, bejewelled and half stripped,<br /> +Yet women whose sweet mouth had never sipped<br /> +<a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>From +sin’s black chalice—women good at heart<br /> +Who, in the winding maze of pleasure’s mart,<br /> +Had lost the sun-kissed way to wholesome pleasures of an earlier +day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! You remember them! You filled +their glasses;<br /> +You ‘cut in’ at their games of bridge; you left<br /> +Your work to drop in on their dancing classes<br /> +Before the day was cleft<br /> +In twain by noontide. When the night waxed late<br /> +You led your partner forth to demonstrate<br /> +The newest steps before a cheering throng,<br /> +And Time and Peace danced by your side along.</p> +<p class="poetry">Peace is a lovely word, and we abhor that red +word ‘War’;<br /> +But look ye, Brothers, what this war has done for daughters and +for son,<br /> +For manhood and for womanhood, whose trend<br /> +Seemed year on year toward weakness to descend.<br /> +Upon this woof of darkness and of terror, woven by human +error,<br /> +Behold the pattern of a new race-soul,<br /> +And it shall last while countless ages roll.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>At the loud call of drums, out of the idler and the +weakling comes<br /> +The hero valiant with self-sacrifice, ready to pay the price<br +/> +War asks of men, to help a suffering world.<br /> +And out of the arms of pleasure, where they whirled<br /> +In wild unreasoning mirth, behold the splendid women of the +earth<br /> +Living new selfless lives—the toiling mothers, sister, +daughters, wives<br /> +Of men gone forth as target for the foe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, now we know<br /> +Man is divine; we see the heavenly spark<br /> +Shining above the smoke and gloom and dark<br /> +Which was not visible in peaceful days.<br /> +God! wondrous are Thy ways,<br /> +For out of chaos comes construction; out of darkness and of +doubt<br /> +And the black pit of death comes glorious faith;<br /> +From want and waste comes thrift, from weakness strength and +power<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>And to the +summits men and women lift<br /> +Their souls from self-indulgence in this hour,<br /> +This crucial hour of life:<br /> +So shines the golden side of this black shield of strife.</p> +<h2><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>WIDOWS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><i>The world was widowed by the death of +Christ</i>:<br /> +<i>Vainly its suffering soul for peace has sought</i><br /> + <i>And found it not</i>.<br /> +<i>For nothing</i>, <i>nothing</i>, <i>nothing has +sufficed</i><br /> +<i>To bring back comfort to the stricken house</i><br /> +<i>From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">In its long widowhood the world has striven<br +/> +To find diversion. It has turned away<br /> +From the vast aweful silences of Heaven<br /> +(Which answer but with silence when we pray)<br /> +And sought for something to assuage its grief.<br /> + Some surcease and relief<br /> +From sorrow, in pursuit of mortal joys.<br /> +It drowned God’s stillness in a sea of noise;<br /> +It lost God’s presence in a blur of forms;<br /> +Till, bruised and bleeding with life’s brutal storms,<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>Unto +immutable and speechless space<br /> + The World lifts up its face,<br /> + Its haggard, tear-drenched face,<br /> +And cries aloud for faith’s supreme reward,<br /> +The promised Second Coming of its Lord.</p> +<p class="poetry">So many widows, widows everywhere,<br /> +The whole earth teems with widows. Guns that +blare—<br /> + Winged monsters of the air—<br /> +And deep-sea monsters leaping through the water,<br /> + Hell bent on slaughter,<br /> +All these plough paths for widows. Maids at dawn,<br /> +And brides at noon, ere eventide pass on<br /> +Into the ranks of widows: but to weep<br /> +Just for a little space; then will grief sleep<br /> +In their young bosoms, where sweet hope belongs,<br /> +New love will sing once more its age-old songs,<br /> +And life bloom as a rose-tree blooms again<br /> + After a night of rain.<br /> +There are complacent widows clothed in crêpe<br /> +Who simulate a grief that is not real.<br /> +Through paths of seeming sorrow they escape<br /> +From disappointed hopes to some ideal,<br /> +<a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>Or, from +the penury of unloved wives<br /> + Walk forth to opulent lives.<br /> +And there are widows who shed all their tears<br /> + Just at the first<br /> + In one wild burst,<br /> +And then go lilting lightly down the years:<br /> +Black butterflies, they flit from flower to flower<br /> +And live in the thin pleasures of the hour;<br /> +Merging their tender memories of the dead<br /> +In tenderer dreams of being once more wed.</p> +<p class="poetry">But there are others: women who have proved<br +/> +That loving greatly means so being loved.<br /> +Women who through full beauteous years have grown<br /> +Into the very body, souls, and heart<br /> +Of their dear comrades. When death tears apart<br /> +Such close-knit bonds as these, and one alone<br /> +Out to the larger freer life is called,<br /> + And one is left—<br /> +Then God in heaven must sometimes be appalled<br /> +At the wild anguish of the soul bereft,<br /> +And unto His Son must say, ‘I did not know<br /> + Mortals could suffer +so.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +92</span>But Christ, remembering Gethsemane,<br /> +Will answer softly, ‘It was known to Me.’<br /> +God’s alchemist, old Time, will merge to calm<br /> +That bitter anguish; but there is no balm<br /> +Save the sweet certitude that each long day<br /> + Is one step in a stair<br /> +That circles up to where freed spirits stay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Widows, so many widows everywhere.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The world was widowed by the death of +Christ</i>,<br /> +<i>And nothing</i>, <i>nothing</i>, <i>nothing has +sufficed</i><br /> +<i>To bring back comfort to the stricken house</i><br /> +<i>From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse</i>.<br /> +<i>Hasten</i>, <i>dear Lord</i>, <i>with Thy Millennium</i>, +<i>Hasten and come</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>CONVERSATION</h2> +<p class="poetry">We were a baker’s dozen in the +house—six women and six men<br /> + Besides myself; and all of us had known<br /> +Those benefits supposed to come from school and church and brush +and pen,<br /> + And opportunities of being thrown<br /> +In contact with the cultured and the gifted people of the day.<br +/> + Being the thirteenth one among six pairs<br /> +I deemed it wise to keep apart and let the others have their +say:<br /> + And from my vantage-place upon the stairs,<br /> +Or in a corner, where I seemed to read, I listened for some +word<br /> + That would make life seem sweeter, or cast light<br +/> +<a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>Upon the +goal toward which all footsteps wend: and this was what I +heard<br /> + Throughout each day and half of every night.<br /> +The men talked business, politics, and trade;<br /> + They told of safe investments, and great chances<br +/> +For speculation. (One man who had made<br /> + Pleasure his art, described the newest dances<br /> +And dwelt upon each chassé, glide, and whirl<br /> +As lovers dwell upon the charms of some fair girl.)</p> +<p class="poetry">They talked of war, and tried to find its +cause,<br /> + And quite deplored the fact that wars must come.<br +/> +But since this desperate condition was,<br /> + They carefully computed what the sum<br /> +Of profit might be to a land of peace,<br /> +And wondered if times would be harder should war cease.</p> +<p class="poetry">They spoke of games and sports; told many a +story<br /> + That made the listeners laugh; then back from +these<br /> +Always they harked to money, or the gory<br /> + And savage drama playing overseas.<br /> +<a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>Then there +were tales from club and smoking-room—<br /> +The submarines of gossip, bringing some name doom.</p> +<p class="poetry">The women talked of fashions and of plays,<br +/> + But more of players and their private lives;<br /> +Related tittle-tattle of their words and ways,<br /> + Their lightning change of husbands and of wives.<br +/> +And there was chat of garments and their price,<br /> +Of operas and balls and all that gives life spice.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some talk there was of music, pictures, +books,<br /> + But of musicians, painters, authors, more.<br /> +The way they lived—their methods and their looks—<br +/> + The colour of their eyes—the clothes they +wore;<br /> +And whether it was true, as had been stated,<br /> +That gifted people were quite sure to be mis-mated.</p> +<p class="poetry">They talked of servants, menus, and disease,<br +/> + And operations. Each one came in line<br /> +With some astounding tale to tell of these,<br /> + And of her surgeon’s skill, which seemed +divine.<br /> +<a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span><i>But of +that vast Domain where live our dead</i><br /> +<i>And where we all are hurrying</i>, <i>no word was +said</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>When we know that goal awaits each one of us +a little farther on</i>,<br /> +<i>When we know how an ever-increasing company of friends is +gathered there</i>,<br /> +<i>Why do we not speak of it in our daily conversation</i>?<br /> +<i>Why do we not familiarise our minds with thoughts of worlds +unseen</i>?<br /> +<i>There are many beautiful things to be learned of that +country</i>.<br /> +<i>There are sacred books of great travellers</i>, <i>whose souls +have cried</i>, ‘<i>Hail across the border</i>’;</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>There are truths which have been learned in +visions and by revelations</i>:<br /> +<i>All the revelations were not given to St. John alone</i>,<br +/> +<i>All the wise men of the world did not die two thousand years +ago</i>!<br /> +<i>Why do we not talk of these eternal truths</i>,<br /> +<i>Instead of wasting all our words on the evanesent</i>, <i>the +ever-changing</i>, <i>the trivial</i>, <i>and the +unimportant</i>?<br /> +<i>There is but one important theme</i>, <i>and that is Life +Immortal</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>I, +TOO</h2> +<p class="poetry">I saw fond lovers in that glow<br /> + That oft-times fades away too soon:<br /> +I saw and said, ‘Their joy I know—<br /> + I, too, have had my honeymoon.’</p> +<p class="poetry">A young expectant mother’s gaze<br /> + Held earth and heaven within its scope:<br /> +My thoughts went back to holy days—<br /> + I said, ‘I, too, have known that +hope.’</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw a stricken mother swayed<br /> + By sorrow’s storm, like wind-blown grass:<br +/> +I said, ‘I, too, dismayed<br /> + Have seen the little white hearse pass.’</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw a matron rich with years<br /> + Walk radiantly beside her mate:<br /> +I blessed them, and said through my tears,<br /> + ‘I, too, have known that high +estate.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>I saw a woman swathed in black<br /> + So blind with grief she could not see:<br /> +I said, ‘Not far need I look back—<br /> + I, too, have known Gethsemane.’</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw a face so full of light,<br /> + It seemed with all God’s truths to shine:<br +/> +I said, ‘I, too, have found my sight,<br /> + I, too, have touched the Fact Divine.’</p> +<h2><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>HE +THAT HATH EARS</h2> +<blockquote><p>‘He that hath an ear, let him hear what the +Spirit saith unto the churches.’—<i>St. John the +Divine</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">The Spirit says unto the churches,<br /> + ‘Ere ever the churches began<br /> +I lived in the centre of Being—<br /> + The life of the Purpose and Plan;<br /> +I flowed from the mind of the Maker<br /> + Through nature to man.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I sleep in the glow of the jewel,<br /> + I wake in the sap of the tree,<br /> +I stir in the beast of the forest,<br /> + I reason in man, and am free<br /> +To turn on the path of Ascension<br /> + To the god yet to be.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>‘I was, and I am, and I will be;<br /> + I live in each church and each faith<br /> +But yield to no bond and no fetter,<br /> + I animate all with my breath;<br /> +I speak through the voice of the living<br /> + And I speak after +death.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The Spirit says unto the churches,<br /> + ‘The dead are not gone, they are near<br /> +And my voice, when I will it, speaks through them,<br /> + Speaks through them in messages clear.<br /> +And he that hath ears, in the silence<br /> + May listen and hear.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The Spirit says unto the churches,<br /> + ‘So many the feet that have trod<br /> +The road leading up into knowledge,<br /> + The steep narrow path has grown broad;<br /> +And the curtain held down by old dogmas<br /> + Is lifted by God.’</p> +<h2><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>ANSWERS</h2> +<p class="poetry">What is the end of each man’s toil,<br /> + Brother, O Brother?<br /> +A handful of dust in a bit of soil—<br /> +His name forgotten as centuries roll,<br /> +Though blazoned to-day on Glory’s scroll;<br /> +For the lordliest work of brain or hand<br /> +Is only an imprint made on sand;<br /> +When the tidal wave sweeps over the shore<br /> + It is there no more,<br /> + Brother, my Brother.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then what is the use of striving at all,<br /> + Brother, O Brother?<br /> +Because each effort or great or small<br /> +Is a step on the long, long road that leads<br /> +To the Kingdom of Growth on the River of Deeds:<br /> +<a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>And that +is the kingdom no man can gain<br /> + Till he uses his hand and his mind and brain,<br /> +And when he has used them and learned control<br /> + He finds his soul,<br /> + Brother, my Brother.</p> +<p class="poetry">And after he finds it, what is the end,<br /> + Brother, O Brother?<br /> +Upward ever its course and trend;<br /> +For this is the purpose and aim and plan<br /> +To seek in the soul for the Super-man—<br /> +The man who is conscious that Heaven is near—<br /> +A bulletin bearer from There to Here,<br /> +Finding God dwells in the spirit within<br /> + Where He ever has been,<br /> + Brother, my Brother.</p> +<p class="poetry">And what will the God-man do when He comes,<br +/> + Brother, O Brother?<br /> +He will better the world or in courts or slums,<br /> +He will do in gladness his nearest duty:<br /> +He will teach the religion of love and beauty<br /> +In field or factory, mine or mart,<br /> +While He tells the world of the larger part<br /> +<a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>And the +wider life that is yet to be<br /> + When spirit is free,<br /> + Brother, my Brother.</p> +<p class="poetry">When spirit is free, then where will it go,<br +/> + Brother, O Brother?<br /> +Its uttermost summit no man may know,<br /> +For it goes up to God in His holy Tower<br /> +To gather more knowledge and force and power;<br /> +Like a ray of the sun it shall shine again<br /> +To brighten new planets and races of men.<br /> +Life had no beginning, life has no end,<br /> + Brother and friend—<br /> + Brother, my Brother.</p> +<h2><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>HOW +IS IT?</h2> +<p class="poetry"><i>You who are loudly crying out for +peace</i>,<br /> +<i>You who are wanting love to vanquish hate</i>,<br /> +<i>How is it in the four walls of your home</i><br /> +<i>The while you wait</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry">Do those who form your household welcome your +approach in the morning<br /> +As the earth welcomes the presence of dawn,<br /> +Or do they dread your coming lest you censure and complain?<br /> +Do you begin the day with praise to God for each blessing you +possess, and do you speak frequent words of commendation to those +about you?<br /> +Do those you claim to love often hear you talking in love’s +language,<br /> +<a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>Or is +your softest tone and your sweetest speech saved for the sometime +guest,<br /> +While the harsh voice and the sharp retort are used with those +you love the best?</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>You who are praying for the Christ’s +return</i><br /> +<i>And for the coming of the Promised Day</i>,<br /> +<i>How is it in the four walls of your home</i><br /> + <i>The while you pray</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry">Are you trying to make your home a reflection +of what you believe heaven will be?<br /> +Unless you are you will never find heaven anywhere;<br /> +The foundations of our heavenly mansions must first be built on +earth.<br /> +Unless you are striving to put in use some of the angelic virtues +here and now,<br /> +No angelhood will be accorded you hereafter.</p> +<p class="poetry">Unless you are illustrating your desire for +peace by a peaceful, love-ruled home,<br /> +You have no right to clamour for a cessation of hostilities among +nations;<br /> +Nations are only chains of individuals.<br /> +<a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>When +each individual expresses nothing but love and peace in his daily +life, there will be no more war.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>You who are loudly crying out for +peace</i>,<br /> +<i>You who are wanting love to vanquish hate</i>,<br /> +<i>How is it in the four walls of your home</i><br /> + <i>The while you wait</i>?</p> +<h2><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>‘LET US GIVE THANKS’</h2> +<p class="poetry">For the courage which comes when we call,<br /> +While troubles like hailstones fall;<br /> +For the help that is somehow nigh,<br /> +In the deepest night when we cry;<br /> +For the path that is certainly shown<br /> +When we pray in the dark alone,<br /> + Let us give thanks.</p> +<p class="poetry">For the knowledge we gain if we wait<br /> +And bear all the buffets of fate;<br /> +For the vision that beautifies sight<br /> +If we look under wrong for the right;<br /> +For the gleam of the ultimate goal<br /> +That shines on each reverent soul:<br /> + Let us give thanks.</p> +<p class="poetry">For the consciousness stirring in creeds<br /> +That love is the thing the world needs;<br /> +For the cry of the travailing earth<br /> +That is giving a new faith birth;<br /> +<a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>For the +God we are learning to find<br /> +In the heart and the soul and the mind:<br /> + Let us give thanks.</p> +<p class="poetry">For the growth of the spirit through pain,<br +/> +Like a plant in the soil and the rain;<br /> +For the dropping of needless things<br /> +Which the sword of a sorrow brings;<br /> +For the meaning and purpose of life<br /> +Which dawns on us out of the strife:<br /> + Let us give thanks.</p> +<p class="poetry">For the solace that comes to our grief<br /> +In knowing earth’s season is brief;<br /> +For the certitude given by faith<br /> +Of the continents out beyond death;<br /> +For the glorious thought that each day<br /> +Is speeding us the reward away:<br /> + Let us give thanks.</p> +<h2><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>THE +BLACK SHEEP</h2> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>Black sheep</i>, <i>black sheep</i>, +<i>have you any wool</i>?’<br /> +<i>Yes</i>, <i>sir</i>—<i>yes</i>, <i>sir</i>: <i>three +bags full</i>.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I don’t want any New +Thought,’ said he,<br /> +‘Or any Theosophy, for, you see,<br /> +The faith I learned at my mother’s knee<br /> +Is good enough for me.<br /> +Of course, I’m a wee bit broader than she,<br /> +Hearing one sermon where she heard three,<br /> +And I read my paper on Sunday, instead<br /> +Of the Bible only. My mother said<br /> +I was a black sheep, when she saw<br /> +I strayed a trifle away from the law,<br /> +And didn’t think every one left in the lurch<br /> +Who happened to go to a different church;<br /> +But, still, in the main, her creed is mine,<br /> +And I don’t want anything more divine.’<br /> +<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>Yet his +mother’s mother was more austere;<br /> +She taught her children a creed of fear,<br /> +And she called them ‘black sheep’ when, with a +shock,<br /> +She saw them straying away from the flock,<br /> +Just far enough<br /> +To get around places they thought too rough,<br /> +Like infant damnation and endless hell.</p> +<p class="poetry">But his mother’s mother’s mother +would tell<br /> +How her mother thought it was God’s sweet will<br /> +To punish and torture a heretic till<br /> +They drove out the devil that made him dare<br /> +Think for himself in the matter of prayer<br /> +And faith and salvation. So we see how it is<br /> +If we look back over the centuries—<br /> +The creeds men learned at their mother’s knee<br /> +When Salem witches were hanged to a tree,<br /> +And the pious dames flocked thither to see,<br /> +Are not deemed Christian or holy to-day;<br /> +And the bold black sheep who went straying away<br /> +From rut-worn paths in their search for God,<br /> +And leaped over the fence into pastures broad,<br /> +Are the great trail-makers for mortal souls,<br /> +Leading the race up to higher goals<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>And a +larger religion; where man must find<br /> +God dwelling ever within his mind,<br /> +Christ in his conduct, and heaven in his thought,<br /> +And hell but the places where love is not.<br /> +A mighty religion that makes this earth<br /> +But the cradle that fits us for death’s new birth<br /> +And the life beyond it, that is so near<br /> +Its echoes may reach to the listening ear.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>Black sheep</i>, <i>black sheep</i>, +<i>have you any wool</i>?’<br /> +‘<i>Yes</i>, <i>sir</i>—<i>yes</i>, <i>sir</i>: <i>a +whole world full</i>.’</p> +<h2><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>ONE +BY ONE</h2> +<p class="poetry">Little by little and one by one,<br /> + Out of the ether, were worlds created;<br /> +Star and planet and sea and sun,<br /> + All in the nebulous Nothing waited<br /> +Till the Nameless One Who has many a name<br /> +Called them to being and forth they came.</p> +<p class="poetry">All things mighty and all things small,<br /> + Stone and flower and sentient being,<br /> +Each is an answer to that one call,<br /> + A part of Himself that His will is freeing—<br +/> +Freeing to go on the long, long way<br /> +That winds back home at the end of the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Little by little does mortal man<br /> + Build his castles for joy and glory,<br /> +And one by one time shatters each plan<br /> + And lowers his palaces, story by story—<br /> +<a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>Story by +story, till earth is just<br /> +A row of graves in the lowly dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">One by one, whatever was called,<br /> + Must be called back to the primal Centre.<br /> +Let no soul tremble or be appalled,<br /> + For the heart of the Maker is where we +enter—<br /> +Is where we enter to gain new force<br /> +Before we are sent on another course.</p> +<p class="poetry">And one by one, as He calls us back,<br /> + We shall find the souls that we loved with +passion,<br /> +In the great way-stations along the track,<br /> + And clasp them again in the old, sweet +fashion—<br /> +In the old, sweet fashion when earth we trod—<br /> +And journey along with them up to God.</p> +<h2><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>PRAYER</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Lord</i>, <i>let us +pray</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Give us the open mind, O God,<br /> + The mind that dares believe<br /> +In paths of thought as yet untrod;<br /> + The mind that can conceive<br /> +Large visions of a wider way<br /> +Than circumscribes our world to-day.</p> +<p class="poetry">May tolerance temper our own faith,<br /> + However great our zeal;<br /> +When others speak of life and death,<br /> + Let us not plunge a steel<br /> +Into the heart of one who talks<br /> +In terms we deem unorthodox.</p> +<p class="poetry">Help us to send our thoughts through space,<br +/> + Where worlds in trillions roll,<br /> +Each fashioned for its time and place,<br /> + Each portion of the whole;<br /> +<a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>Till our +weak minds may feel a sense<br /> +Of Thy Supreme Omnipotence.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let us not shame Thee with a creed<br /> + That builds a costly church,<br /> +But blinds us to a brother’s need<br /> + Because he dares to search<br /> +For truth in his own soul and heart<br /> +And finds his church in home and mart.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Give us the faith that makes us kind</i>,<br +/> +<i>Give us the open sight and mind</i>—<br /> + <i>O God</i>, <i>the often mind</i><br /> +<i>That lifts itself to meet the Ray</i><br /> +<i>Of the New Dawning Day</i>:<br /> + <i>Lord</i>, <i>let us +pray</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>BE +NOT DISMAYED</h2> +<p class="poetry">Be not dismayed, be not dismayed when death<br +/> +Sets its white seal upon some worshipped face.<br /> +Poor human nature for a little space<br /> +Must suffer anguish, when that last drawn breath<br /> +Leaves such long silence; but let not thy faith<br /> + Fail for a moment in God’s boundless grace.<br +/> + But know, oh know, He has prepared a place<br /> +Fairer for our dear dead than worlds beneath,<br /> +Yet not beneath; for those entrancing spheres<br /> + Surround our earth as seas a barren isle.<br /> +Ours is the region of eternal fears;<br /> + Theirs is the region where God’s radiant +smile<br /> +Shines outward from the centre, and gives hope<br /> +Even to those who in the shadows grope.<br /> +They are not far from us. At first though long<br /> + And lone may seem the paths that intervene,<br /> + If ever on the staff of prayer we lean<br /> +<a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>The +silence will grow eloquent with song<br /> +And our weak faith with certitude wax strong.<br /> + Intense, yet tranquil; fervent, yet serene,<br /> + He must be who would contact World Unseen<br /> +And comrade with their Amaranthine throng;<br /> +Not through the tossing waves of surging grief<br /> + Come spirit-ships to port. When storms +subside,<br /> +Then with their precious cargoes of relief<br /> + Into the harbour of the heart they glide.<br /> +For him who will believe and trust and wait<br /> +Death’s austere silence grows articulate.</p> +<h2><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>ASCENSION</h2> +<p class="poetry">I have been down in the darkest water—<br +/> + Deep, deep down where no light could pierce;<br /> +Alone with the things that are bent on slaughter,<br /> + The mindless things that are cruel and fierce.<br /> +I have fought with fear in my wave-walled prison,<br /> + And begged for the beautiful boon of death;<br /> +But out of the billows my soul has risen<br /> + To glorify God with my latest breath.</p> +<p class="poetry">There is no potion I have not tasted<br /> + Of all the bitters in life’s large store;<br +/> +And never a drop of the gall was wasted<br /> + That the lords of Karma saw fit to pour,<br /> +Though I cried as my Elder Brother before me,<br /> + ‘Father in heaven, let pass this +cup!’<br /> +And the only response from the still skies o’er me<br /> + Was the brew held close for my lips to sup.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>Yet I have grown strong on the gall Elysian,<br /> + And a courage has come that all things dares;<br /> +And I have been given an inner vision<br /> + Of the wonderful world where my dear one fares;<br +/> +And I have had word from the great Hereafter—<br /> + A marvellous message that throbs with truth,<br /> +And mournful weeping has changed to laughter,<br /> + And grief has changed into the joy of youth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! there was a time when I supped sweet +potions,<br /> + And lightly uttered profound belief,<br /> +Before I went down in the swirling oceans<br /> + And fought with madness and doubt and grief.<br /> +Now I am climbing the Hills of Knowledge,<br /> + And I speak unfearing, and say ‘I +know,’<br /> +Though it be not to church, or to book, or college,<br /> + But to God Himself that my debt I owe.</p> +<p class="poetry">For the ceaseless prayer of a soul is +heeded,<br /> + When the prayer asks only for light and faith;<br /> +And the faith and the light and the knowledge needed<br /> + Shall gild with glory the path to death.<br /> +<a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>Oh! +heart of the world by sorrow shaken,<br /> + Hear ye the message I have to give:<br /> +The seal from the lips of the dead is taken,<br /> + And they can say to you, ‘Lo! we +live.’</p> +<h2><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>THE +DEADLIEST SIN</h2> +<p class="poetry">There are not many sins when once we sift +them.<br /> +In actions of evolving human souls<br /> +Striving to reach high goals<br /> +And falling backward into dust and mire,<br /> +Some element we find that seems to lift them<br /> +Above our condemnation—even higher<br /> +Into the realm of pity and compassion.<br /> +So beauteous a thing as love itself can fashion<br /> +A chain of sins; descending to desire,<br /> +It wanders into dangerous paths, and leads<br /> +To most unholy deeds,<br /> +And light-struck, walks in madness toward the night.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wrong oft-times is an over-ripened right,<br /> +A rank weed grown from some neglected flower,<br /> +The lightning uncontrolled: flames meant for joy<br /> +And beauty, used to ravage and destroy.<br /> +<a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>For sins +like these repentance can atone.<br /> +There is one sin alone<br /> +Which seems all unforgivable, because<br /> +It springs from no temptation and no need<br /> +And no desire, save to make sweet faith bleed,<br /> +And to defame God’s laws.<br /> +Oh! viler than the murderer or the thief<br /> +Who slays the body and who robs the purse,<br /> +Is he who strives to kill the mind’s belief<br /> +And rob it of its hope<br /> +Of life beyond this little pain-filled span.<br /> +God has no curse<br /> +Quite dark enough to punish such a man,<br /> +Who, seeing how souls grope<br /> +And suffer in this world of mighty losses,<br /> +And how hearts stagger on beneath life’s crosses,<br /> +Yet strives to rob them of their staff of faith<br /> +And make them think dark death<br /> +Ends all existence; think the worshipped child<br /> +Cold in its mother’s arms is but a clod<br /> +And has not gone to God;<br /> +That souls united by love undefiled<br /> +And holy can by death be torn asunder<br /> +To meet no more.<br /> +<a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>It must +be true that under<br /> +This earth of ours there lies a Purgatory<br /> +For those who seek to rob grief of the glory<br /> +That shines through hope of life immortal. In<br /> +Sin’s lexicon this is the vilest sin—<br /> +Needless and cruel, ugly, gaunt and mean,<br /> +Without one poor excuse on which to lean,<br /> +A vandal sin, that with no hope of gain<br /> +Finds pleasure only in another’s pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">God! though all other sins on earth persist,<br +/> +Strike dumb the blatant, loud-mouthed atheist.</p> +<h2><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>THE +RAINBOW OF PROMISE</h2> +<p class="poetry">In the face of the sun are great thunderbolts +hurled,<br /> + And the storm-clouds have shut out its light;<br /> +But a Rainbow of Promise now shines on the world,<br /> + And the universe thrills at the sight.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis the flag of our Union, the red, +white, and blue,<br /> + Our Star-spangled Banner—our pride;<br /> +Fair symbol of all that is noble and true,<br /> + Flung out over continents wide.</p> +<p class="poetry">Flung out in its glory o’er land and +o’er sea,<br /> + With a message from God in each star;<br /> +And a glorious promise of peace yet to be<br /> + In the fluttering folds of each bar.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +125</span>A Rainbow of Promise, bright emblem of hope,<br /> + Fair flag of each cause that is just;<br /> +No longer in doubt or in darkness we grope—<br /> + In the Star-spangled Banner we trust.</p> +<h2><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>THEY +SHALL NOT WIN</h2> +<p class="poetry">Whatever the strength of our foes is now,<br /> + Whatever it may have been,<br /> +This is our slogan, and this our vow—<br /> + They shall not win, they shall not win.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though out of the darkness they call the aid<br +/> + Of the evil forces of Sin,<br /> +We utter our slogan unafraid—<br /> + They shall not win, they shall not win.</p> +<p class="poetry">We know we are right, and know they are +wrong,<br /> + So to God above and within—<br /> +We make our vow and we sing our song<br /> + They shall not win, they shall not win.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>It rises over the shriek of shell,<br /> + And over the cannons’ din:<br /> +Our slogan shall scatter the hosts of Hell—<br /> + They shall not win, they shall not win.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by T. and A. <span +class="smcap">Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HELLO, BOYS!***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 6666-h.htm or 6666-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/6/6/6666 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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