And I must ever wish that it were true,
For then you could hold fellowship with me:
But now you hear us talk as strangers, met
Above the room wherein you lie abed;
A word perhaps loud spoken you may get,
Or hear our feet when heavily they tread;
But he who speaks, or he who's spoken to,
Must both remain as strangers still to you.
Jones Very.

THE IDLER

I IDLE Stand that I may find employ,
Such as my Master when He comes will give;
I cannot find in mine own work my joy,
But wait, although in waiting I must live;
My body shall not turn which way it will,
But stand till I the appointed road can find,
And journeying so his messages fulfil,
And do at every step the work designed.
Enough for me, still day by day to wait

Till Thou who formest me findest me too a task,
A cripple lying at the rich man's gate,

Content for the few crumbs I get to ask,

A laborer but in heart, while bound my hands
Hang idly down still waiting thy commands.
Jones Very

MY PRAYER

GREAT God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf
Than that I may not disappoint myself;
That in my action I may soar as high
As I can now discern with this clear eye.

INSPIRATION

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And next in value, which thy kindness lends,
That I may greatly disappoint my friends,
Howe'er they think or hope that it may be,
They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.

That my weak hand may equal my firm faith,
And my life practise more than my tongue saith;
That my low conduct may not show,

Nor my relenting lines,

That I thy purpose did not know,

Or overrated thy designs.

Henry David Thoreau.

INSPIRATION

IF with light head erect I sing,

Though all the Muses lend their force,

From my poor love of anything,

The verse is weak and shallow as its source.

But if with bended neck I grope

Listening behind me for my wit,

With faith superior to hope,

More anxious to keep back than forward it,

Making my soul accomplice there

Unto the flame my heart hath lit,

Then will the verse forever wear,

Time cannot bend the line which God has writ.

I hearing get, who had but ears,

And sight, who had but eyes before;

I moments live, who lived but years,

And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.

Now chiefly is my natal hour,

And only now my prime of life;

Of manhood's strength it is the flower,

"T is peace's end, and war's beginning strife.

It comes in summer's broadest noon,
By a gray wall, or some chance place,
Unseasoning time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.

I will not doubt the love untold

Which not my worth nor want hath bought,
Which wooed me young, and wooes me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.

SMOKE

Henry David Thoreau.

LIGHT-WINGED Smoke! Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day

Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
Henry David Thoreau.

THOREAU'S FLUTE

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THOREAU

WHO nearer Nature's life would truly come
Must nearest come to him of whom I speak;
He all kinds knew, the vocal and the dumb;
Masterful in genius was he, and unique,
Patient, sagacious, tender, frolicsome.

This Concord Pan would oft his whistle take,
And forth from wood and fen, field, hill, and lake,
Trooping around him in their several guise,
The shy inhabitants their haunts forsake:
Then he, like Æsop, man would satirize,
Hold up the image wild to clearest view
Of undiscerning manhood's puzzled eyes,
And mocking say, "Lo! mirrors here for you:
Be true as these, if ye would be more wise."

Amos Bronson Alcott.

THOREAU'S FLUTE

WE, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead;
His pipe hangs mute beside the river;
Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,

But Music's airy voice is fled.
Spring mourns as for untimely frost;
The bluebird chants a requiem;
The willow-blossom waits for him:
The Genius of the wood is lost."

Then from the flute, untouched by hands, There came a low, harmonious breath: "For such as he there is no death;

His life the eternal life commands;

Above man's aims his nature rose:
The wisdom of a just content

Made one small spot a continent,
And turned to poetry Life's prose.

"Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild,
Swallow and aster, lake and pine,
To him grew human or divine,
Fit mates for this large-hearted child.
Such homage Nature ne'er forgets,
And yearly on the coverlid

'Neath which her darling lieth hid Will write his name in violets.

"To him no vain regrets belong,

Whose soul, that finer instrument, Gave to the world no poor lament, But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. O lonely friend! he still will be

A potent presence, though unseen, Steadfast, sagacious, and serene: Seek not for him, he is with thee." Louisa May Alcott.

TEARS IN SPRING

(LAMENT FOR THOREAU)

THE Swallow is flying over,

But he will not come to me;

He flits, my daring rover,

From land to land, from sea to sea;

Where hot Bermuda's reef

Its barrier lifts to fortify the shore,