Results for ‘POEMS’
Little figures robed in white,
Mellow glow of candle light.
Little hands upraised in prayer,
Rosy faces sweet and fair.
All the work and play and fun,
For the happy day are done.
All the little faults confessed,
All the troubles set at rest.
Childhood sweet as dawn and flowers
Drifts through many changeful hours.
But one hour the mother’s own,
Must belong to her alone.
When she sees each sunny head,
Safe and cosy in it’s bed;
Then the world may do its worst.
God and she have had them first;
And her bairns are folded fair
In the tender Shepherd’s care.
Angels bend above the room,
Where the dimpled darlings bloom.
In their lovely innocence,
Warding every evil hence
From the little ones who dwell
Where the mother guards them well.
God ad she above them stand,
They are safe on every hand.
Kneeling for them at the throne,
They are her’s and God’s alone.
And each child a tender flower
Blossoms in the mother’s hour.
When you see a man in woe,
Walk right up and say “Hullo!”
Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do!
How’s the world a-usin’ you?
Slap the fellow on the back;
Bring your hand down with a whack.
Walk right up and don’t go slow—
Grin an’ shake, an say “Hullo!”
Is he clothed in rags? Oh sho;
Walk right up and say “Hullo!”
Rags is but a cotton roll.
Jest fer wrappin’ up a soul;
An’ a soul is worth a true.
Hale and hearty “How d’ye do!”
Don’t wait for the crowd to go.
Walk right up an say “Hullo!”
When big vessels meet, they say
They saloot and sail away.
Jest the same are you an’ me,
Lonesome ships upon a sea;
Each one sailin’ his own log,
For a port behind the fog.
Let your speakin’-trumpet blow,
Lift your horn and crey “Hullo!”
Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do?”
Other folks are good as you.
W’en you leave your house of clay,
Wanderin’ in the far away’
W’en you travel through the strange
Country t’other side the range,
Then the souls you’ve cheered’ll know
Who you be, and say “Hullo!”
S.W. Foss
[Welland Telegraph October 1900]
When fortune treats you slightingly
And everything goes wrong,
Remember that you still are free
To labor and be strong.
To him who bravely does his part
Misfortune is no crime;
Just hold your grip and keep up heart
And learn to bide your time.
The surest road to greatness lies
Through hard and patient work;
The glorious name that never dies
Comes not unto the shirk.
Fame sits upon an eminence,
A pinnacle sublime;
He who would win must seek her thence,
Strive on and bide his time.
The man of hope and energy
Who keeps one goal in sight,
Who goes his way with constancy,
Will some time win the fight
The man whose life a glory lends
To every age and clime
Is he whose purpose never bends,
Who works and bides his time.
Go onward. O’er the future’s hills
The dawn falls cool and sweet.
Go onward. He can win who wills
And bows not to defeat,
Go onward, though your path may lie
The way will brighten by and by.
Go on and bide your time.
And when the fight at last is o’er,
The toil at last is done;
When standing on life’s farther shore,
Beneath her setting sun;
Beyond the future’s unbarred gate
The bells of heaven chime,
And justice, love and glory wait
For him who bides his time.
Denver News
[Welland Telegraph 1900]
O. it’s joy to be up in the morning when
The dew is yet on the clover,
And the air is full of a sweetness that
Makes it a draught divine
To mount one’s wheel and go flying away
And away , a rover
In a wide, bright world of beauty; and
All that world is mine!
There’s a breath of balm on the breezes,
A scent of the wayside roses,
A hint of the incense-odors that blow
Through the hillside pines;
And ever a shifting landscape that some
New, bright charm discloses,
As I flash from nooks of shadows to
Plains where the sunlight shines.
I sing in my care free gladness; I am
Kin to the world that’s blowing;
I am thrilled with the bliss of motion
Like the bird that skims the down;
I feel the blood of a gipsy in my pulses
Coming, going!
Give me my wheel for a comrade, and
The king may keep his crown!
[Welland Telegraph May 1900]
My pa’s the sweetest, dearest pa.
‘At lives ‘ist anywhere;
When Mary tucks me n at night
He hollers from the stair,–
“Oh where’s pa’s onliest little girl?
She’s lost here somewhere round!”
An’ ‘en I cover up my head
An’ ‘tend I’m sleepin’ sound.
An’’en he hunts all round the room
Until he finds me there,
An’ growls an’ laughs, an’ tickles me
An’ I ‘ist grab his hair.
An’ tell him take me on his lap
Or else I won’t leg go.
An’ ‘nen ma says “She’ll catch a cold!”
But pa, he says, “Shaw. No!”
He tells me “pigs to market.”
How little calves go “Moo”
An‘ rides me on his foot awhile—
An’ I fall off. I do
Sometimes I play I’m gone and hid
Behind the big armchair.
And daresn’t peak because my pa
Is turned into a bear!
But bear don’t ever scratch my face
Nor catch and eat me raw.
‘Cause when I’m scared and holler cut
Bear turns back into pa
An’ last night when the rain came
So hard it most came froo,
Pa said, ‘Ist hear it smack the roof,
But it can’t get to you!
An’ ‘nen me listened’ ist as still!
An’ ‘nen first think I know
It’s mornin, an’ I’ve been to sleep,
Like all good childrens go.
Marion Short
[Welland Telegraph November 1900]
“When the frost is on the pumpkin
And the corn is in the shock”
When folks attend the autumn Fairs
And walk around and talk;
When coal and wood and winter
Clothes our scanty purpose mock.
Then the frost is in our pocketbooks
And daddy’s in the shock.
The melancholy days have come, we couldn’t stand ‘em off
When everyone’s affected with a snuffle or a cough;
The winds are getting colder and everything is dear.
The melancholy days have come—
Confound ‘em-they are here!
[Assumed 1900]
We must grow old! The years go by,
Sometimes on wings they seem to fly;
But why such haste? We know not why!
We only know that we grow old!
Sometimes, alas! The years they go
As if with leaden feet, so slow
We faint from pain, we cannot know
Wherefore or why, but we grow old!
Each vanished year its own sad tale
Of disappointment, woe and wall,
Adds to the score, until we fall,
Since we grow old! We must grow old!
Can never find their place again;
The heart will bleed when pierced with pain,
When loved ones die, and we grow old.
Into the dark unknown we take
The hopes misfortune could not shake,
Pure as the mountain’s snowy flake,
Where all is well—when we are old.
Welland Telegraph February 1900
The children play in the fields,
And I who watch am a man,
Knowing the struggle and strife and toll
With work and a hope and a plan;
Bowing my knee to the rod
The king of my leisure wields,
But my heart—my heart is ever at play
With the children in the fields.
My heart is ever at play,
Ever at play in the fields
Smelling the perfume, windy sweet,
The clover blossom yields;
Smiling with curious gaze
At its elders over the way
And harking back to the green again
Where my heart is ever at play!
–Post Wheeler in New York Press
Welland Telegraph May 1900
When July comes and we begin,
Of course they say we throw them in;
But just come o’er and see the stand,
The pears that are on Horton’s land.
Three thousand there we all put in,
One knot is all was in the string;
And if they doubt that this is so
Of course they must put up the dough
And we can show them any day
Just how we do in easy way
And hope that there will be no more
Doubting our word, as was done before.
–One Who can Bud Three Thousand
Brown’s Nurseries P.O., Aug 14th, 1900
Welland Telegraph 1900.
Snow along the hillsides lingers.
Raw and frosty is the air,
Dead the grass along the meadows,
And the branches still are bare;
Yet we often pause to listen,
And we fancy that we hear
Robins to each other calling,
Piping merrily ad clear.
Here and there we’re quickly peering
For the harbingers of spring,
Birds that brave the northern breezes
While remains the winter’s sting;
But though eagerly we listen,
And although our eyes we strain,
There’s no sound of robin piping,
There is heard no glad refrain.
It was just an idle fancy
That was born of fond desire
For the music that in springtime
Comes from nature’s feathered choir,
For we weary of the winter
Long before its days are spent,
And we yearn for song and sunshine
And the blossoms redolent
It was just a foolish fancy
That was given sudden play,
For the robins still are dwelling
In the southland far away.
And the snow is on our hillsides,
Raw and frosty is the air,
Dead the grass along the meadows,
And the branches still are bare.
But the winter days are passing,
And the sun now northward swings,
Bringing life t bud and blossom,
Long ‘neath nature’s coverings,
Springtime soon again will gladden
All these scenes now desolate—
We are watching for the robins,
And we won’t have long to wait!
[Assumed, 1900]
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