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Introduction and Dedication

Enoch
And Other Poems
By Medora D. Nickell

In quiet key is this collection of poems by a writer who has lived richly and observed well. Mrs. Nickell is a traditionalist in the truest sense. Her mood is meditative, reverent, interpretative of the heart's old search for spritual illumination. While many of the poems are mystical in trend, they never lose touch with human values and understanding. Here is the beauty of serene fath, of a love of Nature, of the good life. The title poem is an unusual and imaginative rendition of a Biblical story, treated with delicate artistry and charm. This volume is not of seasonal significance merely- ephemeral as so much modern verse is. It makes an appeal to readers who believe that poetry is not always of momentary meaning.

Primavera Press
Los Angeles, 1930

[Hand-written in my family copy on the first blank page. Phyllis is my great aunt, sister to Dorothy Johnson.]

Phyllis Johnson
March . 21 . 1931 .

With love
From Grandmother

Medora D. Nickell

ENOCH
AND OTHER POEMS

Enoch
AND OTHER POEMS
By
MEDORA D. NICKELL

PRIMAVERA PRESS: MCMXXX
Los Angeles

COPYRIGHT 1930, MEDORA D. NICKELL

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

IN DEDICATION
This is just one small bunch of flowers, and - alas! their petals are not all perfect; but - may I hope that it will bring joy to you - for the span of a flower's fragant life?

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Foreword

The story of Enoch, Seventh from Adam, is given so tersely it stands out clear-cut, like a picture in black and white; an outline series of pictures, whose filling in must be from other sources. Of his youth, his friends, his wife, the conditions of living, no mention is made.

In the book of the generations of Adam the line runs direct. Adam, Seth, Enos, Cainan, Mahaleleel, Jared, Enoch; the record of their ages placing Adam's age at 622 years at the time of Enoch' birth, and Enoch's age at 308 years when Adam died.

The references to Enoch are few.

Luke 3:37, Enoch's name is given, in the genealogy of Jesus.

His birth.

Gen. 5:18, 19. And Jared lived a hundred and sixty-two years, and begat Enoch.

And Jared lived after he begat Enoch, eight hunderd years.

His family and character.

Gen. 5:21, 22, 23. And Enoch lived sixty and five years and begat Methusaleh;

And Enoch Walked with God after he begat Methusaleh, three hundred years, and begat sons and daughters. And all the days of Enoch were three hundred and sixty and five years.

His prophecy.

Jude 14:15. And Enoch also, the seventh from Adam, prophesied of these, saying, Behold the Lord cometh with ten thousand of his saints,

To execute judgment upon all, and to convince all that are ungodly among them of all their ungodly deeds which they have ungodly committed, and all of their hard speeches with ungodly sinners have spoken against him.

His translation.

Gen. 5:24. And Enoch walked with God: and he was not; for God took him.

His faith.

Heb. 11:5. By faith Enoch was translated that he should not see death; and was not found, because God had translated him, for before his translation he had this testimony, that he pleased God.

In Jude 14, Enoch is described as "the seventh from Adam" the number probably being mentioned as conveying the idea of divine completion and rest, while Enoch was himself a type of perfected humanity.

A fascinating history. Perhaps you also may care to read with me between the lines.

- M. D. N.

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Enoch

Enoch seventh from Adam, walked with God 
The sunlit measure of three hundred years, 
Three hundred sixty-five, and one and all 
Were sunlit days; for what are wind and cloud, 
Or falling mists, or cold, to one who basks 
Forever in the Sun of Righteousness? 

The morning broke, and noon and evening came, 
And night; sweet, whispering, star-eyed, dewy night, 
The one or other was the Peace of God to his 
Pure soul. True holiness shone radient from 
His brow, and his blue eyes reflected love 
To all the creatures of the Father's hand. 

So, all his life, was Enoch. From the first 
His baby nature flowered in the warmth 
Of God's great love for him; the same great love 
That waits to warm the world - unrecognized. 

One day when fleecy clouds against the blue 
An ever changing network wove, the litte lad 
Ran to the tent and grasped his mother's hand, 
Compelled swfit feet with cry, "Oh, come and see." 
"See what?" For Enoch stood with face and uplift; 
"Oh, I saw God! He looked straight down at me 
From yonder cloud. He was so beautiful! 
But He is gone!" The mother smiled and said, 
"Though thou canst not behold Him, He is here." 

Once, Adam, while the little lad about 
Him played, a hand laid on his yellow locks, 
And with caress of touch, and look, and voice, 
Enclosed the child in prison of his knees, 
And murmured, "May the Lord's choice blessing rest 
On thee, my son!" Then with breaking voice, 
"Oh, would that thou hadst that which I have lost!" 

"If thou hast lost aught that thou lovest, sire, 
I pray thee tell me what, that I may search, 
To place thy treasure in thy hand will give 
Me joy." 

But Adam sighed and strained the boy 
In anguish to his heart; and Enoch stole 
His baby arms around the old man's neck 
And breathed soft whisperings of tender love; 
And letting all the man's intense regret 
Full spend itself, soothed by the gentle soul 
Within the baby breast, he yielded all 
The sad, sad story of the golden fruit. 

When all the tale was told, in silence each 
His thoughts pursued. The air was musical 
With song of bird and stir of insect wings; 
The dropping sun discovered their retreat, 
And sent his farewell shafts to weld their hearts 
In perfect union. Thus upon the boy 
The old man leaned for needed sympathy. 

But Enoch pondered much and sought to win 
His friend to see that such a loving Lord 
Must needs expect untrammeled love returned, 
For love means - ah, love means repentance deep, 
And effort 'gainst a further variance, 
And full trust in that love that never failed. 

But Adam listened not to Enoch's plea, 
And every year his sorrow grew; and grew 
The anxious thought of Enoch for his friend. 

Once, Enoch in a field of lilies stood; 
The light of morning filled each lifted cup 
With radiance that embroidered the sweet thought 
Of purity with gems of glory, all 
Its own. He circled with his hand a long 
Green stem, slipped o'er the calyx, drew more close 
The spreading spetals, till the waxen cup 
In ever narrowing circle, closed complete, 
A long white cone that pushed against its bonds; 
And watching thus its struggling pressure, mused - 

"If I, my soul, my heart, my very life, 
The 'I' that strives so to express itself, 
Were severerd from God's great life-giving love, 
To me would come no sweet maturity, 
No flower of thought, nor wisdom's fertile seed, 
E'en as these stamens could not so fulfill 
Their mission. Is it wonder then, that there 
Should dwell in Adam's soul such midnight gloom? 
A little light doth pierece these petals white; 
A little light doth penetrate his soul!" 
Then praying, "Holy Father, open Thou 
This human flower!" 

* * * 

Then came a day 
When Adam, resting in a shady glen, 
Reviewed to Enoch somewhat of the storm 
And stress of years; the people's interests; 
Their varied need; and his own discontent. 
A sad lament. And Enoch listening, 
With question here and there or comment brief, 
His interest showed and heartfelt sympathy. 

A silence fell, while Enoch anxiously 
Searched for a means to turn the tide of grief 
From Adam's soul. With prayer and hope and faith, 
He gathere all the roses in his reach 
-And wove of them a garland; rising then 
He kneeled at his companion's feet and said 
"Behold! a chapleot for God's image, man, 
The crown of all Creation! Let me now 
Thy brow adorn." 

But adam stayed his hand 
And taking in his own the wreath, "Thou sayest well; 
Look, scarce a petal hath a perfect form. 
These curves are marred, by insect venom touched; 
This stem thine own kind, gentle hand hath torn, 
And at the heart of this a hungry slug 
Hath made his lazy feast. 

"Nay, rather than 
Accpet so fair, yet so unfair, a crown, 
I hang it here upon this jutting rock; 
And if the current flowing swift doth lift 
And crown the river, then will I believe 
That I thorugh thee may yet a balm receive 
For all my wounds, and pardon for my sin. 
till sunset we will wait." 

A pretty sight 
Those mingled colors on the river's brim, 
Soft-lifting, falling, lifting, falling, swayed 
By currents' flow. A score of butterflies 
Sought rest, and drank refreshing nectar there, 
Returned delighted with so fair a spot, 
And folded wing on wing in ecstacy. 
The came a humming-bird, and laden bees 
Paused to complete their load from Beauty's store. 

The river murmuring to Adam's soul 
A requiem to hope, to Enoch sang 
An anthem full of joy. 
Low hung the sun, then passed below the hills, 
And Adam moaned and turned away his face. 

But Enoch lifted all his stalwart form 
Erect, and stretched his hands up toward the sky, 
And threw his head back till his red-gold hair 
Scarce touched his shoulders, then he laughed 
With such clearn, vibrant tones, so like the waves 
Of music as when morning stars sill sang, 
That all the birds their vespers hushed, to list 
With bated breath and lifted wing, lest note 
Of such rare melody escape their ears. 

Then leaning toward his friend with yearning love, 
His voice the gamut scaled in varying tones, 
And thus to Adam poured his anxious heart. 

"Through me to God! Oh Father of the race, 
So little dost thou comprehend the love 
Of Him who every moment bids thee let 
"Him be thy friend. Oh, Adam, seest thou not 
That, greater than the act by him forbidden - 
For thou wast tempted of sin - far greater is 
Thy present unrepentant attitude. 

"Thou hast withheld thyself from worshipping, 
Though thou hast known the measure to Him due 
And every day hast builded higher still 
The barrier thyself hath placed, not He, 
Between thy wretched self and perfect peace. 
The peopling world hath seen thy obdurate mien, 
And fashioned by the pattern thou hast set, 
Hath dropped still further from the thought of God, 
Or views Him symbol of but wrath alone. 

"Thy sin hath multiplied immeasurably, 
Hath sought new ways to speak thy discontent; 
To battle 'gainst thy God did not suffice, 
But thou must vent thy venom on the one 
Who strove by all sweet, womanly resource 
To win thee back to joy. 

"How oft her heart 
Hath bled beneath thy frown, her ministry 
Been scorned, her gentleness repulsed, and e'en 
Upon thy offspring thou didst place the mark 
Of thine own sullenness and his misdeeds, 
Whyle yet unborn. In thee the seed of sin 
Hath lavish been in its productiveness, 
The expression of it is thy selfishness, 
Thy helpmate's tender love and penitence 
Thou hast o'ermatched by utter callousness 
To all sweet influence. Not Nature in 
Her loftiest grandeur e'er hath pierced the crust 
That crowds with ever growing depth and strength 
Thy tenderness, till naught but germ remains. 

"But O, thou first expression of Divine 
Desire for free, responsive, willingly 
And gladly given love! Wilt thou not see 
That, e'en as seed, long years lain dry and hard 
And shrivelled, placed in fallow soild will swell 
And tender and discover life, and send 
Its rootlets deep, its leaves to meet the sun; 
And rounding out the Father's thought of it, 
That which seemed dead and hopeless, in due time 
Doth harvest full return for Nature's care - 
So, seeing as thou must, thy misspent life, 
As copious tears and surrowing mien express, 
Take thou, repentant, thine affections - warped, 
Abused, mistreated, wrapped in fold on fold 
Of selfishness - and placing in His hand, 
Rest in the' assurance that His own great love 
Will nurture into rinch, effulgent life 
Thy meagre offering, to His delight, 
To thy upbuilding, e'er He calls thee hence." 

Low in the grasses lay the grief-spent form 
That bent and and writhed in speechless agony. 
Some distant, unseen forces swelled the flood 
And bore the wreath away, and Adam rose 
ANd staggered from the place along the path 
That led to where a cairn o'ergrown with vines. 
Marked to the world the burial-place of Eve. 

But Enoch stood and watched with love full eyes, 
Nor followed, though deep moans of anguish came, 
And stifled sighs that burst and surged in sobs, 
Told of the pent-up torture of the years. 

"Tis my own selfishness has won to me 
This mysery," he heard, at length, and then - 
"O God, wilt Thou forgive and take me back!" 

O, Day of sorrow! Day of highest joy! 
O, Face of man, God-lighted! Shine, Ah, Shine! 

* * * * 

In loving ministry the years flew on. 
While Adam strove to lead the people back 
To worship trustingly a loving Lord. 
A tender ministry, for wondrously 
The joy of Adam's heart expressed itself 
In anxious effort for the weal of man. 

So days slip into years, and years fly past, 
And centuries, linked circles ravel time. 
Long since another cairn was builded high; 
Yet had not ceased the people to relate 
The marvelous loveliness of Adam's death. 

The years flew on, and Enoch stood one day 
Upon a hilltop, marking light and shade, 
And all the beauty of the early spring. 
The greening field, the clustering flowers, caught 
The song of birds anew, and insect hum; 
The sunset found him still with gaze intent 
On wondrous glories of the cloud-rent sky; 
And thus the ardent worshipper expressed 
His soul's intensest strivings upward. 

"Oh, Beyond! Beyond! What visions openest thoug 
Of that perfection longed for till the pain 
Of yearning cramps the heart. The mountain steeps 
Repel our eager feet with rolling stone 
ANd shale, and oft a widening crevasse 
Doth bar our path; but wearing upward still, 
The sunlit summit, cloud hid, bid us haste; 
Each higher altitude with joy bestows 
A keener vision. That most perfect blue 
Of far receding distance marks our grain; 
Perfected promise binds to lager faith. 

The summit gained, we cry aloud, "I know." 
And happiness doth gem each thought, and peace 
Doth fill the skies. That sweetest, finest joy, 
A broadening content, so limitless 
That all of earthly good, and Heaven and God 
Are circled, larges the soul with food supreme. 
Have faith, my Soul! Each summit gained shall be 
A stepping-stone to heights eternally." 

That night, e'er Leo o'er the zenith passed, 
While yet the whole earth slumbered, a great light 
Bade all the people hasten to the plain, 
Where, in the center of a lambent flame 
That played around him, yet consumed him not, 
Stood Enoch. 
When, in silence, all around 
Him gathered, with his hand Methusaleh 
He beckoned to approach; placed his two hands 
Upon his dear son's head, the dropped them to 
His shoulders. Then the young man placed his hands 
Likewise. Into each other's eyes they looked, 
And, soul communing with the other's soul, 
Told all the message he desired to leave; 

Crowned his boy's life with love, and gave him faith 
And courage to assume, and to withstand; 
The bravery to toil for righteousness. 
Long stood these two, then backward stepped the lad. 

The swift increasing of the wondrouns light 
Threw all upon their knees: their faces hid 
In hands; hands in the dust, and crowded thick 
Their garmets to their eyes; yet naught could shut 
Away from dazzled orbs the awful flame 
that lingered, lessening, then passed complete, 
And left them dazed and daring scarce to move. 

At last one cried, "Ah! Where has Enoch gone?" 
But no one answered. He was seen no more. 
"He was not, for God took him." saith the Book. 

Where he had stood, the grass was rich and green; 
And while they looked a marvelous plant appeared. 
Out from the grass a slender stem shot up, 
Bearing a bud that slowly opened wide. 
No leaf was there, just stem and bud that swelled 
And burst, and filled the air with wondrous wealth 
Of fragrance. White, the flower was, but shaped 
like naught e'er seen. Its broadening petals reached 
Perfection soon. The slender stem was seen 
To lossen from the soil, and stem and flower 
Rose upward steadily. 
The people stood amazed: 
Keen silence fell; all watched the stately flower 
Move toward the clouds; their white shields open wide 
And closed again, and hid the flower from sight. 

Like breath of wind a voice came cloar and sweet, 
Filled all the space between the hills, filled all 
The universe, and swelled in grand 
Repeating cadences. Yet this alone 
Was all the burden of the Heaven-born song 
"Behold! The Symbol of the Promised Seed!" 

* * * * 

So endeth all the tale, by vision told, 
Of one man's mission to one sin-sick soul. 

But all the world is better since that day, 
Because of the pure record of his life.

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Day By Day

'Tis hard to wait, though waiting be the rush
Of busy days; of long house spent in toil;
When thought must force itself to cling around
The work in hand; to plan and place, and weave
From scant materials, if of web or woof,
To form the pattern, set in sordid squares,
That makes another life, and marks our own.

Soil, though the soul be bound in chains, it feels
Above, beyond, enwrapping in soft folds
Of longing, wistful, keenest, sweetest pain,
Whose shadowy depths, by contrast, give to heights
The semblance of all glory, promise, each
Of, something, someone, in the sweet someday,
Whose presence, though in precious silence, shall
In joy, turn "by-and-by" to, "it is now."

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"O Could I Speak The Matchless Worth!"

If I could write a hymn to Thee, O Christ!
The words so full of love and sweet unrest, 
Of tender longing, of delight unknown,
Till climaxed, precious Savior, on Thy breast;
If I could tell the joys Thou hast in store,
Could picture to the world the thought of peace,
That it might hunger for Thy love the more,
And long from sin for evermore to cease;
O, if one soul could thus be brought to Thee!
One blood-bought soul look up into Thy face!
If one - I long for all the world to come
And kneel with me before the Throne of Grace!

I touch my pen --- and still the thought delays,
Nor words appear to voice the marvelous theme.
What magic will the heaven-sent message crowd
To language limit? Broad as earth itself
Aye, as the orbit of the farthest star,
Swing vibrant, vitalizing sense of scenes
And themes and visions that shall lift mankind
To heights unspeakable, when once to me
The prize of sweet unfolding shall be given.

Oh! could I touch the mystic curtain, raise
But one light, screening fold, and fill my soul
With Heaven thrust shafts, revealing Wisdom's peace
Of comprehension. Truth and Power and Love ---
All things unseen, intagible --- would large
My soul, keen all my faculties, compel
Expressive wording, and the golden stream
Once set in motion, should the world engulf
In Heaven-sent, Heaven-tongued messages of love.

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Responsibility

Who takes from me my right to have and hold
That which my soul desires, defraudeth me.
The world is mine, each flower that blows, I claim,
Though growing in whosoever garden; flower
Of being, action, or of inmost thought.
Unto myself I sift all beauteous things,
The irst of others' toil all sweets of earth,
Al promises of Heaven - the holiest
Of both worlds, I, the heir of all since time
Began, lay claim; I hold them all my own.

And yet, and yet, if blossoms I sholl choose
Should poison be to influence, or growth,
Or strength, of one who leans upon me - ah
If one, then all whose surety I am made
Unto the King, should thus refuse the draught
I offer them, and lack of nourishment
Should dwarf their souls, am I condemned?

Shall I still dare to hold all that now lies
Within my grasp and with proud mien defy
All criticism, and still holding, hope
For fruitage to my dearest, loveliest thought?
My thought ne'er center in myself,
But ever bend all energies to bear
The chalice high and evenly, last augght
Should mar the jeweled beauty of the cup, 
Lest aught of precious filling
Should be spilled?

If, leaning through a window, I should pluck
A gorgeous flower, tho all should recognize
Another's claim; and prove by word and deed
That venom lies in looks - thoughts half expressed,
Shall I resent and cry, "I am my own
And take unto myself as pleaseth me!"

Unto myself alone I cannot live,
But must my dearest wish, my fairest hope
Lay down, a sacrifice to human needs,
All things to all men means naught to myself;
Nay - all to all men means much more to me.

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The Harbor Bar

Little ships outside the harbor,
Hear ye not the sea gull's scream?
See ye not the gathering storm cloud?
And the darkening of the ocean?
Listen to the surf belt beating
On the rocks, that hunger for you!
Hasten, for no storm can harm you
Once within the harbor bar.

Little ships outside the harbor,
Scudding swift before the gale,
Hear ye not the breakers roaring?
See ye not the danger threatening?
Enter, quick, the port of safety,
Drop your anchor in smooth waters;
Furl your sail, and, out of danger, 
Rest, within the harbor bar.

Oh, the fleets of life's great ocean, 
Sailing hither, thither, find
Need of some good port of safety,
Need of shelter from the storm king.
Heaven the Harbor; Christ the Gateway;
Hope the anchor; Faith the strong chain,
Enter, every storm-tossed vessel,
Safe within the Harbor Bar. 

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They Shall Mount With Wings

There may not be a day that passeth by
But some high thought is shorn of half its joy;
The shadows pass before the sun so oft
That we, with drooping head and heart, will weep
And say, I cannot rise above the earth."

Just as an eaglet with its pinions clipped,
And forced to live among the barnyard fowls,
Doth long to pierce the blue, and sail aloft
In perfect liberty.
            His vision keen 
Sees, at a heat no human eye can pierce,
A tiny speck, that soars, and floats and soars
Again; each flight draws nearer to the sun,
And seeing, knows that is his element.

"Ah! there I, too, belong, mid fleecy clouds,
Above the thunder and the lightning flash,
Above the storms, that dash, and whirl break
In wild disaster. I will seek my own!"

And spreading his poor wings, the keeper has
So carefully kept clipped, he rises just 
Above his prison fence, and falls, dismayed, 
Discouraged; almost life has fled, and hope
Seems gone forever. 
            O, what wonder that
The darkest corner is the place he seeks,
In which to hide his sorrow and his woe.
But days glide into weeks, and once again
He hears the shriek of joy among the clouds.
Once more he sees the tiny moving speck,
That sways, and soars, and floats, and bids him come.

He answers with a sudden flight; his wings
Bear him aloft, above the fence, the trees, 
The hills, the clouds - like a storm beaten soul
That, freed at last from every shade of doubt,
Soars, in a flash of light, straight oup to God;
And knows, henceforth, what 'tis to live above
The cares and pretty trials of this life,
Because the Master knows His own, and keeps
From every burden, all that give to Him
Their perfect confidence, their perfect trust.

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Prayer

Do you wonder that the Father
  Speaks no answer to your prayer?
Do you grieve that in the silence
  You His blessing do not hear?

Have you longed to catch distinctly
  Of His voice one loving tone?
Longed to know that on life's pathway
  He would ne'er leave you alone?

What is prayer but Praise and Listening?
  When you meet and greet a friend
Do you voice your thought, and passing,
  To his words no presence lend?

Ask, and listen for His answer,
  Wait, in silence, Love Divine.
You will hear beyond the Lintel
  "Child, I love thee, thou are Mine."

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Not Far From the Kingdom

Not far from the Kingdom! So graciously near,
Almost, the sweet strains of its music I hear.
Almost, the blest freedom from sin I can feel,
Almost, on my forehead the Master's own seal.

Not far from the Kingdom! Its joys must be sweet,
They reflect on the face of each saint that I meet.
Almost, some such happiness enters my soul,
Almost, though the billows of sorrow still roll.

Not far from the Kingdom - Ah - when shall I cross
Its boundaries? Surely the world is but dross.
Almost! Should I fail to step over the line,
Eternity's measure of sorrow were mine.

Not far from the Kingdom - not far - yet outside.
For my sins its King on Mount Calvary died.
And shall I delay my soul's tribute to bring
And join in the praise of so matchless a King?

Not far from the Kingdom - I yield to the thought
That my poor lost soul by His blood has been bought.
No longer without in the deserts of Sin
No longer not far - now I'm wholly within.

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Not Worthy

Not worthy to touch His garment's hem;
Not worthy to kneel at His feet;
But I'll prostrate lie,
As He passes by,
And I'll hear His voice, so sweet.

I'm sure He will know about my need,
His pitying hand will give
To my wounded heart
A healing touch,
From the fullness of His love.

Not worthy to take to myself the words,
So gracious, "Come unto me;"
But I'll wait for Him
In the twilight dim,
And Ill love Him for healing me.

Not worthy - but He is all worthy to give,
To forgive - to cleanse my soul;
And I'll take His love
And His sweet words prove,
And forever I'll follow Him.

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Trust

The preacher paused, then said, with added force - 
"Use all the power you have - use every ounce - 
Strain every muscle - 'till 'tis multiplied
By usage, and your strength becomes to you
A marvel.

But, meanwhile, direct it true;
Let not just strength alone, be your desire,
And, working toward the stars, let every thought
With purest effort, seek to gain the goal.

Scorn not beginnings; I myself, have seen
A robin trying first its baby wings.
How timidly it clung to the home nest, 
Looked up into the sky - then to the ground,
Then turned its head and viewed the cosy nest,
The only world it knew, or cared to know.
But sweeping in and out among the trees,
Or soaring upward with a dash of song,
The parent robins showed the baby bird
How easy 'twas to fly. Enocouraged thus
The little fellow spread his dainty wings,
And twittering answer to the parent's call,
Uplifted all his tiny form - then sank
In terror clutching to the nest again.

Still swaying to and fro on easy wing, 
With chirp and twitterings and lilting song,
The parents called, "Come, little one, just try, 
'Tis lightsome as the wind among the flowers,
'Tis like the apple blossoms in the sun,
Just being - that is all!"

Then with the force
Of love and will and every power he had,
The baby robin one grand effort made
That landed him a foot or two away
Upon a nodding branch. 
He tried again, and yet again he flew
'Til with a little song of joy supreme,
He reached his parents, waiting mid the flowers.

A week passed by; and of the robins three,
That sang and swayed among the cherry trees,
Or swept with flash of wing half to the clouds,
Or darted here and there among the flowers,
Or hopped with head erect across the lawn
To take their morning bath beneath the spray,
The baby bird seemed finished in its strength
And will and purpose, as the other two.
God calls you - "Spread your wings and you can fly."

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The Man

Brooding, the Sprit lingered, till the earth
Its each minute creation vitalized
With teeming life in evolution thronged;
Then to the Heaven of Heavens retired, nor thence
Returned, save here and there to vivify
Some great, high, comprehending soul, that Light
Might never from the earth entirely fade.

So passed the centuries, but Purity
Such as the Spirit might therein abide
Was not among all the crowding nations found.

There came a day when down where Jordan's stream
Its rapid courses stays, and swirls, and smiles,
And speeds again, One, robed in white, His hair
A gleam of gold, His eyes converginig blue
From heaven's farthest depths, His form erect, 
With simple wealth of love, with majesty
On earth unseen before - the waters touched
With willing feet. Then from the zenith came,
White, fluttering, settling on the Master's head
The spirit, as a Dove, for lo!
All holiness was centered in The Man.

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The Feast at Bethany

There were yet six days until the passover;
And Jesus, with the twelve, had journeyed o'er
The hills to Bethany, to greet the friends,
By many memories made dear to Him.
The spacious mansion opened welcoming doors;
Their sandals lay upon the shaded porch;
Refreshed and bathed, they gathered now around
The board with Lazarus, and Martha served.

Beside a fluted column Mary stood
And watched the varied pleasures of the feast.
Her task had been to welcome, and to guide
The maidens serving each with basin filled
With water for the wearied feet, and with
Sweet gentleness present the ritual bowl
For washing hands e'er passing to the feast.

From her own garden she had culled the flowers
THat lay in scattered grace at every plate.
The varied hues lent color to the board,
And every flower gave joy. Where Jesus leaned
A wealth of long white lily buds were strewn,
And when the Master took His place, each throat
Had thrown its petals wide to welcome Him,
Rare fragrance breathing that arose and hung
An incense around His head.

The silver river of the Master's words
Flowed gently, curving here and there abrupt
As eager questioning its courses changed;
And Mary listened longingly, "What more,"
She murmured, "Can I do to serve my Lord!
Was ever maiden blest as I have been!
His gracious presence here, His saving power
E'en death itself surrendered at His word!

What marvelous view He opens to my eyes
Of things unseen - His mission to mankind.
Not after death shall heaven and peace begin,
But here at Jesus' feet. Oh! that the world
Might recognize His sacrifice! Would that
Some might deed I might perform
To manifest my joy, and His great power.

I know I cannot say unto the world
"Behold!" and thus compel dull eyes and ears
To recognize Divinity - but I 
Can show, by giving my best treasure, all
The love that fills my longing heart with joy."

Swift gliding hence, she sought with eager hands
A silver casket, engraved in pattern quaint,
With jewels set, each flashing in the rays
That fell aslant into her window from
The setting sun, as, fitting to the lock
A golden key, she opened the casket, seized
An alabaster box in silk enwrapped,
And hastened back unto the banquet hall.

A moment later and she stood beside
The Master, looked with holy saintly eyes
Upon Him, poured upon His head her love
In precious ointment, that ran slowly down
His golden hair, touched His calm, holy brow,
Dropped on His open palm, soft wove itself
Into the meshes of His garments, spread
Itself with tense persistency, complete
Anointing for the Master's form.

What wondrous fragrance filled the lofty hall,
Stole through the casements, on the evening breeze,
Swift journeyed, past the Temple, past the walls
Of far Jerusalem, until it reached
Within a garden fair, a new-made tomb
And gathered lingeringly in its cool depths.
What visions came of fields of fairest flowers,
Soft touched by morning's gaze or evening's tears.

Each rose red petal in the radiant scene
A welcome gave to bee and butterfly.
O'er all the glance of landscapes painted by
The hand of God. A thousand summers came - 
A million roses gave their best - their all - 
To anoint adoringly the Saviour's brow.
The Master leaned His head upon His hand
His face aglow with holy radiance.
In gentle tones - "'Tis for my burial,
And always shall the tale be told of her
Who gave so joyously."

But Mary, kneeling, wept
At Jesus' feet, and with her loosened braids
That fell a mantle 'round her slender form,
She wiped away the tears that deluged them;
While with enlarging vision she beheld -
As written in gold letters, Jesus' words,
"I am the resurrection and the life,
Who e'er believeth upon me, though dead,
Yet shall he have eternal life in me."

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In a Syrian Garden

Why do I linger here? My Lord is gone -
And yet - these rocks, the grass, and every leaf,
Are speaking of his presence. Surely this
Is holy ground; and I will stay and live
Again, the days, so precious, each and all
Since He, my Lord, in sympathetic power,
Cast from my soul the demons, that had scorched,
And seared, and seamed, my inner life, until
All semblance to a woman, long had fled.
Ah! Majesty in condescension! I
Was not too low to claim His healing power.
And, since that day, to wait upon my Lord,
To do His bidding, be it small, or great, 
Has been my joy.

How oft at eventide, 
When, worn and weary, from His daily toil
Among the multitudes, He came, and sat
Beneath the cedars, by my mother's door.
Our simple ministrations unto Him,
So graciously accepted were they all,
That each was magnified to kingly gift.

As twilight fell, and quickly passed away,
The neighbors and disciples gathered 'round,
To listen, as He talked of holy lives;
The faultless symmetry that each should gain;
That givers, first, must have a perfect gift;
And prayed that each might grow as beautiful,
As was the Father's first sweet thought of Him.
And then they sought their homes, and He, His rest.

The prophet's chamber, in my mother's home,
Was changed into a palace, when my Lord,
In such perfected manner, entered there.
Oft, but that I had gathered that He knew
I had been glad to tell Him that my heart
Had grown, expanded, broadened out its halls,
Its ceilings lifted, gilded all its frame,
And made itself into a temple fair,
Where holy incense burns continually,
Because of His great mercy unto me.
But sure, there was no need of words to tell
That to my Master. So I sat and heard
His words, that seemed to open out to me
A universe of thought; with what delight,
I scarcely realized, 'til sorrowing now
'Neath this tremendous woe. As my sad eyes
Review the passing days, and each has seemed
To represent eternity, I shiver - shrink - 
And would efface myself, nor go again
To meet the frowning, the cold-hearted wold.

If I could see again, His gentle face,
His kindly hands, His pierced hands, alas!
That I would fain have bound in linen soft,
And sweetest spices; those dear hands that touched
None, but to bless; if I could know that all
The garments of my Lond, were laid with care,
His pillow soft, the bindings without crease - 
It might - 
  Ah! No! No! Nothing could assuage
The grief, the pain. And, added to it all,
That He should not be left to sleep in peace.

I cannot grasp the thought - it still eludes - 
But something speakes, e'en now, unto my soul,
And tells me, what my lips cannot express.
And these two men, in wondrous white array,
Have told me that the bonds of death are burst;
That He, my Lord, from that cold sepulchre
Hath come, again to bless His followers.
Oh! that I knew but where to follow Him!
Oh! that my love might guide me to His side!

  (Addressing the supposed gardener)
Ah, canst thou tell where they have taken Him?
Where they have borne the form of Him, who lay
Within the tomb, but yesterday?
  My Lord!

My Master!

  Touch thee not! Ah but to see
Thy face again, is bliss complete. But thou
Wilt let thy handmaid minister to thee?
To do thy bidding is my heart's delight.

In Galilee? Yea, Master I will go,
Though in my heart, I still will follow Thee.

My Master! Lord! hath come again indeed!
And I the messenger to tell His own,
That He will meet them, down in Galilee.
In Galilee! Ah, lovely Galilee!
Beside the sea, where He was wont to come.
How oft, in thee, was mirrored His calm face;
How oft, reflected 'gainst the sky, His form;
In thee the heavens were still His dwelling place,
And thou didst welcome Him in storm or calm
And do His bidding. On thy shores He walked,
And taught, and fed, and loved the people there;
And thou art treasuring still, His gentle tones;
Repeating them in every shining wave.

Repeating - Oh , the waves may well repeat,
Ande echo ever, from the farthest shore, 
the words of Him, who conquered death, to meet
Necessities of man forever more.

I see the glory of the Master's love! 
The prase of nations shall yet come to Him.
The homage of all hearts lay at His feet;
The love that He dath give so plenteously,
Shall find response in myriad hugry souls.

"Thy kingdom come," O! joy! I see the light!
His words unfold, like some fair lily white;
Deep throated, long, white petaled flower,
Reflecting the white light of Purity.

O! lilies! lilies! fold your petals fair,
Shut in this sacred air, and let it be
The enlarging of your seed cups; every bulb
Resultant, bring forth fairer, whiter flowers
That, through the centuries to come, shall shed,
With sweeter fragrance, memories of this day.

There is no thought of joy, or rest, or peace,
But in His name, shall still be multiplied; 
  There is no pang of woe or misery,
But, in His name, will panacea find.

The rugged, ragged, weather-beaten cross,
That bore His form, shall, through the ages, shine
Transcendant, in the glory that surrounds
The very thought that
  Jesus is The Christ.

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The Walk to Emmaus

The afternoon was waning. Two had gone
Together to Emmaus. Their sad eyes
Took note of nothing on the dusty way.
The wondrous tale told in the early morn
By women going to the tomb at dawn,
Perplexed and mystified, bred doubts that tore
Their souls twixt joy and haggard, dumb dispair.

"If it be true!" - one said with gleaming eyes,
"If it be false!" - the other said quick replies,
Then strongly both - "Oh that I, too, might see
Such marvelous vision!"

A footstep bade attention, and they turned
To greet a stranger, majesty of mien
Was veiled in hubleness; with sympathy
In tender look and gentle tone, He asked
The meaning of their troubled bearing. Then
The tale was told Him. Calmly - "Knew ye not
That so all prophecy saith this must be?"

In clear cut scenes the prophets were reviewed,
Each special revelation marked complete.
The two looked in each other's eyes across
The stranger walking close between and thought
"How plain the matter lies. How could we doubt!"
Unrest had vanished, and a settled peace
Each bosom filled.

The sun dropped low
Behind the hills as Emmaus the neared,
And as the stranger would have said "farewell,"
Both plead with him to tarry for the night.
Around the table for the evening meal
The trio gathered. Then the stranger took
The bread and broke and blessed it - gave to each
A portion, and from recognizing eyes
Quick vanished.

"Oh - it is - it is the Lord!
Alas! We did not know Him! Yet our hearts
Were strangely burning!" Rapidly they traced
Their footsteps to Jerusalem, sought out their friends
And finding cried, "We, too, have seen the Lord!"

Oft when we talk of Holy things, and seek to know
Their meaning, then doth come a swift reply
To questioning, a light as from some source
Unseen, reveals the marvelous answer and we know
The Master to Emmaus comes again. 

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Easter

This Easter Morning! Ah! somehow to me,
Since first te precious meaning of the Day
Was made so clear, so dear, unto my soul,
Each day is glorified. The radiance of this morn
Shall each succeeding morn enwrap with joy
And life be filled with peace because I know
The meaninig of His love this Easter Morn. 

What if the Master, still within the tomb
Were lying - what if from out the grave 
No voice had e'er returned to tell the tale,
To lift from longing eyes the mystery
Of life beyond - Nay - 'Tis not possible
To measure the result to all mankind.
The thought but marks mor joyfully the beat
Of every happy heart this Easter Morn.

Afar we trace His footsteps by the sea,
And walk with Him on stormy Galilee.
We listen to his marvelous words of Truth,
And watch Him save young Lazarus from Death.
He feeds the multitudes; the sick he heals;
And calls on all to follow Him with zeal;
E'en to Gethsemane we watch Him go
Amazed that He should love poor mortals so.

Gethsemane - no trial - then the cross,
Ah - can you measure all the weary loss 
Of Calvary? - or all the gain? Have you 
A grasp of what is meant for you and me?
The cross - the tomb - the Resurrection Morn. 
High Day of Holiness! From out that tomb
Our Lord arose - He conquered death and sin, - 
For this we praise Thee, Lord - This Easter Morn.

"If I be lifted up," the Master said,
"All men will I unto me draw!" And lo!
East - west - north - south - they come and lowly bend
Before the Master, for He heals each woe.
Be glad today! and voice your thankfulness,
And send His message unto all mankind.
Remotest earth shall still the Master bless
And Easter morning all shall surely find.

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One Easter Day

The breath of lilies, stateliness of palms,
And clinging green in vine-like draperies,
And music, soaring, sobbing, filling hearts,
With throbbing, swelling, new-born wonderment,
The ever new-born wonderment that comes 
Each Easter-tide; all these a setting formed
For Easter memories, and Easter joy.

The Knights, with reverent mein the long aisles trod,
In heart responding to the earnest call
To "Come," and see the place where lay the Lord."
All truth, investigation doth demand.
'Tis linked to God, and will endure the test;
'Tis linked to man in each experience
That wings his heart, or bids him upward climb
Along the chain that binds him to his God.
Not by the senses is the truth discerned;
Nor hath cold reason power its depths to pierce.
'Tis to the soul that Christ's truth is revealed.
Oh, come and see, and answer to His love.

With evening shades, the children came, and talked
Of Jesus, of His love and sacrifice,
And maidens sang again the glad refrain,
"The Lord is risen! He is risen indeed!"
In pictured scenes, the pastor to them spoke.
Life is so precious; 'tis a joy to live,
If living means both love and sacrifice.
To be doth ever far transcend to do,
And each means both, if linked in Jesus' love. 

If you will go this evening to the church,
And listen with bent head and closed eyes,
Far up among the rafters, you will hear
A murmured repetition of the day.
It is the spirits of the songs and flowers,
And reverent words, and earnest prayer and praise,
That, blending spirit voices now proclaim - 
"The Lord is risen, come - oh! - come, and see!"

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Lovest Thou Me?

The Master knows His own. Each voice
Is in harmonious chords discerned,
Or absence noted. Dost thou sound
The note of praise? or silent wait
For others to proclaim, in tones
That reach the deep blue arch of heaven,
Rebounding but to fall like dew
In blessing, with the message sweet,
"Behold the Saviour of the world!"

The Master will not "Silence" call;
But leading still the chorus grand,
Will bend His head to listen for
Thy voice; and maybe, come and stand
By thee and whisper, "Lovest though me?"
Be sure that thou dost answer with
A burst of song. Else thou might'st touch
His wounded side, and make it bleed
A fresh; or add another thorn
To pierce His brow. What answerest thou
To this His question - "Lovest thou me?"

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Where Lilies Bloom

Where lilies bloom
  In quiet, shady nooks,
There tall trees wave,
  And birds sing all day long. 

There brooklet hums,
  And thoughts of tenderness
Swing lightly upward,
  Bearing perfumed praise.

Tall ferns and clinging moss
  Green carpets weave,
Where, seeking food
  Small living things appear.

A shaft of sunlight
  Through a bending bough
Reveals the scene,
  White gleaming lilies there. 

Fair lilies blossom every, everywhere
The earth is circled with their rainbow hues.

Sometimes on mountain's
  Rocky slopes they grow,
Pale changing hues,
  Deep-throated, stately blooms.

And sometimes wave
  A scarlet flair across
The plains, an oriflamme,
  A benison for all who wander there.

Each claims his own,
  Blue, yellow, scarlet,
White, all shades between.
  Not flaunting - no - 

BUt sweetly springing up
  To greet all friends who come.
And all are friends;
  None ever had a word or thought
Unkind, where lilies bloom.

So, in your heart they blossom
  Day by day, in sympathy
With all your daily need.

Each flower of song,
  Or sighing, tears or joy,
All patient toil
  And every helping hand,

Are lilies, growing 
  Strong and beautiful,
Or crowded back
  If in infertile soil.

Faith grows them best,
  And love, and joyous days,
And largest blooms result
  From kindly deeds. 

They love young children's voices,
  Songs of birds, and sunbeams
Shining through a cloud-rent sky.

But most of all, the sounds of home,
Just everyday, low-voiced in gentleness;
There lilies of the soul
Grow happily. 

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The Canyon's Loveliness

Last night I stroolled through moonlit silverness
Far up the canyon, where the water slips
Along its rocky bed; where tall trees wave
In fitful mountain breeze; and nestlings stir,
Their low notes stilling as the breezes die.

The shadows hover where the willows bend;
Out from his hidden den a prowler creeps,
He slinks along the ragged path to crouch
In readiness to spring upon his prey.

All day sounds gone, all night sounds hushed, serene,
I cross the creeke on stepping stones, and laugh
To see the rippels silvering. I climb the highest cliff and lean far out to look
Down from the beetling crag, then dance along
A shelving trail, down to the deeps again.

I sit and rest where sycamores bend low,
And marvel when the morning dawns that I
Am facing nature through a window-frame.

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As Grows the Lily

If thou would'st tell me, Mariposa, fair
To look upon, so sweet, so delicate,
So garceful, whence came all thy daintiness;
If thou the secret of thy lovliness 
Would'st give to me so I might blossom too,
And bring, at least to one, a happiness
'Til now unknown, would not thy mission be
Thus best fulfilled?

How dost thou thrive amidst
Such barrenness? Doth not a chill strike through
Thy heart, when Cameron's Cone his shadow throws
On thee? Doth all the rush of mountain stream,
With wearying monotone, drown the sweet song
For which thou listenest, when birds and bees, 
And tiniest forms of life bring unto thee
Their confidences?

Can'st thou be content
To hear and not reciprocate? Or - is
Thy voice attuned to spirit symphonies,
To which no humanear can e'er attain?

Whence came the purple stains around thy throat;
The bordering band of sable, and the glow 
Of light thy crimply triple petals bear?
Are all they rootlets nourished from the forms
That hide themselves beneath the dull red soil?
Do topaz, emerald, and amethyst
Lend of their coloring for beauty's sake?

How brave thou art, mid all this vastness! Still
Undaunted by the frown of Cameron's Cone,
Or Eagle mountain's wooded heights. So brave
Thou dost not mourn, though all the world should say
"This is a little thing," since 'tis thy best.

Is this thy secret - that from every breeze,
And sunbeam, and from all that comes to thee
Above - below the sod thou dost divide
Unto thyself such mead of strength and grace
As shall combine to fill GOd's plan for thee?
As grows the lily - so shall grow my life.

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The Cypress Trees of Riverside

The Cypress trees of Riverside
Are loveliest at the Dawn.
The Day-god kindling all his fires,
Reflecting, silvering every spire;
And down below, the rustling Palms
Look up and whisper "Day has come";
While in an Elm tree far away,
A mocking bird proclaims the Day.

The Cypress trees of Riverside
Long shadows fling across the lawn;
The westering sunlight, roseate hued,
Its farewell glories send to enfold
Dear friends of this blest Day.

Adown the shaded, tree-laced street,
Where strangers pause - and lovers meet,
"Oh! lovely, lovely trees!" she cries
"Ah! - lovely - lovely!" someone sighs - 
Nor knows a tree is nigh.

The Cypress trees of Riverside,
At cheery moon - or eventide,
When moonlight filters through their spires - 
Or, through the clouds, a glint of stars - 
Is mine to keep - is mine to bless - 
Is mine, whatever may betide.
Dear Cypress trees of Riverside.

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The Clear Crystal Stream

The south wind sang in the night time
  A small, sweet trilling,
  A happy-voiced thrilling,
A calling to come - come - oh follow!
  Out - out in the moonlight,
  Across the broad lowlands,
  Out under the pine trees,
  And up, where the craigs lean
  And listen - - I follow! I follow!

Oh, hark to the rivulet slipping so swiftly
Over the mosses. Green sifted moonlight,
Emeralds, opals, laughing and rippling,
Singing the song to the clear, crystal stream.

	Sunlight or moonlight, 
	Starlight or darkness,
	Sing Thou, forever,
	O! Clear Crystal Stream.

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The Path Through the Woods

There's a dear little path through the woods,
	It follows a wandering brook,
At the foot of the hill there's a clear limpid pool
	That mirrors the tree overhead,
And often at sunset I sit and watch her face in the pool,
	As she leans from the hilltop
	To call "Are you waiting?"
For Mary lives up on the hill. 
Then, ah! how I fly up to meet her!
And Mary comes quickly to me.
	And on through the sunset
	Together we wander
Down the dear little path through the woods.

As I follow the path through the woods
    I dream of the day soon to come,
When I shall no longer wait here for my Mary,
    For she will be with me at home.
Then on through our life we together 
  Will follow life's beautiful road,
  	And Mary says, "Maybe
  	We'll find up in Heaven
A dear little path through the Woods."
What though through Eternity's measure
Together forever we roam,
	Sure, nowhere could ever
	Be found such a treasure
As Mary with me in our home. 

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Trails

I think of all the paths that I have trod,
Some leading to, and through, far forest deeps;
Some tracing rocky silences, to merge anon
Where mountain fastness repel our feet.

Of these, or many more inviting paths,
The one I hold most dear - most truly dear! 
Trails closely by a singing brook,
And pauses at a low brown gate,
That, swinging with a wavering creak,
Invites to follow further, where an open door
Reveals a home of quiet happiness.

There in my boyhood days,
And on through youth,
The smiling hours wrought joyous, free delight.
Each morning invitiation gave,
And twilight sighed in exquisite repose.

Work - play - the lovelight in my mother's eyes;
My father's guiding hand to industry;
We children, daily caring each for each;
Ah! Happy life! and happy winding paths;
And happy dreams that bind me still to home. 

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A Snowflake's Message

A thought came to my heart today,
Born of the falling flakes of snow;
A thought that made my pulses leap,
And all my being rise on wings
Of joy. My soul an echo sang
Of angels' harmonies, and I was glad.

For, as the snow doth cover all
Defects, doth turn to beauty each
Imperfect form; dark places fill
With light, and light reflects like gems
Of purest water, scintillating joy;
So, every one who stands beneath
The Light that came to Bethlehem,
Shall be enfolded in its rays,
Made perfect, pure, absolved from sin,
Crowned with the gems, whose glory is
To tell the world that God is Love. 

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Roses and You

The roses a century ago
  May shed their fragrance still,
The rose of yesterday through faded now
  Its mission doth fulfill.

But O, the rose of just this blest today,
  Its heart now open to the sun,
Its loveliness enfolds you on your way,
  Gay blossom, rioting till day is done.

When they a memory tomorrow lie,
  Their petals faded, life no longer gay,
How I shall mourn the moments that have flown,
  And you so far away.

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Memory Roses

Golden roses clambering round my window,
Frname a view of mountain, vale and sea.
Crimson roses flaunting in the garden, 
Bring the songs of other days to me.

Roses of the days of early childhood,
Roses of far youth and days of yore,
Roses gathered in the far-off wildwood,
Cherished for the happiness they bore.

All those roses twining here to-day, love,
Binding dreams of past and future too,
Sing themselves a hymn of praise to you, love,
Fragrant crimson glory - all of you. 

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Dawn

Have you seen the morning dawning
O'er the hill tops on the meadow - 
On the broad expanse of meadow
With its grasses and its daisies,
And its dancing, pebbled brooklet
Running swift to meet the river?

Did you notice how the sunbeams
Came in ever widening light shafts
Glinting all with golden radiance,
Daisies, buttercups and grasses,
All the pebbles in the brooklet,
All the waving of the sedges,
Every rock, and every thistle
Turned to gold to greet the morning;
Then with onen great flood of glory
Bursts the sunlight o'er the hill tops!

Quiet peace o'er all things shedding,
Peace so full of joy expectant,
Peace that lifts the nodding flowers,
Holds aloft the heads of grasses,
Turs the brooklet hum to laughter;
And the jewels on the grasses,
And the daisies and the sedges;
Jewels that the long night left there,
That were pearls in the white moonbeams;
All these gems now glint and glisten, 
Taking on soft rainbow colors,
Showing facets in the sunlight
Like the diamonds of Golconda, 
Like the diadems of princess
When the wedding bells are ringing,
And the crowds in acclamation
Cry, "Long live thet Queen, our soverign!"

Thus the jeweled star-eyed meadow
Rises up to meet the Day King. 

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Chrysanthemums

Chrysanthemum against the window pan!
Thy sun-touched petals bear a golden store
Of summer joys. Upon the dull, cold clouds
A memory of warm, soft light reflects;
And all the long, dark street, doth share thy glint
And gleam. The weary day, its burden drops;
And life is sweeter, faith is stronger, for
The sight of thee in all thy loveliness.

Chrysanthemum against the window pane!
So white! So white! Thou speakest of purity
And peace. I fain would rest my aching heart
Upon thy feathery beauty. Of the grace,
By thee possessed in such abundant store,
Bestow on me a portion. Angel hands
Have shaped the draperies that shield thy heart
Teach me the fashioning of heart and robe,
That I, like thee, may daily joy bestow.

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A Potpourri

Your far-flung vision needs must travel fast
To compass scenes, whence came these fragrant dreams - 
  An English garden sent the Lavender.
  It grew where Avon hastens to the sea.
There Avon's bard oft stopped to pluck the flowers,
  Their fragrance mingling with his minstrelsy.

  In far Algeria's Blazing sun
  Bask rose geranium fields of joy.
    Sun's essence crowding
    Sweet serrated leaves,
  Combining desert airs, and melodies
    Of Arab voices
    Floating on the wind.

So India's spices come in varied form,
Replete with vagrant Himalayan sighs. 
  Old India! rising from somnolent past, to bring
Her contribution to The Fairy Ring.
All these - and California's rose leaves, grown
In one dear garden. Varied coloring
  There making Paradise; and copious showers
  Of blessing for each happy wanderer there.

  This Trilogy - 
    Old England - India -
    Algiers - with California base
    And Italy's jar - 
A setting make for this to you, my friend - 
  Gay Christmas - and New Year
    Replete with Peace.

Serene! That word of words - the loveliest!
So - Be Serene - and thou wilt be at Peace. 

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The Sunbeams

Ten little Sunbeams, through a crack they shine,
Spider built a cobweb, and then there were nine.

Nine little Sunbeams, early shine and late,
Cobweb caught a house-fly, and then there were eight.

Eight little Sunbeams, coming straight from heaven,
Down fell a dead leaf, and then there were seven.

Seven little Sunbeams, cunning little wicks,
Wind sifted dust in, then there were six.

Six little Sunbeams, very much alive,
Wren dropped a tail feather, then there were five.

Five little Sunbeams, shining on the floor,
Dandelion seed came, then there were four.

Four little Sunbeams, busy as a bee,
Breeze brought a rose-leaf, then there were three.

Three little Sunbeams, shining brave and true,
Gossamer came sailing by, then there were two.

Two little Sunbeams, having lots of fun,
Cloud made a shadow, then there was one.

One little Sunbeam, shining all alone,
Wind blew the crack full, then there were none.

Banished were the Sunbeams, woman came and then,
Broom washed the crack clean, and then there were ten. 

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Acrostic

Life in its fullness is to know thy God.
Out of His love each day thy soul renew,
Not seeking self, but lifting others, win
Great forward steps for all humanity.
For naught of perfect peace to man shall come,
Enshrouded in a mantle of self-love.
Live for the Master; help thy brother man,
Lift burdens, shed the sunshine of the heart
O'er high and lowly, rich and poor alike.
Where e'er the Master led, in His steps tread.

  *   *   *

  Thus did the children's poet show to them the way
  To add new beauty to their lives each day. 

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Liberty

Always the kneeling nations have bent low
To kiss the feet of Liberty, each with
A prayer for self-aggrandizement; and thus
In lowly attitude have kept in view
Clear-marked dividing lines.

    As if the Lord
Had made of different clay, and sifted each
Some higher privilege. "To me and mine
Be highest, purest, best, O Liberty!"

But one glad day - the joyous sun ne'er rose
With happier grace, nor looked upon the world
With kindlier wish - in ecstacy of thought
One chanced to look afar into the heavens,
And caught a gleam upon the vaulted blue
That, traced back, shone with ever-broadening shaft
From t he true eyes of Liberty; and thereupon
Rang bell-like, resonant cry, "O Liberty,
Thou art for everyone!"

    A million swords
Leaped toward the sky; east - west - was thundered forth
"True Liberty for all!"

		  The oppressor's hand is stayed.
Henceforth, into the Goddess' eyes
The nations gaze; and their light reveals
To each, that Liberty means Brotherhood,
And pure, unselfish, sacrificing love. 

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A Memory of Lincoln

Touched by an artist's hand the picture hangs
On memory's walls. The light of noonday falls
On the fair scene. A golden noonday, when
The tide of Lincoln's life flowed highest.

There a boat, and leaving it, that man, long since
Heaven crowned with choicest verdict, "This, a man
Who loved his fellowmen"; and through all time
Shall wreaths of glory grow around his name.

Beyond, a garden, where three negroes toil
For scanty living. Seeing him they cease
Their labor, and one aged man, his hair
Snow-white, his tottering limbs, his wrinkled face
Bespeaking his great age, and failing health,
With eager haste comes forward, throws himself
Upon his knees at Lincoln's feet, and cries,
"O! My Saviour!"

How tenderly, the tears of sympathy 
In his deep eyes, a flash of joy upon
His care-seamed face, the great man stoops
And lifts the prostrate negro to his feet,
Saying with solemn gladness, "Give to God
The glory!"

	So the Christ doth stoop and lift
Tthe veriest beggar that the earth doth bear;
All shackles fall away at His command;
All bonds are loosed; sorrow is dispelled;
For everyone who kneels to Him and cries,
"O! My Saviour!"

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In Arlington

Just yesterday the tramp of myriad feet,
The roll of muffled drum - the long, long roll - 
The thousand flags half-mast, the waiting throngs,
The booming guns, the tolling, tolling bells,
All honor offered as The Unknown Dead
Was carried to his grave in Arlington.

Whose boy was he? Do you remember when
His clear eyes looked in wonder on the world,
Or smiled responsive to your joy in him?
Just baby eyes and baby helplessness;
Then how he played in boyhood's sunny hours,
And how he carried burdens for you all.

Was it prophetic that his smile should be
So comprehensive, even when he marched
To join the forces sailing far away
To battle for that thing which Freedom means?
Not knowing, caring, thinking even, if
Some day his grave should be in Arlington.

O, men and women of this Freedom Land,
Walk carefully, I pray you, carefully!
Lest needs must be
Another unknown grave
  In Arlington.

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Premier and President

They met for council, in a quite place,
And told in simple words their hopes and fears, - 
For Nations' needs compel both hopes and fears - 
So, weighing each keen thought impartially,
They ventured bravely out to find a line
That all might safely walk and strife renounce.

Then, with the council ended - talk all done - 
They looked into each other's eyes and lo! the line
Was all marked out. A clear, unwavering path.
And clasping hands, felt in their souls assurance deep,
And claimed and named it PEACE.

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One Little Rift

It is a little hard, my friend that was,
That, for a little rift in my poor lute,
You should condemn the hand that holds it too,
And stifle with your frown, the notes that well
From long pent soul, in gladness pouring fourth
The tones that meant to be so sweet and pure.
It is a little hard to stem the tide,
Because my friend no longer joys to hear,
And crush back to its source the lilting song
That thus expressed the thought of liberty.

And yet - I chide you not; to ear attuned
To grand, deep-swelling harmonies and chords
That blend with thought ecstatic all the sounds
That greet the soul in heaven-wrought symphonies,
My little melody in minor key
With one poor, faltering, hesitating note.
Must needs be disappointing to your soul.
Must needs compel a doubt of grave import;
And doubt is mildew to the purest love.
It creeps upon it, silent, gray and chill,
Enfolds complete - a shroud - for lo! 'tis dead!

When all is over - and the tolling bell,
The rhythmic monotone in our two souls
Reminds of other, brighter, happier days,
You'll say, "I'm sorry, dear, - I did not know
As now, that 'twas in me the fault all lay.
I was not patient, did not give your soul
Time to expand its wings and try to fly."
And you will weep; and maybe - take my lute,
And, frozen, by your frown, with its throat
You'll find the very tone you longed to hear. 

A little hard! - to tear you from my heart,
And know that opposite to love will come
And fill the shrine, so sacred once to you,
Nor dare to put a hand to hold you there
Lest thought of scorn should shadow your dear face.

A little! Oh - my God! was it purposely
Thou didst emplant within the human heart
Divine extremes - love - hate - asunder far
As the two poles of all the universe! 
The one encircling all the Great White Throne;
Imparting melody to every note.
That sounds the praises of the Trinity.

Imparting joy unspeakable to every soul
That lifts itself responsive to Thy face;
The other - of intensity the same,
Yet opposite in every quality.
Cold, cold, and colder yet, the heart will grow
That takes a vestige to itself of hate.

And then we say "a little!" And we turn
And face the world, and think within our hearts
That all the past with its sweet harmony
Is put away. We even sing a song
With head held high; and try to face the sun,
And speak with freedom of our care-free life,
And vow, no more to let a thought of love
Or any tenderness for human kind,
Disturb our calm. But when the night shades fall -
Oh, Night! Why dost thou come with retrospect
And foil our plans - and make us see again
The one oasis in our desert lives!

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Sympathy

A flower-covered casket, and within
A face whose light had fled. THe lines that marked
The pain-drawn mouth were grievous, and the eyes
Still wore and upward, outward, longing look.

I asked her story, and was told a tale
Of shut-in life; of days spent full of toil
At home, abroad, self-sacrificed that all
Might joy from her endeavor. None e'er asked
To be refused, a favor at her hands.

Her soul it was, that shut into itself
Had failed to find a note of sympathy.

Once she had found a listener, and poured
With glad vehemence all her soul's pent and thought
In willing ears. The chord of sympathy
vibrated 'till its music charmed, and though
The cause of her life sorrow still remained,
Its pain was soothed. It may be that she made
Unreasoning demands, but when she found
That only once could such response be given,
The flowers of sympathy are shortest lived,
No voice could e'er repeat a perfect song,
What e'er the theme, - her very being shrank,
And thinned, or took unto itself no joy,
But silent, yearning, mourning, drooping, lay
At last with folded hands and far-off gaze,
And ceased to live.
  No, 'twas not love she craved,
But life's great comforter, Sweet Sympathy.

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To You Dear One

I know that service speaks the heart's true love,
Yet do I joy to look into thine eyes,
And talk of all that in thee I admire.

I fain would weave a chaplet of the words
That name thy charms, yet strive in vain, for all
Is better voiced in this, that tells the whole -
A noble, sympathetic womanhood.

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Confidence

How strong the network of the Father's love!
Fishers of men! Have confidence! No mesh
Shall break, no parting cord let naught return
To seas of deep despair. No words can tell
The glory of its folds; no symphony
Impart a knowledge of its gentleness.
Across the continents - east, west, north, south,
'Tis gathering all the world, and God's own hand
In such sweet durance, nearer, nearer, still
Beneath the shadow of His sheltering wings. 

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Recompense

I dig and delve, and find a shining thing,
A diamond that long hath hid itself
From human eyes; and, with long, wearing toil
I rub its crust away,
Grind off its roughness, bring its beauties out,
And polish it; 'til, on its facets brightn
The heaven's own sunlight pauses to reflect
In rainbow tints and dazzling rays.

Completed, perfect, fairest of all gems,
I give it to the world, 
And think to hear some mention of my toil,
Some word, though small, appreciation still
Of hours of labors, plans, and hopes and fears.
But though the world accepts the gift with joy,
And life is brightenend, burdens rolled away,
Sorrows dispelled and happieness renewed,
The giver in the background stands, forgot,
No word of commendation, thanks or praise;
The very brightness of his gift but casts
The darker shadow where he stands - forgot. 

And so my heart is sad.
My happiness is clouded; my bright gem,
So long the center of my life, is gone,
Yet have I this, which always soothes my pain,
Nor ever shall the thought from me depart,
That, though the day be one of sun or rain,
Though world appreciate, or friends forget,
God keeps for us, in His great treasure house,
The spirit product of our every toil.
And sometime, somewhere, in the sweet some day,
His thought of us shall be our diadem. 

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Good-Night

Emelie prays. The curtains drawn aside,
The sash thrown wide, she, kneeling, leans far out,
Her soul with Nature's fullness magnified.
While yearnings strain soul's boundaries to read
Complete the riddle of the universe.
"Great God! All Thy creations bid me seek
Thy Face! for Thou alone Thy mysteries
Of Love and Power interpretation give."

Emelie prays. The crowded stars look down,
And reach to touch her clasped white hands;
To read the holy message of her eyes;
To fold her lovingly and list entranced
To lips low murmuring, - "O God! Thy Love
Doth voice itself in myriad beauteous forms.
How tender is Thy thoughtn! I thank Thee, oh
My Father! for Thy great Love to mankind."

Emelie prays. Far over ocean's stretch
Thought ships transport to flower strewn other ways;
And friends respond to spirit's touch. "O God!
Protect and bring to purest heights each life
So dear to me - to Thee! My Fatherland
Crowd to the broadest, keenest being. Speak
Thyself, Oh God! in every law and deed.
So shall tnhe Nation's crown be blessedness."

Emelie prays. "To this great land that stands
For Liberty, give clearer sightn, O God!
To read Thy plans. Upbuild Thy Church. Compel
Thy ministers to Living Light; constrain
All dear unspoken friends to happiness
Unperishable." Then in vision pass
The souls of each, as now, as stronger will 
And purpose would to grander being lift.

Emilie prays. "Forgive me O my God!"
For Christ, my Master's sake. Weave Thou my life
In radient lines of love and praise to Thee, 
And service to mankind." Unseen, unheard,
A hand is passed o'er lifted head, across
Her praiseful lips, soft touches prayerful eyes
Sweet comfort, love, and benediction gives.
Then, from Emelie's heart, "Good night, my Lord."

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Dependence

When first the stars were placed
To swing eternal incense to the King,
In her great effort to be true, one cried
"It is so hard to keep in time and tune.
My orbit is so great, I fear to lose
A moment's time to rest lest worlds conflict
And chaos come. In this vast company
I'm all alone. None understands my care."

Another, hearing, sighed, "Alas, I, too,
Am anxious; for I see that much depends
On steady, forward movement, and the strain
Doth rack each fiber of my being. I
Am lonely. Wold that I might cease to be."

Then through the universe the plaint arose,
The murmur swelled into a wail of woe
That reached the far throne of the King of Kings.
His hand commanded silence, and His voice
Was full of love and understanding of
Their needs. "I know thy efforts, and thy cares;
Lend each thy strength to help the other on.
Henceforth the whole wide universe shall be
Together bound by chords of sympathy."

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To My Friend

Just as you passed me by, the other day,
A thought rang mournfully within my heart,
My little friend; and, like the dolorous toll
Of funeral knell, the thought reverberates
Within my soul. And this the thought that makes
The quick tears flow, or with a dumb despair
The fountian clogs - that you and I, at some
Near day, must part - must part - my friend,
Dear friend, we two must part!

I had not dreamed that life could be so full;
For nobody had warped my soul, until
Your coming thrust aside the crusts, compelled
Responsive chords, and you and I, in joy,
Perfected harmony. New visions came;
And heights, the dreamy past has never known,
Were scaled. The touch of hand, of heart, of soul,
A very Eden made. And must it cease? 
Dear friend, must all this cease?

Or shall we still, tho' separated far,
Nor ever touching eartly hands again,
Nor ever gazing in each other's eyes,
Nor ever hearing your dear, tender voice;
And only memories of each touch, and look,
And tone, shall bring you near; shall these same cords
Still bind our souls, and make our upward way
A growing joy? Not distance shall divide,
Dear friend, you are still mine!

Oh, friend of years whose happiness has been
Beyond all speaking! Well I know that we
Must needs rest in Father's arms;
Must needs lean heavily, else would the heart
Break with the thought of distance, and the pain
Of knowing that on earth we meet no more.
Come swift, Oh, Day! when, on the Heavenly Hills,
We meet again, and meeting soul to soul,
Begin a day of joy forever more. 

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My Nannie's Dreams

  Hear on the patio balcony I sat
And watched my Nannie work among her flowers.
So tall and slender, with such tender grace, 
She hither, thither, fitted down the path;
Embodinent of youth and gaiety.
   Ah youth! Dear youth! I sighed, to be once more
	Myself of long ago! To dance again!

  Then Nannie in the fountain's mirrored bowl
Espied me, dropped her load of gathered flowers,
And with a gay salute and clear "Hoo-hoo,"
Came flying up the winding patio stairs,
And tucked an openinig rose above my ear;
Then sank on knees, her arms around me close,
Her head upon my lap. 

    "O Granny love,
  You are so sweet, so dear. When life has crowned
Me too, and brought me to the sunset hours;
When I have won the cares of womanhood,
Have joyed in service, led my loved ones up
To dearest, best things; given them the keys
To Heaven's high recompense; I want to sit
Like you - a benison - my Granny dear."

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When Amy Paints

  The flowers hidden in her brush
Flow gently down, and spread themselves
    Around the cup
   Close nestled in her hand;
A shading here and there, a hint of space,
  And lo! a wreath of roses blooms
  Forever on the china page. 

  If you will open yonder door
And throw the light full on the wall,
   Just there, beyond that drapery,
A canvas circled by an ancient frame,
  - Dull gold now, with deep shadows telling age - 
  Will show you how my Amy looked when first
  I brought her home.
   Her dear blue, smiling eyes,
  The golden curl caressing her white neck.
  
  A Gainsborough? Yes - Oh, no. Her grandmother
Sat for the portrait - but 'tis Amy too;
As it was Amy's mother, and our child.
And this dear Amy sitting by me now.
  Five Amies? Yes, and every one as like
  As dewdrops glistening in the morning sun.

  But if you would ecstatic joy behold, 
'Tis when my Amy pants a butterfly.
Just yesterday, upon that drooping spray
One folded wing on wing - a lovely sight - 
Then lifted, swaying, dipped into a flower,
  And soared away - a golden arabesque
  Against the blue.
   My Amy's face!!

See yonder vase? A score of lilting, swaying dreaming butterflies.

    O! do you think - if I might take her brush - 
  And hold it - move it - so - as Amy does,
  O - might it be that I - I too - dear joy!!
  That I - that I might paint a butterfly?

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To Louise on Her Birthday

Many blessings will come to you,
Blessings showered from those who love you.
Blessings mirroring the faces
Of the dear ones by the fireside,
By the fireside in the evening,
When, the day's work all completed,
Pleasant hours are filled with music;
With the sound of happy laughter;
Sounds of voices softlf telling
Of the days that were - and will be.

Oh! of all the best of blessings
That are yours now, that will yours be,
None exceed your home, your dear ones,
All the love you cherish for them,
All their wealth of love for you dear. 

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Birthday Meaning

A birthday means another loan from God,
With promise of fair skies and happy hours,
And never less is his whose eyes are wide
To follow beckonings of the Highest Guide.

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Croonings

The little lad lies in my arms,
  He cuddles down
  And croons with me.
We rock and sing
And laugh and croon again.

He looks into my eyes,
  A softer tone, contented sigh,
His eyelids close; my laddie is asleep.
Ah! must I some day let him go
Into the flare and jar of other ways!

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Rosemary

Today a spray of rosemary was given me.
  A friend of other days
  With happy memory
Recalled the "used-to-be's" and strung them all
A gleaming strand of Blessing Beads.

Now in my hand they lie.
  I press them to my lips;
Their soothing texture
  Lulls my soul to rest.

Rosemary and Blessing Beads,
Sleeping my dreams are best.

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Choose!

Which way today, my boy, up hill or down?
  Look earnestly either way - 
The upward path will lead to a crown,
But the path down hill
You can go if you will - 
  But I know you'll rue the day.

There're rocks in the way as you climb the hill,
  So place your feet with care;
There are widening views, and a laughing rill,
And a place to rest
If you do your best,
  And joy in treasures rare.

Good things of life are along this path,
  Health, happiness, love and home;
And never a fear of Father's wrath
Comes into the heart
Of the boy who will start
  And ne'er from this path roam.

The path down hill looks pleasant, I know,
  It runs so winding and smooth;
But the "penny slots" are gambling schools,
And "free from care"
Is satan's snare,
  'Twas ever the bane of youth.

The down hill path grows slimy and dark,
  And trouble will be your lot;
Soon sin and misery leave their mark, 
And you can't wipe out
Or put to rout,
  The stain of a single blot.

So where will you start today, my boy?
  Adown the darkening road?
Or up the hills of peace and joy - 
Where the light gleams clear,
And never a fear
  Will enter your blest abode?

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When Alice Sings

When Alice sings, I close my book
    And listen to each note;
  Each throbbing, soulful, pure, melodious note;
  Now lilting, soaring, gemmed with promises
    Of many throated harmonies;
  As if her soul must all soul's need express;
  Sweet cadences that swelling, swaying,
   Gliding lingeringly,
Blend all of life, and love, and hope, and faith,
   When Alice sings
     Her glory song.

When Alice sings in minor key,
  Soft-toned, with sweet, recurrent notes,
  Each word a tender thought of infinite care;
  A joyful tenderness, as if the world
    Held naught of worth
    Save that low, swinging crib,
  Where veiled blue eyes, and dimpled hands
  Tell all the world of love supreme,
   When Alice sings
     Her lullaby.

When Alice sings her merry thoughts,
    Her fingers fly among the keys,
    In trills and rills like wind blown leaves;
  A skylark soars her voice within,
  And tall blue flowers fling incense sweet,
    Joy bells ring clear - 
    The world is gay - 
    And life a perfect roundelay - 
   When Alice sings
     Her merry thought.

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Pals

Someone called "Harry!" and I looked around
The crowded street, and hoped to see a face
Familiar to the days when that dear name
Made dear by home and friends sweet voicing it,
Was all the name I dreamed of answering to.

But all were strange. Blank looks met questioning eyes,
And hurrying forms brushed rudely by.

Then - farther on - I saw two men stand close,
With hands on shoulders, eyes - deep, speaking eyes - 
Gazed in amaze; drawn faces, dumb surprise!
Strangers to me. I watched and wished - - 
Ah! how I wished that they - - - 

What! Stay! I know that smile!
A moment later and I stood beside them.
"Harry! Jim!" "What! Hal - why Hal, old boy!"
And then we laughed and swayed
With arms clasped closely - -
Laughed and swayed, and turned to seek
A quiet place where we might sit and talk. 
  Ye gods! How we did talk!

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My Valentine

I want thyself - not that thy hand should lie
Forever in my own, or ne'er thin eyes
Reflect aught but my face; for well I know
Best liberty of love is perfect trust;
And full, unbounded trust have I in thee.
But just to know thy soul is bound to me
By love-forged chains, each welded link so strong,
So firm, no earthly power could e'er suffice
To separate thyself - thy soul - from mine.

Long - long ago, in tribuet to thy charms
Upon the alter of unchanging love
I threw myself prostrate. And never thought
Is soul-voiced but of thee - to thee - for thee
Its incense swings. And never winged joy
Doth flutter to my heart, but thou - invoked
To hear its song, its tones doth weld with thy
Sweet low-voiced melody - blest harmony.
Dear Love - my soul claims thee - my Valentine.

So would I that thy coul should circle make
Complete with mine. In perfect sweet accord,
Reciprocating every longing thought.
Not seas, nor highest mountain steeps, nor vales
Of deepest depth of miles or misery - 
Not distances of time - or any space,
Or any measurement, shall separate
If love like this be ours - my Valentine. 

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I'm Glad Tonight

I'm glad tonight - just glad!
I, too, would pierce the clouds with song.
Straight from my earth-bound home
I'd soar into the blue,
And there with long-drawn note,
Ecstatic trills and rills
Of heavenly music, tell the wold
Of all the joy that came to me to-day.

Some moments of delight
Have been my own before
But evanescent as the dews of morn,
For how could I be sure
That her dear eyes had smiled,
Her cheeks grown rosier just for me?
I dared not hope.

You know how one warm breath of Spring
Will set us dreaming of the birds and flowers,
And all the sweet returning lilt of life
To the dead earth? And yet we know
That cold and frost, and maybe
Rifts of snow, may come again,
But - when, indeed, fair Spring doth come
All doubt doth vanish in delight of welcoming.

So - when today, swift turning
Around a corner on the street,
We chanced to meet, in glad surprise
Her soul leaped to her eyes - and I
Oh! do you know how blest it is 
To know for certainty that for eternity
The circle of your soul is made complete?
And so - I'm glad tonight - just glad!

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Yea or Nay?

Mae Margaret stood
  Upon the brink of womanhood,
And severed daisy petals,
      Yea - and Nay.

When half were torn
  She paused and gazed afar
With widened eyes,
To where a laurel wreath hung,
  Waiting to confirm
The verdict of uplifted, adoring eyes, 
Of waving hands experssing high acclaim,
And heads bowed low in deference;
  And saw herself
  Recipient of all.

Amazed she stood,
  Then turned to view the flower,
And strove again to make the count complete.
  "Which was it - yea, or nay?
  I cannot tell!"
Then tried to count the petals she had torn.

But some a vagrant breeze had blown away,
Some lay a close crushed mass
  Within her hand. 

Ah! who can tell
  What will the future bring!
And how shall sweet youth choose
  Which song to sing? 

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Home At Last

When you and I were seventeen
  A-many years ago,
    We did not dream
    That life could sing
So many songs of joyous spring,
  Could know such depths of woe.

Now you and I are seventy-seven,
  So swift the years have flown;
    We've reached the hilltop,
    Passed the crest,
Soon we will both be going west,
  To scenes undreamed, unknown. 

So - seventeen or seventy-seven - 
  What matter - since the Past
    Replete with effort,
    Crowned, serene,
With promises of life supreme
  Naught means save home at last.

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When I Get Home

When I get home
  I'll lie down on the grass
  And look up in the trees, and count the leaves,
  And listen to the flies and bugs and bees,
  And all the creeping things, and snails and toads,
  And everything that moves along the roads,
        When I get home.

When I get home
  I'll walk along the street
  And give a hearty "shake" to all I meet,
  And ask them how they are, and "how's your folks."
  And listen to their funny little jokes
  And tell them I am just so glad to be
  At home the dear old friends again to see,
        When I get home.

When I get home
  I never once will wish
  To see an iceberg, or hear the swish
  Of waves against the vessel in a fog
  Or wonder what is written in the log.
  Nor long again the ocean wide to roam,
  Because I will be so glad to be home,
        When I get home. 

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Many Mansions

Sometime - at noon, or eventide, mayhap at dawn,
  Or, when the islands far across the bay
  Are amethystine in the sunset ray,
    And all the clouds,
    Aglow with varied hue
    Are brilliancies
   Commingling with the blue; - 

But when it matters not - ;
In quietude - sometime,
    I shall reach out my hand
  And one will hold it firmly,
  Guide me through the sapphire gate,
    Along the pleasant way
    To where the many mansions be. 

My vision clearing, I shall see your hand,
Your flowing, glistering garments,
See your kindly face, and looking in your eyes, 
  Shall recollect, with recognition swft
Your promise to receive,
"That where I am, there ye may also be."
  Oh! marvelous Many Mansions!
  Oh! wondrous Jeweled Gates
  Oh! Gracious Welcoming.

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Last Notes

Late - the quiet dropping of Night's curtain
  Crowds life to stillness.
Adown the avenue
Wheels rushing by - 
  A laugh! a singing voice - 
    As if all happiness were centered. 

  The fog drifts in,
  Shrouding, shutting out the world.

Late - weaving of dreams;
Far visions of long ago.
  Sunbright valleys of loveliness;
    An old, old story.

  The breakers are dashing
  On a rock-bound coast.

Late - so late! wearying for one
  Who comes no more!
A silent life on a silent shore;
Days never ending,
  Night all too long.
    Finished - finished - Life's song.

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In Closing

The flowers are dead - Their drooping petals litter all the hearth. Then sweep them up and thow them on the coals, and as the red flames form their winding sheet, perhaps, from their grey ashes may be born to you a memory that you may care to keep - the memory of a flower's fragrant life.

Printed By
Young & McCallister
Los Angeles

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Newspaper Clipping

The following is the text found on a newpaperclipping taped to the back page of the book I have, with Medora's handwritten gift note to Phyllis (Medora's granddaughter).

CALIFORNIA, MONDAY MORNING, OCTOBER

PEDRO CUT

HER POEMS BETWEEN COVERS

Mrs. Medora Nickell of 3115 East Ocean boulevard, whose volume of poems, "Enoch," has just come from the press of a Los Angeles publishing house. Mrs. Nickell, who is a member of First Methodist church of this city, has interpreted a deep religious emotion in several of the sequences of her book.

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Widely Traveled Resident Of Long Beach Publishes Volume of Her Own Poems

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Again Long Beach breaks into the ranks of the poets, with the publication by the Primavera Press of Los Angeles of a slender volume, strikingly bound in blue: "Enoch, and Other Poems," by Medora D. Nickell.

Mrs. Nickell, whose home is at 3115 East Ocean, has been for many years a resident of Long Beach, interested in its cultural and intellectual development. The poems of the volume show a deep religious tone, sometimes borderingupon the mystic, and concerned not nearly so much with the perfection of rhythm.

Extensively Traveled

Extensive travel abroad and in Mexico has widened and mellowed Mrs. Nickell's very distinctive gift, and these poms have been written, not so much for publication as for expression of her own ideals and for her own pleasure. Their mood is meditative rather than robust, interpretative rather than objective.

Biblical lore, love of nature and reverent ideals inform all of the poems, which are, without exception, of serious intent. The long poem that gives the book its name, "Enoch" has its roots in the Bible story and is explained in an interesting page of notes following the title page. Neither it nor any of the poems in the book are intended for light appeal, nor is their meaning merely that of a passing fancy. They are of solid content treated with artistry and charm.

Artistic Volume

So closely knit are the poems that it would be unfair to dip in here and there to quote, for one loses the significance of the whole. The format of the volume is a striking bit of artistic work, blue and white, with water-marked and deckle-edged paper.

This concluding stanza from the poem, "Responsibility" probably contains Mrs. Nickell's real feeling toward life:

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"Unto myself alone I cannot live,
But must my dearest wish, my fairest hope
Lay down, a sacrifice to human needs,
All things to all men means naught to myself;
Nay - all to all men means much more to me."

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