Inspirational

    When I was but a little lad
    One thing I could not bear,
    It was to stand at mother's knee
    And have her comb my hair.

    They didn't keep boys' hair as short
    As it's kept now-a-days,
    And mine was always tangled up
    In twenty different ways.

    I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth,
    And say it wasn't fair -
    It was a trial, and no mistake,
    When mother combed my hair.

    She'd brush and brush each stubborn curl
    That grew upon my pate,
    And with her scissors nip and clip
    To make the edges straight.

    Then smooth it down until it shone,
    While I would grin and bear,
    And feel a martyr through and through,
    When mother combed my hair.

    She'd take my roun...

Ye have ploughed the field like cattle,
Ye have sown the dragon-seed,
Are ye ready now for battle?
For fighters are what we need.

Have ye done with taking and giving?
The old gods, Give and Take?
Then into the ranks of the living,
And fight for the fighting's sake.

Let who will thrive by cunning,
And lies be another's cure;
But girdle your loins for running,
And the goal of Never Sure.

Enough of idle shirking!
Though you hate like death your part
There is nothing helps like working
When you work with all your heart.

For the world is fact, not fiction,
And its battle is not with words;
And what helps is not men's diction,
But the temper of their swords.

For what each does is measure
Of that he is, I say:

The touches of her hands are like the fall
Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down
The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall;
The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp
Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown
The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,
The touches of her hands, and the delight -
The touches of her hands!
The touches of her hands are like the dew
That falls so softly down no one e'er knew
The touch thereof save lovers like to one
Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.

O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;
Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs;
Or - in between the midnight and the dawn,
When long unrest and tears and fears are g...

There are not many sins when once we sift them.
In actions of evolving human souls
Striving to reach high goals
And falling backward into dust and mire,
Some element we find that seems to lift them
Above our condemnation - even higher
Into the realm of pity and compassion.
So beauteous a thing as love itself can fashion
A chain of sins; descending to desire,
It wanders into dangerous paths, and leads
To most unholy deeds,
And light-struck, walks in madness toward the night.

Wrong oft-times is an over-ripened right,
A rank weed grown from some neglected flower,
The lightning uncontrolled:    flames meant for joy
And beauty, used to ravage and destroy.
For sins like these repentance can atone.
There is one sin alone
Which seems all unforgivable, ...

The hours have tumbled their leaden, monotonous sands
And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the West.
I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands;
To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours I detest.

I force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressed
Into ooze, and the sombre dirt spouts up at my hands
As I make my way in twilight now to rest.
The hours have tumbled their leaden, monotonous sands.

A twisted thorn-tree still in the evening stands
Defending the memory of leaves and the happy round nest.
But mud has flooded the homes of these weary lands
And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the West.

All day has the clank of iron on iron distressed
The nerve-bare place. Now a little silence expands
And a gasp of relief. But th...

    Sun on the eiderdown
    breaks tiny corners off the bedspread, declares green plants its bidding
    before summoning Fragonard's maiden
    off her swing - so richly dressed
    in picture from the sunlit wall.

    Expensive tabac from an imported humidor
    etches tiny leaves
    their stems as faces against the glass,
    rich aroma, trèsor, like the Jolly Tupper print
    preparing his bowl,
    drawing on the clay stem
    as if from a height watching ships come in.

    Smoke cold as blue fungus over outside buildings
    follows horses with hooves to split cobblestones
    stuck in the city's eye,
    more than mountains around
    the stone filled ravines
    of the rich man's heart.

Tumultuous rushing o'er the outstretched plains;
A wildered maze of comets and of suns;
The blood of changeless God that ever runs
With quick diastole up the immortal veins;
A phantom host that moves and works in chains;
A monstrous fiction, which, collapsing, stuns
The mind to stupor and amaze at once;
A tragedy which that man best explains
Who rushes blindly on his wild career
With trampling hoofs and sound of mailed war,
Who will not nurse a life to win a tear,
But is extinguished like a falling star;--
Such will at times this life appear to me
Until I learn to read more perfectly.

They were coming across the prairie, they were galloping hard and fast;
For the eyes of those desperate riders had sighted their man at last -
Sighted him off to Eastward, where the Cree encampment lay,
Where the cotton woods fringed the river, miles and miles away.
Mistake him? Never! Mistake him? the famous Eagle Chief!
That terror to all the settlers, that desperate Cattle Thief -
That monstrous, fearless Indian, who lorded it over the plain,
Who thieved and raided, and scouted, who rode like a hurricane!
But they've tracked him across the prairie; they've followed him hard and fast;
For those desperate English settlers have sighted their man at last.

Up they wheeled to the tepees, all their British blood aflame,
Bent on bullets and bloodshed, bent on bringing down their game...

    From State street bridge a snow-white glimpse of sea
    Beyond the river walled in by red buildings,
    O'ertopped by masts that take the sunset's gildings,
    Roped to the wharf till spring shall set them free.
    Great floes make known how swift the river's current.
    Out of the north sky blows a cutting wind.
    Smoke from the stacks and engines in a torrent
    Whirls downward, by the eddying breezes thinned.
    Enskyed are sign boards advertising soap,
    Tobacco, coal, transcontinental trains.
    A tug is whistling, straining at a rope,
    Fixed to a dredge with derricks, scoops and cranes.
    Down in the loop the blue-gray air enshrouds,
    As with a cyclops' cape, the man-made hills
    And towers of granite where the city crowds.
    Above...

Thither, as I look, I see each result and glory retracing itself and nestling close, always obligated;
Thither hours, months, years thither trades, compacts, establishments, even the most minute;
Thither every-day life, speech, utensils, politics, persons, estates;
Thither we also, I with my leaves and songs, trustful, admirant,
As a father, to his father going, takes his children along with him.

        --in Metii decenaat Judicis aures.
        HORAT.


As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay,
    Revolving much his own renown,
And hoping to add thereto a ray
    By putting duets and anthems down,

Sudden a strain of choral sounds
    Mellifluous o'er his senses stole;
Whereat the Reformer muttered "Zounds!"
    For he loathed sweet music with all his soul.

Then starting up he saw a sight
    That well might shock so learned a snorer--
Saint Cecilia robed in light
    With a portable organ slung before her.

And round were Cherubs on rainbow wings,
    Who, his Lordship feared, might tire of flitting,
So begged they'd sit--but ah! poor things,
    They'd, none of them, got the means of sitting.

"Having hear...

They hide in the brook when I seek to draw nearer,
Laughing amain when I feign to depart;
Often I hear them, now faint and now clearer
Innocent bold or so sweetly discreet.
Are they Nymphs of the Stream at their playing
Or but the brook I mistook for a voice?
Little care I; for, despite harsh Time’s flaying,
Brook voice or Nymph voice still makes me rejoice.

I

As newer comers crowd the fore,
We drop behind.
- We who have laboured long and sore
Times out of mind,
And keen are yet, must not regret
To drop behind.

II

Yet there are of us some who grieve
To go behind;
Staunch, strenuous souls who scarce believe
Their fires declined,
And know none cares, remembers, spares
Who go behind.

III

'Tis not that we have unforetold
The drop behind;
We feel the new must oust the old
In every kind;
But yet we think, must we, must WE,
Too, drop behind?

Make, for he loved thee well, our Merrimac,
From wave and shore a low and long lament
For him, whose last look sought thee, as he went
The unknown way from which no step comes back.
And ye, O ancient pine-trees, at whose feet
He watched in life the sunset's reddening glow,
Let the soft south wind through your needles blow
A fitting requiem tenderly and sweet!
No fonder lover of all lovely things
Shall walk where once he walked, no smile more glad
Greet friends than his who friends in all men had,
Whose pleasant memory, to that Island clings,
Where a dear mourner in the home he left
Of love's sweet solace cannot be bereft

The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms
Along the west; though driven from Aquitaine,
The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain;
And soft Italia feels renewed alarms;
The scimitar, that yields not to the charms
Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain;
Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain
Their tents, and check the current of their arms.
Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever
Known to the moral world, Imagination,
Upheave, so seems it, from her natural station
All Christendom: they sweep along (was never
So huge a host!) to tear from the Unbeliever
The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation.

You make our faults too gross, and thence maintain
Our darker future. May your fears be vain!
At times the small black fly upon the pane
May seem the black ox of the distant plain.

    A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
    Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie:
    Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie,
        I've seen the day
    Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie
        Out-owre the lay.

    Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
    An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy,
    I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie,
        A bonny gray:
    He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
        Ance in a day.

    Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
    A filly, buirdly, steeve, an' swank,
    An set weel down a shapely shank,
        As e'er tread yird;
    An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,
        Like ony bird.

    It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,
    Sin' thou was my guid-fa...

As one who strives a hill to climb,
Who never climbed before:
Who finds it, in a little time,
Grow every moment less sublime,
And votes the thing a bore:

Yet, having once begun to try,
Dares not desert his quest,
But, climbing, ever keeps his eye
On one small hut against the sky
Wherein he hopes to rest:

Who climbs till nerve and force are spent,
With many a puff and pant:
Who still, as rises the ascent,
In language grows more violent,
Although in breath more scant:

Who, climbing, gains at length the place
That crowns the upward track.
And, entering with unsteady pace,
Receives a buffet in the face
That lands him on his back:

And feels himself, like one in sleep,
Glide swiftly down again,
A helpless weight,...