There is a river singing in between
Bright fringes of pawpaw and sycamore,
That stir to fragrant winds on either shore,
Where tall blue herons stretch lithe necks, and lean
Over clear currents flowing cool and thin
Through the clean furrows of the pebbly floor.

My own glad river. Though unclassic, still
Haunted of merry gods whose pipings fill
With music all thy golden willow-brakes!
Above thee halcyon lifts his regal crest;
The tulip-tree flings thee its flower-flakes,
The tall flag over thee its lances shakes:

When ice is thawed and snow is gone,
And racy sweetness floods the trees;
When snow-birds from the hedge have flown,
And on the hive-porch swarm the bees,—
Drifting down the first warm wind
That thrills the earliest days of spring,
The bluebird seeks our maple groves,
And charms them into tasseling.

He sits among the delicate sprays,
With mists of splendor round him drawn,
And through the spring's prophetic veil
Sees summer's rich fulfillment dawn:
He sings, and his is nature's voice,—
A gush of melody sincere

Light on the towns and cities, and peace for evermore!
The Big Five met in the world's light as many had met before,
And the future of man is settled and there shall be no more war.

The lamb shall lie down with the lion, and trust with treachery;
The brave man go with the coward, and the chained mind shackle the free,
And the truthful sit with the liar ever by land and sea.

And there shall be no more passion, and no more love nor hate;
No more contempt for the paltry, no more respect for the great;

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear,
But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,
To harvest weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's hand
Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar;
The angel sought so far away
I welcome at my door.

And all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,

My heart is resting, O my God!
I will give thanks and sing:
My heart is at the secret source
Of every precious thing.

I thirst for springs of heavenly life,
And here all day they rise;
I seek the treasure of thy love,
And close at hand it lies.

Mine be the reverent, listening love
That waits all day on thee,
The service of a watchful heart
Which no one else can see:

The faith that, in a hidden way
No other eye may know,
Finds all its daily work prepared,
And loves to have it so.

The joy is great of him who strays
In shady woods on summer days,
With eyes alert and muscles steady,
His longbow strung, his arrows ready.

At morn he hears the woodthrush sing,
He sees the wild rose blossoming,
And on his senses, soft and low,
He feels the brook-song ebb and flow.

Life is a charm, and all is good
To him who lives like Robin Hood,
Hearing ever, tar and thin,
Hints of the tunes of Gamelyn.

His greatest grief, his sharpest pain,
Is (when the days are dark with rain)
That for a season he must lie

Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank
That's staked out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank;
That's followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall
Of camps where men got gold in chunks and he got none at all;
That's prospected a bit of ground and sold it for a song
To see it yield a fortune to some fool that came along;
That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight,
Yet sees them take a million from the claims to left and right?
Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man to booze?

We ask not, Father, the repose
Which comes from outward rest,
If we may have through all life's woes
Thy peace within our breast:

That peace which suffers and is strong,
Trusts where it cannot see,
Deems not the trial-way too long,
But leaves the end with thee;

That peace which, through the billows' moan
And angry tempests' roar,
Sends forth its calm, unfaltering tone
Of joy forevermore;

That peace which flows serene and deep,
A river in the soul,
Whose banks a living verdure keep,
God's sunshine o'er the whole.

The sea is itself: it does not fear to be calm or stormy, grey or gold, loud or soft —
Why have I feared to be like the sea — myself?

Take us back to Mellerdrarmer, more than twenty years ago,
When our faith was yet untainted and the “gods” still ran the show;
When She wasn't Bought and Paid For (you can bet yer blarsted life!)
And the only lies we knew of were the Lies he Told his Wife.

(Or the lies he told his friend's wife just to set that lady right,
As to who her husband was with—as to where he stayed last night;
To corroborate a cobber in the sinful Days of Drink,
When our wives—unpoliticted—had too damn much time to think.)