Only a bit of color
— Waving upon the street;
Only a wind-whipped pennant
— Where the band plays shrill and sweet.

Yet the soldier's heart beats faster,
— And proud is the sailor's eye,
And the citizen's step is quickened
— When our flag is passing by.

Only a bit of color,
— Did I hear a body say?
True be the hearts that greet it
— Wherever it waves today!

Back of that bit of color
— Lies a nation's history,
And ahead of our splendid banner —
— Who knows what there yet may be?

Only a bit of color

One's-Self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.

Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,
The Modern Man I sing.

One! two! three!
Outside the school,
Three small ducks splash in a pool.

Quack! quack! quack!
That door is wide.
Say the ducks: " Let's peep inside. "

Flip! flap! flip!
A waddling row,
Right into the school they go.

One thing I of the Lord desire,
For all my way hath miry been:
Be it by water or by fire,
O make me clean!

If clearer vision Thou impart,
Grateful and glad my soul shall be;
But yet to have a purer heart
Is more to me.

Yea, only as the heart is clean
May larger vision yet be mine,
For mirrored in its depths are seen
The things divine.

I watch to shun the miry way,
And stanch the spring of guilty thought:
But, watch and wrestle as I may,
Pure I am not.

So wash Thou me without, within;

One that is ever kind said yesterday:
" Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,
And little shadows come about her eyes;
Time can but make it easier to be wise
Though now it seems impossible, and so
All that you need is patience."

Heart cries, " No,
I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.
Time can but make her beauty over again:
Because of that great nobleness of hers
The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,
Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways
When all the wild Summer was in her gaze."

One peak, stripped sheer,
another peak circles round;
the shortcut twists and turns
along the emerald stream.
Inches away, the heavens open
just above the trees;
writhing, meandering, 10,000 gullies
rise from your eyebrows!
A flying bridge of natural stone
leads to misty light;
a man beneath a shoulder-pole
looks down from bird-paths.
We would explore the source of the stream,
the deepest spot of all,
but flowing cloud, so vast and vague,
hides the immortals' altar.

One other bitter drop to drink,
—And then—no more!
One little pause upon the brink,
—And then—go o'er!
One sigh—and then the lib'rant morn
—Of perfect day,
When my free spirit, newly born,
—Will soar away!

One pang—and I shall rend the thrall
—Where grief abides,
And generous Death will show me all
—That now he hides;
And, lucid in that second birth,
—I shall discern
What all the sages of the earth
—Have died to learn.

One motion—and the stream is crossed,
—So dark, so deep!
And I shall triumph, or be lost

One of our race's greatest needs in this country today
Is a number of well supported and managed Y. M. C. A.;
Yes, in every city and town and hamlet around
Where the feet of our race treads over the ground.

Our young men need pleasure in various ways
As well as hard labor and study all day,
And there is no better place for them to be
Than in some well equipped and well managed Y. M. C. A.

And let us be awakened to the needs of today,
And make a sacrifice to support our Y. M. C. A.,
Then our young men will have some place to play

One noonday, at my window in the town,
I saw a sight--saddest that eyes can see--
Young soldiers marching lustily
Unto the wars,
With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry;
While all the porches, walks, and doors
Were rich with ladies cheering royally.

They moved like Juny morning on the wave,
Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime
(It was the breezy summer time),
Life throbbed so strong,
How should they dream that Death in rosy clime
Would come to thin their shining throng?
Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.

One night when I went down
Thames' side, in London Town,
A heap of rags saw I,
And sat me down close by.
That thing could shout and bawl,
But showed no face at all;
When any steamer passed
And blew a loud shrill blast,
That heap of rags would sit
And make a sound like it;
When struck the clock's deep bell,
It made those peals as well.
When winds did moan around,
It mocked them with that sound;
When all was quiet, it
Fell into a strange fit;
Would sigh, and moan and roar,
It laughed, and blessed, and swore.