Rosemary and Pansies — Story, Setting & Ideas

traveled darksome ways, And was tired, Who looked forth unto the end, And saw Death come as a friend Long desired?

Who it was that rests below Not earth’s wisest now may know, Or can tell; But these blossoms witness bear They who laid the sleeper there Loved him well.

In the dust that closed him o’er Planted they the garden store Deemed most sweet, Till the fragrant gleam, outspread, Swept in beauty from his head To his feet.

Still, in early springtime’s glow, Guelder-roses cast their snow O’er his rest; Still sweet-williams breathe perfume Where the peonies’ crimson bloom Drapes his breast.

Passing stranger, pity not Him who lies here, all forgot, ’Neath this earth; Some one loved him--more can fall To no mortal. Love is all Life is worth.

THE SHEPHERDS’ VISION

Upon the dim Judean hills, The shepherds watched their flock by night, When on their unexpectant gaze Outshone that vision of delight, The fairest that did ever rise To awe and gladden earthly eyes.

From no far realm those shepherds came, Treading the pilgrim’s weary road; Not theirs the vigil and the fast Within the hermit’s mean abode; ’Twas at their usual task they stood, When dawned that light of matchless good.

Not only to the sage and seer Life’s revelation comes in grace; Most often on the toiler true, Who, working steadfast in his place, Looks for the coming of God’s will, The glorious vision shineth still.

Our dead forefathers, mighty though they be, For all their power still leave our spirits free; Though on our paths their shadows far are thrown, The life that each man liveth is his own.

Time stands like some schoolmaster old and stern, And calls each human being in his turn To write his task upon life’s blackboard space; Death’s fingers then the finished work erase, And the next pupil’s letters take its place.

That he who wrote before thee labored well Concerns thee not: thy work for thee must tell; ’Tis naught to thee if others’ tasks were ill: Thou hast thy chance and canst improve it still. From all thy fathers’ glory and their guilt The board for thee is clean: write what thou wilt!

O giant oak, majestic, dark, and old, A hundred summers in the woodland vast, From the rich suns that lit thy glories past, In thy huge trunk thou storedst warmth untold; Now, when the drifted snows the hills enfold, And the wild woods are shaken in the blast, O’er this bright hearth thou sendest out at last The long-pent sunshine that thine heart did hold.

Like thee, O noble oak-tree, I would store From days of joy all beauty and delight, All radiant warmth that makes life’s summer bright, So that I may, when sunniest hours are o’er, Still from my heart their treasured gleam outpour, To cheer some spirit in its winter night.

I dare not hope that in this dawning year I shall accomplish all my dreams hold dear; That I, when this year closes, shall have wrought All the high tasks that my ambitions sought, And that I shall be then the spirit free, Strong, and unselfish, that I long to be.

But truly do I hope, resolve, and pray That, as the new year passes, day by day My footsteps, howsoever short and slow, Shall still press forward in the path they go, And that my eyes, uplifted evermore, Shall look forth dauntless to the things before; And when this new year with the old has gone, I still may courage have to struggle on.

Pale coin, what various hands have you passed through Ere you to-day within my hand were laid? Perchance a laborer’s well-earned hire you made; Some miser may have gloated long on you; Perhaps some pitying hand to Want outthrew; And, lost and won through devious tricks of trade, You may have been, alas! the full price paid For some poor soul that loved you past your due.

No doubt ’tis well, O imaged Liberty, You see not where your placid face is thrust, Nor know how far man is from being free, Bound as he is by money’s fateful lust, While to his anxious soul like mockery Seem those fair, graven words: “In God we trust.”