We will be what we could be. Do not say, "It might have been, had not or that, or this."

No fate can keep us from the chosen way; He only might, who IS.

We will do what we could do. Do not dream Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve.

I hold, all men are greatly what they seem; He does, who could achieve.

We will climb where we could climb. Tell me not Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height.

What eagle ever missed the peak he sought?

He always climbs who might.

I do not like the phrase, "It might have been!"

It lacks all force, and life's best truths perverts For I believe we have, and reach, and win, Whatever our deserts.

MOMUS, G.o.d OF LAUGHTER

Though with G.o.ds the world is c.u.mbered, G.o.ds unnamed, and G.o.ds unnumbered, Never G.o.d was known to be Who had not his devotee.

So I dedicate to mine, Here in verse, my temple-shrine.

'Tis not Ares,--mighty Mars, Who can give success in wars.

'Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep Guard above us while we sleep, 'Tis not Venus, she whose duty 'Tis to give us love and beauty; Hail to these, and others, after Momus, gleesome G.o.d of laughter.

Quirinus would guard my health, Plutus would insure me wealth; Mercury looks after trade, Hera smiles on youth and maid.

All are kind, I own their worth, After Momus, G.o.d of mirth.

Though Apollo, out of spite, Hides away his face of light, Though Minerva looks askance, Deigning me no smiling glance, Kings and queens may envy me While I claim the G.o.d of glee.

Wisdom wearies, Love has wings - Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings, Glory proves a th.o.r.n.y crown - So all gifts the G.o.ds throw down Bring their pains and troubles after; All save Momus, G.o.d of laughter.

He alone gives constant joy.

Hail to Momus, happy boy.

I DREAM

Oh, I have dreams. I sometimes dream of Life In the full meaning of that splendid word.

Its subtle music which few men have heard, Though all may hear it, sounding through earth's strife.

Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissed Lifting their lovely peaks above the dust; Its treasures which no touch of time can rust, Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst, Its certain purpose, its serene repose, Its usefulness, that finds no hour for woes, This is my dream of Life.

Yes, I have dreams. I ofttimes dream of Love As radiant and brilliant as a star.

As changeless, too, as that fixed light afar Which glorifies vast worlds of s.p.a.ce above.

Strong as the tempest when it holds its breath, Before it bursts in fury; and as deep As the unfathomed seas, where lost worlds sleep, And sad as birth, and beautiful as death.

As fervent as the fondest soul could crave, Yet holy as the moonlight on a grave.

This is my dream of Love.

Yes, yes, I dream. One oft-recurring dream Is beautiful and comforting and blest, Complete with certain promises of rest, Divine content, and ecstasy supreme.

When that strange essence, author of all faith, That subtle something, which cries for the light, Like a lost child who wanders in the night, Shall solve the mighty mystery of Death, Shall find eternal progress, or sublime And satisfying slumber for all time.

This is my dream of Death.

THE SONNET

Alone it stands in Poesy's fair land, A temple by the muses set apart; A perfect structure of consummate art, By artists builded and by genius planned, Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand, Beyond the ken of the untutored heart, Like a fine carving in a common mart, Only the favoured few will understand.

A chef d'auvre toiled over with great care, Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by, A plainly set, but well-cut solitaire, An ancient bit of pottery, too rare To please or hold aught save the special eye, These only with the sonnet can compare.

THE PAST

Fling my past behind me, like a robe Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.

I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep And dwell up on its beauty, and its dyes Of Oriental splendour, or complain That I must needs discard it? I can weave Upon the shuttles of the future years A fabric far more durable. Subdued, It may be, in the blending of its hues, Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, While over all a fadeless l.u.s.tre lies, And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, My new robe shall be richer than the old.

A DREAM

That was a curious dream; I thought the three Great planets that are drawing near the sun With such unerring certainty begun To talk together in a mighty glee.

They spoke of vast convulsions which would be Throughout the solar system--the rare fun Of watching haughty stars drop, one by one, And vanish in a seething vapour sea.

I thought I heard them comment on the earth - That small dark object--doomed beyond a doubt.

They wondered if live creatures moved about Its tiny surface, deeming it of worth.

And then they laughed--'twas such a singing shout That I awoke and joined too in their mirth.

USELESSNESS

Let mine not be that saddest fate of all To live beyond my greater self; to see My faculties decaying, as the tree Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall.

Let me hear rather the imperious call, Which all men dread, in my glad morning time, And follow death ere I have reached my prime, Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life's gall.

The lightning's stroke or the fierce tempest blast Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day Is kinder than the calm that lets it last, Unhappy witness of its own decay.

May no man ever look on me and say, "She lives, but all her usefulness is past."

WILL