Two roadways lead from this land to That, and one is the road of Prayer; And one is the road of Old-time Songs, and every note is a stair.

A shabby old man with a music machine on the sordid city street; But suddenly earth seemed Arcady, and life grew young and sweet.

For the city street fled, and the world was green, and a little house stood by the sea; And she came singing a martial air (she who was peace itself); She brought back with her the old, strange charm, of mingled pathos and glee -

With her eyes of a child in a woman's face, and her soul of a saint in an elf.

She had been gone for many a year. They tell us it is not far - That silent place where the dear ones go, but it might as well be a star.

Yes, it might as well be a distant star as a beautiful Near-by Land, If we hear no voice, and see no face, and feel no touch of a hand.

But now she had come, for I saw her there, and she looked so blithe and young; (Not white and still, as I saw her last) and the rose that she wore was red; And her voice soared up in a bird-like trill, at the end of the song she sung, And she mimicked a soldier's warlike stride, and tossed back her dear little head.

She had gone for many a year, and never came back before; But I think she dwells in a Near-by Land, since song jarred open the door; Yes, I think it is surely a Near-by Land, that place where our loved ones are, For the song would never have reached her ear had she been on a distant star.

Two roadways lead from this land to That, and one is the road of Prayer, And one is the road of Old-time Songs, and every note is a stair.

OH, POOR, SICK WORLD

Lord of all the Universe, when I think of YOU, Flinging stars out into s.p.a.ce, moving suns and tides; Then this little mortal mind gets the larger view, And the carping self of me runs away and hides.

Then I see all shadowed paths leading out to Light; See the false things fade away, leaving but the True; See the wrong things slay themselves, leaving only Right; When this little mortal mind gets the larger view.

Cavillings at this and that, censure, doubt and fear, Fly, as fly before the dawn, insects of the night; Life and Death are understood; everything seems clear, All the wrong things slay themselves, leaving only Right.

The World has walked with fever in its veins For many and many a day. Oh, poor, sick world!

Not knowing all its dreams of greed and gain, Of selfish conquest and possession, were Disordered visions of a brain diseased.

Now the World's malady is at its height And there is foul contagion in its breath.

It raves of death and slaughter; and the stars Shake with reverberations of its cries, And the sad seas are troubled and disturbed.

So must it rave--this sick and suffering world - Until the old secretions in its blood Are emptied out and purged away by war; And the deep seated cankers of the mind Begin the healing process. Then a calm Shall come upon the earth; and that loved word PEACE, shall be understood from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

Shriek on, mad world. The great Physician sits Serenely conscious of the coming change, Nor seeks to check the fever; it must run Until its course is finished. He can wait.

In his vast Solar Systems he has seen So many other worlds as sick as this He feels but pity for his ailing charge, Not blame or anger. And he knows the hour Will surely dawn when that sick child shall wake Free from all frenzied fancies, and shall turn Clear-seeing eyes upon the face of G.o.d.

Then shall begin the new millennium.

Lord of all the Universe, when I think of YOU, Then this little mortal mind gets the larger view; Then I see all shadowed paths leading into Light, Where the wrong things slay themselves, leaving only Right.

Oh, poor, sick world!

PRAISE DAY

Let us halt now for a s.p.a.ce in our hurrying; Let us take time to look up and look out; Let us refuse for a spell to be worrying; Let us decline to both question and doubt.

If one goes cavilling, Hair splitting, flaw hunting--ready for strife - All the best pleasure is missed in the travelling Onward through life.

Just for to-day we will put away sorrowing - Just for to-day not a tear shall be shed; Nor will we fear anything, or go borrowing Pain from the future by profitless dread.

Thought shall go frolicking, Pleasuring, treasuring everything bright - Tasting the joy that is found just in rollicking On through the light.

Just for to-day all the ills that need bettering We will omit from our notebook of mind; All that is good we will mark by red-lettering; - Those things alone we are seeking to find.

Things to be sad over, Pine over, whine over--pa.s.s them, I say!

Nothing is noted save what we are glad over - This is Praise Day.

INTERLUDE

The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer; The headstones thicken along the way; And life grows sadder, but love grows stronger, For those who walk with us day by day.

The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower; The courage is lesser to do and dare; And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower, And seldom covers the reefs of care.

But all true things in the world seem truer; And the better things of earth seem best; And friends are dearer, as friends are fewer, And love is all, as our sun dips west.

Then let us clasp hands as we walk together, And let us speak softly in love's sweet tone; For no man knows on the morrow whether We two pa.s.s on--or but one alone.

THE LAND OF THE GONE-AWAY-SOULS

Oh! that is a beautiful land I wis, The land of the Gone-Away Souls.

Yes, a lovelier region by far than this (Though this is a world most fair), The goodliest goal of all good goals, Else why do our friends stay there?

I walk in a world that is sweet with friends, And earth I have ever held dear; Yes, love with duty and beauty blends, To render the earth plane bright.

But faster and faster, year on year My comrades hurry from sight.

They hurry away to the Over-There, And few of them say Farewell.

Yes, they go away with a secret air As if on a secret quest.

And they come not back to the earth to tell Why that land seems the best.

Messages come from the mystic sphere, But few know the code of that land; Yes, many the message, but few who hear In the din of the world below, Or hearing the message, can understand Those truths which we long to know.

But it must be the goal of all good goals, And I think of it more and more, Yes I think of that land of the Gone-Away-Souls And its growing host of friends Who will hail my bark when it touches sh.o.r.e Where the last brief journey ends.

THE HARP'S SONG