BE NOT CONTENT

Be not content--contentment means inaction; The growing soul aches on its upward quest; Satiety is twin to satisfaction; All great achievements spring from life's unrest.

The tiny roots, deep in the dark mould hiding, Would never bless the earth with leaf and flower Were not an inborn restlessness abiding In seed and germ, to stir them with its power.

Were man contented with his lot forever, He had not sought strange seas with sails unfurled, And the vast wonder of our sh.o.r.es had never Dawned on the gaze of an admiring world.

Prize what is yours, but be not quite contented.

There is a healthful restlessness of soul By which a mighty purpose is augmented In urging men to reach a higher goal.

So when the restless impulse rises, driving Your calm content before it, do not grieve; It is the upward reaching of the spirit Of the G.o.d in you to achieve--achieve.

ACTION

For ever stars are winging Their swift and endless race; For ever suns are swinging Their mighty globes through s.p.a.ce.

Since by his law required To join G.o.d's spheres inspired, The earth has never tired, But whirled and whirled and whirled.

For ever streams are flowing, For ever seeds are growing, Alway is Nature showing That Action rules the world.

And since by G.o.d requested To BE, the glorious light Has never paused or rested, But travelled day and night.

Yet pigmy man, unseeing The purpose of his being, Demands escape and freeing From universal force.

But law is law for ever, And like a mighty lever It thrusts him tow'rd endeavour, And speeds him on his course.

TWO ROSES

A humble wild-rose, pink and slender, Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet, Beside a Jacqueminot's royal splendour, And both in my lady's boudoir lay.

Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning, "I wonder why you are called a rose?

Your leaves will fade in a single morning; No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows.

"Your coa.r.s.e green stalk shows dust of the highway, You have no depths of fragrant bloom; And what could you learn in a rustic byway To fit you to lie in my lady's room?

"If called to adorn her warm, white bosom, What have you to offer for such a place, Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom, Ripe with colour and rich with grace?"

Said the sweet wild-rose, "Despite your dower Of finer breeding and deeper hue, Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower, It is I who should lie on her breast, not you.

"For small account is your hot-house glory Beside the knowledge that came to me When I heard by the wayside love's old story And felt the kiss of the amorous bee."

SATIETY

To yearn for what we have not had, to sit With hungry eyes glued on the Future's gate, Why, that is heaven compared to having it With all the power gone to appreciate.

Better to wait and yearn, and still to wait, And die at last with unappeased desire, Than live to be the jest of such a fate, For that is my conception of h.e.l.l-fire.

A SOLAR ECLIPSE

In that great journey of the stars through s.p.a.ce About the mighty, all-directing Sun, The pallid, faithful Moon has been the one Companion of the Earth. Her tender face, Pale with the swift, keen purpose of that race Which at Time's natal hour was first begun, Shines ever on her lover as they run And lights his...o...b..t with her silvery smile.

Sometimes such pa.s.sionate love doth in her rise, Down from her beaten path she softly slips, And with her mantle veils the Sun's bold eyes, Then in the gloaming finds her lover's lips.

While far and near the men our world call wise See only that the Sun is in eclipse.

A SUGGESTION To C. A. D.

Let the wild red-rose bloom. Though not to thee So delicately perfect as the white And unwed lily drooping in the light, Though she has known the kisses of the bee And tells her amorous tale to pa.s.sers-by In perfumed whispers and with untaught grace, Still let the red-rose bloom in her own place; She could not be the lily should she try.

Why to the wondrous nightingale cry hush Or bid her cease her wild heart-breaking lay, And tune her voice to imitate the way The whip-poor-will makes music, or the thrush?

All airs of sorrow to one theme belong, And pa.s.sion is not copyrighted yet.

Each heart writes its own music. Why not let The nightingale unchided sing her song?

THE DEPTHS

Not only sun-kissed heights are fair. Below The cold, dark billows of the frowning deep Do lovely blossoms of the ocean sleep, Rocked gently by the waters to and fro.

The coral beds with magic colours glow, And priceless pearl-encrusted molluscs heap The glittering rocks where shining atoms leap Like living broken rainbows.

Even so We find the sea of sorrow. Black as night The sullen surface meets our frightened gaze, As down we sink to darkness and despair.

But at the depths--such beauty! such delight!

Such flowers as never grew in pleasure's ways!

Ah! not alone are sun-kissed summits fair.

LIFE'S OPERA