All of these poems are reprinted with consent of the author and the J. B. Lippincott Publishing Co.

I have be'n in city churches where the way-up singers sing, Till their thousand'-dollar voices make the very rafters ring.

Seems as if the sound kep' clim'in' till it got lost in the spire, But I all the time was wishin' 'twas our dear ol' village choir.

Somehow, highfallutin' singin' never seemed to touch the spot Like the ol' religious singin' o' the times I hain't forgot; Jest the ol' hymns over'n over--nothin' city folks desire, But some heart was in the singin' of that same ol' village choir.

Nothin' airy 'bout the singers--land; they never tho't o' style, But they made you think o' Heaven an' of good things all the while, Made you feel as ef the angels couldn't help a comin' nigher Jest to lis'en to the music made by that ol' village choir.

When they sung ol' Coronation, w'y--it somehow seemed to grip An' to take your heart up with it on a sort o' 'scursion trip To the place where God stays! Of'en heart an' soul seemed all afire With the glory that they sung of in the dear ol' village choir.

Then they'd have us all a-cryin' when they sung, at funril-time, Soft, an' low, an' sweet, an' sollum hymns that told about the clime Where there's never death or partin', an' the mourners never'd tire Lis'nen' to the words o' comfort sung by the ol' village choir.

You c'n have your city singin' if you think it fills the bill;-- Give me the ol'-fashioned music of the ol' church on the hill.

Music with no style about it--nothin' fine folks would admire, But it makes me homesick, thinkin' o' the dear ol' village choir.

THE TWO SINGERS

I know two of this earth's singers; one longed to climb and stand Upon the heights o'er looking the peaceful lower land, "There where great souls have gathered, the few great souls of earth, I'll sing my songs," he told us, "and they will own their worth.

"But if I sang them only to those who love the plain They would not understand them, and I would sing in vain.

Oh, better far to sing them to earth's great souls, though few, Than to sing them to the many who ne'er one great thought knew."

So he climbed the heights, and on them sang, and those who heard-- Earth's few great souls, ah, never they gave one longed-for word, For the mighty thoughts within them filled each one's soul and brain, And few among them listened to the music of his strain.

But the other singer sang to the toilers in the vale, The patient, plodding many, who strive, and win, and fail.

His songs of faith and gladness, of hope and trust and cheer, Were sweet with strength and comfort, and men were glad to hear.

Little this valley singer knew of the good he wrought; He dreamed not of the courage that from his songs was caught-- Of the hearts that were made lighter, the hands that stronger grew, As they listened to his singing to the many, not to few.

He who sang upon the mountains was forgotten long ago-- Not one song of his remembered as the swift years come and go.

But the dwellers in the valley sing the other's sweet songs o'er, And as his grave grows greener they love them more and more.

THE UNFRUITFUL TREE

There stood in a beautiful garden A tall and stately tree.

Crowned with its shining leafage It was wondrous fair to see.

But alas! it was always fruitless; Never a blossom grew To brighten its spreading branches The whole long season through.

The lord of the garden saw it, And he said, when the leaves were sere, "Cut down this tree so worthless, And plant another here.

My garden is not for beauty Alone, but for fruit, as well, And no barren tree must cumber The place in which I dwell."

The gardener heard in sorrow, For he loved the barren tree As we love some things about us That are only fair to see.

"Leave it one season longer, Only one more, I pray,"

He plead, but the lord of the garden Was firm, and answered, "Nay."

Then the gardener dug about it, And cut its roots apart, And the fear of the fate before it Struck home to the poor tree's heart.

Faithful and true to his master, Yet loving the tree as well, The gardener toiled in sorrow Till the stormy evening fell.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I will finish The task that I have begun."

But the morrow was wild with tempest, And the work remained undone.

And through all the long, bleak winter There stood the desolate tree, With the cold white snow about it,-- A sorrowful thing to see.

At last, the sweet spring weather Made glad the hearts of men, And the trees in the lord's fair garden Put forth their leaves again.

"I will finish my task tomorrow,"

The busy gardener said, And thought, with a thrill of sorrow, That the beautiful tree was dead.

The lord came into his garden At an early hour next day, And to the task unfinished The gardener led the way.

And lo! all white with blossoms, Fairer than ever to see, In the promise of coming fruitage Stood the sorely-chastened tree.

"It is well," said the lord of the garden.

And he and the gardener knew That out of its loss and trial Its promise of fruitfulness grew.

It is so with some lives that cumber For a time the Lord's domain.

Out of trial and bitter sorrow There cometh countless gain, And fruit for the Master's harvest Is borne of loss and pain.

A DAY IN JUNE

I could write such a beautiful poem About this summer day If my pen could catch the beauty Of every leaf and spray, And the music all about me Of brooks, and winds, and birds, But the greatest poet living Cannot put them into words.

If I might, you would hear all through it The whispering of the breeze, Like a fine and far-off echo Of the ocean's harmonies.

You would hear the song of the robin A-swing in the appletree, And the voice of the river going On its search for the great gray sea.

You would breathe the fragrance of clover In the words of every line, And incense out of the censors Of hillside larch and pine.

You would see through the words the roses And deep in their hearts of gold The sweets of a thousand summers, But words are so weak, so cold!

If I only could write the color Of the lilacs' tossing plume, And make you feel in a sentence The spell of its rare perfume:-- If my pen could catch the glory Of the clouds and the sunset sky, And the peace of the summer twilight My poem would never die!

SILVER THREADS AMONG THE GOLD

Copyright, 1915, by Estate of Hamilton S. Gordon.

I.

Darling, I am growing old,-- Silver threads among the gold, Shine upon my brow today;-- Life is fading fast away; But, my darling, you will be Always young and fair to me, Yes! my darling, you will be-- Always young and fair to me.

II.

When your hair is silver-white,-- And your cheeks no longer bright With the roses of the May,-- I will kiss your lips, and say: Oh! my darling, mine alone, You have never older grown, Yes, my darling, mine alone,-- You have never older grown.

III.

Love can never-more grow old, Locks may lose their brown and gold; Cheeks may fade and hollow grow; But the hearts that love, will know Never, winter's frost and chill; Summer warmth is in them still, Never winter's frost and chill, Summer warmth is in them still.

IV.

Love is always young and fair,-- What to us is silver hair, Faded cheeks or steps grown slow, To the hearts that beat below?

Since I kissed you, mine alone, You have never older grown, Since I kissed you, mine alone, You have never older grown.