Custer, and Other Poems Part 3

Yet the touch was of ice, and she shrank with fear-- Oh! the hands of the dead are cold, so cold-- And warm were the arms that waited near To gather her close in their clinging fold.

And warm was the light in the living eyes, But the eyes of the dead, how they stare and stare!

With sudden surrender she turned to the tender And pa.s.sionate lover who wooed her there.

Farewell to sorrow, hail, sweet to-morrow!

The battle was over, the duel was done.

They swooned in the blisses of love's fond kisses, And the dead man stared on in the dark alone.

="Love Thyself Last"=

Love thyself last. Look near, behold thy duty To those who walk beside thee down life's road; Make glad their days by little acts of beauty, And help them bear the burden of earth's load.

Love thyself last. Look far and find the stranger, Who staggers 'neath his sin and his despair; Go lend a hand, and lead him out of danger, To hights where he may see the world is fair.

Love thyself last. The vastnesses above thee Are filled with Spirit Forces, strong and pure.

And fervently, these faithful friends shall love thee: Keep thou thy watch o'er others and endure.

Love thyself last; and oh, such joy shall thrill thee, As never yet to selfish souls was given.

Whate'er thy lot, a perfect peace will fill thee, And earth shall seem the ante-room of Heaven.

Love thyself last, and them shall grow in spirit To see, to hear, to know, and understand.

The message of the stars, lo, thou shall hear it, And all G.o.d's joys shall be at thy command.

=Christmas Fancies=

When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow, We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago.

And etched on vacant places, Are half forgotten faces Of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know-- When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow.

Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near, We see, with strange emotion that is not free from fear, That continent Elysian Long vanished from our vision, Youth's lovely lost Atlantis, so mourned for and so dear, Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near.

When gloomy gray Decembers are roused to Christmas mirth, The dullest life remembers there once was joy on earth, And draws from youth's recesses Some memory it possesses, And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates its worth, When gloomy gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.

When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis Each heart recalls some folly that lit the world with bliss.

Not all the seers and sages With wisdom of the ages Can give the mind such pleasure as memories of that kiss When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis.

For life was made for loving, and love alone repays, As pa.s.sing years are proving for all of Time's sad ways.

There lies a sting in pleasure, And fame gives shallow measure, And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days, For life was made for loving, and only loving pays.

When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes, And silences are melting to soft, melodious rhymes, Let Love, the world's beginning, End fear and hate and sinning; Let Love, the G.o.d Eternal, be worshiped in all climes When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes.

=The River=

I am a river flowing from G.o.d's sea Through devious ways. He mapped my course for me; I cannot change it; mine alone the toil To keep the waters free from grime and soil.

The winding river ends where it began; And when my life has compa.s.sed its brief span I must return to that mysterious source.

So let me gather daily on my course The perfume from the blossoms as I pa.s.s, Balm from the pines, and healing from the gra.s.s, And carry down my current as I go Not common stones but precious gems to show; And tears (the holy water from sad eyes) Back to G.o.d's sea, from which all rivers rise Let me convey, not blood from wounded hearts, Nor poison which the upas tree imparts.

When over flowery vales I leap with joy, Let me not devastate them, nor destroy, But rather leave them fairer to the sight; Mine be the lot to comfort and delight.

And if down awful chasms I needs must leap Let me not murmur at my lot, but sweep On bravely to the end without one fear, Knowing that He who planned my ways stands near.

Love sent me forth, to Love I go again, For Love is all, and over all. Amen.

=Sorry=

There is much that makes me sorry as I journey down life's way.

And I seem to see more pathos in poor human lives each day.

I'm sorry for the strong brave men, who shield the weak from harm, But who, in their own troubled hours find no protecting arm.

I am sorry for the victors who have reached success, to stand As targets for the arrows shot by envious failure's hand.

I'm sorry for the generous hearts who freely shared their wine, But drink alone the gall of tears in fortune's drear decline.

I'm sorry for the souls who build their own fame's funeral pyre, Derided by the scornful throng like ice deriding fire.

I'm sorry for the conquering ones who know not sin's defeat, But daily tread down fierce desire 'neath scorched and bleeding feet.

I'm sorry for the anguished hearts that break with pa.s.sion's strain, But I'm sorrier for the poor starved souls that never knew love's pain.

Who hunger on through barren years not tasting joys they crave, For sadder far is such a lot than weeping o'er a grave.

I'm sorry for the souls that come unwelcomed into birth, I'm sorry for the unloved old who c.u.mber up the earth.

I'm sorry for the suffering poor in life's great maelstrom hurled, In truth I'm sorry for them all who make this aching world.

But underneath whate'er seems sad and is not understood, I know there lies hid from our sight a mighty germ of good.

And this belief stands firm by me, my sermon, motto, text-- The sorriest things in this life will seem grandest in the next.

=The Old Wooden Cradle=

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle The rude hand of Progress has thrust it aside.

No more to its motion o'er sleep's fairy ocean, Our play-weary wayfarers peacefully glide.

No more by the rhythm of slow-moving rocker, Their sweet dreamy fancies are fostered and fed; No more to low singing the cradle goes swinging-- The child of this era is put into bed.

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle, It lent to the twilight a strange, subtle charm; When bees left the clover, when play-time was over, How safe seemed this shelter from danger or harm.

How soft seemed the pillow, how distant the ceiling, How weird were the voices that whispered around, What dreams would come flocking, as rocking and rocking, We floated away into slumber profound.