Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 46

Not understood, we gather false impressions, And hug them closer as the years go by, Till virtues often seem to us transgressions; And thus men rise and fall and live and die, Not understood.

Not understood, poor souls with stunted visions Often measure giants by their narrow gauge; The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision Are oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age, Not understood.

Not understood, the secret springs of action Which lie beneath the surface and the show Are disregarded; with self-satisfaction We judge our neighbors, and they often go Not understood.

Not understood, how trifles often change us-- The thoughtless sentence or the fancied slight-- Destroy long years of friendship and estrange us, And on our souls there falls a freezing blight-- Not understood.

Not understood, how many hearts are aching For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking, How many n.o.ble spirits pa.s.s away Not understood.

O G.o.d! that men would see a little clearer, Or judge less hardly when they cannot see!

O G.o.d! that men would draw a little nearer To one another! They'd be nearer Thee, And understood.

Somebody's Mother

The woman was old, and ragged, and gray, And bent with the chill of a winter's day; The streets were white with a recent snow, And the woman's feet with age were slow.

At the crowded crossing she waited long, Jostled aside by the careless throng Of human beings who pa.s.sed her by, Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"

Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep; Past the woman, so old and gray, Hastened the children on their way.

None offered a helping hand to her, So weak and timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should trample her down in the slippery street.

At last came out of the merry troop The gayest boy of all the group; He paused beside her, and whispered low, "I'll help you across, if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so without hurt or harm, He guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were young and strong; Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's aged, and poor, and slow; And some one, some time, may lend a hand To help my mother--you understand?-- If ever she's poor, and old, and gray, And her own dear boy is far away."

"Somebody's mother" bowed low her head, In her home that 'night, and the prayer she said Was: "G.o.d, be kind to that n.o.ble boy, Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy."

Faint was the voice, and worn and weak, But the Father hears when His children speak; Angels caught the faltering word, And "Somebody's Mother's" prayer was heard.

To a Waterfowl

Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- The desert and illimitable air-- Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.

_William Cullen Bryant._

My Mother

Who fed me from her gentle breast And hushed me in her arms to rest, And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?

My mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye, Who was it sung sweet lullaby And rocked me that I should not cry?

My mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head When sleeping in my cradle bed, And tears of sweet affection shed?

My mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry, Who gazed upon my heavy eye, And wept, for fear that I should die?

My mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the part to make it well?

My mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray, To love G.o.d's holy word and day, And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?

My mother.

And can I ever cease to be Affectionate and kind to thee Who wast so very kind to me,-- My mother.

Oh, no, the thought I cannot bear; And if G.o.d please my life to spare I hope I shall reward thy care, My mother.

When thou art feeble, old and gray, My healthy arms shall be thy stay, And I will soothe thy pains away, My mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head, 'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed, And tears of sweet affection shed,-- My mother.

The Walrus and the Carpenter