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Gems In Verse

Gems In Verse image
Parent Issue
Day
2
Month
November
Year
1892
Copyright
Public Domain
OCR Text

ètrange ia it that the sweetest thing Forever is the shiest; The sweeter song, the swifter wing. Ere thou the singer spiest. The more the fragrance in the rose, The more it hides a-blushing; And when with love a maiden glows, The more her face is ilushing. In depths of night, in gloomy mine. In wildwood strearns- in stories Of lowly lives, unsung- there shine The world's divinest glories. As low arbutas blossoms rest In modesty unbidden, So man and nature hide their best. And God himself is hidden. - C. H. Crandall. Overworlted. Up with the birds in the early morning- The dewdrop glows like a precious gein; Beautiful tints in the sky are dawning, But she's never a moment to look at them. The tnun are wantmg their breakfast early; She must not linger, she must not wait, For words that are sharp and looks that aro snriy Are what the men give when meals are late. Oh, glorious colors the clouds are turning, If she would but look over hills and trees! But here are the dishes and there is the churu-' ingThose things must aïways yield to these. The world is filled with the wind of beauty, If she would but pause and drink it in; But pleasure she says, must wait for duty - Neglected work is committed sin. The day grows hot and her hands grow weary: Oh, for an hour to cool her head Out with the birds and the winds so cheeryl But she must get dinner aqdinake herfiread. The busy men in the hay field working, If tliey saw her sitting with idle hand, Would tuink her lazy and cali her shirking, And she never could make them understani!. Thcy do not know that the heart within her Hungers for beauty aud things sublime; They only know that they want their dinner-' Plenty of it and just "on time." And after the sweeping and churning and baking. And dinner dishes are all put by, She sits and sews, though her head is aching, Till time for supper and "chores11 draws nigh. Her boya at school must look like others, She says, as she patches their frocks and hose, For the world is quick to censure mothers For the least neglect of their children's clothes. Her husband comes from the field of labor; He gives no praise to bis weary wífe; She's done no more tban has her neighbor-, Tis the lot of aH in country Ufe. But after the Btrife and weary túsale, When life is done and she lies at rest, The natlon's brain and heart and muscle- Her Sons and daughters- shall cali her biest. And I tbiiik the sweetest joy of heaven, The rarest bliss of eternal life, And the fairest crown of all will be given Unto the waywura farmer's wife. -Ella Wheeler Wilcox. The Early Owl. An owl once lived in a hollow tree. And be was as wise as wise could be. The branch of learning he didn't know Could scarce on the tree of knowledgegrow. He knew the tree f rom branch to root. And an owl like that can afford to boot. And he hooted- until, alas! one day, He chanced to hear, in a casual way. Au insignificant little bird Jlake use of a term he had never heard. lic was fiying to bed in the dawuing light When he heard her singing with all her might, "Hurray! hurray for tbe early worml" "Dear me," said the owl, "what a singular term! 1 would look it up f it weren't so late. I must rise at dusk to investígate. Early to bed and early to rise Makesanowl healthyaudstealthyand wise!" So he slept like an honest owl all day, And rose in the early twilight gray. And went to work in the dusky light To look for the early worm all nigbt. He searched the country for miles around, But tbe eariy worm was not to be found; So he went to bed in the dawning light And looked for the "worm" again next night. And again and again and again and again He sought and he sought, but all in vain, Till he must have looked for a year and a day For tbe early worm in the twiligbt gray. At last in despair he gave up the search, And was kun rd to remark as be sut on his peren By the side of bis nest in the hollow tree, "The thing is as plain as night to me- Nuthing can shake my conviction firm, There's no such tliing as the early worm." - Oliver Herford. Regret. When I reruember something whioh I had, But wbicb is gone and I must do without, I soinetinies wonder how I can be glad Even in cowsllp time, when hedges sprout. It makes me sigh to think on it, bat yet My days will not be better days sbould I forget. When 1 remember something promised me, But whieh 1 never had nor can have now, Beeause t he promiser we no more see In countries that accord witb mortal vow; When I remember this 1 inourn, but yet My happier days are not the days when I forget. - Jean Ingelow. The Cnequal Artist - Time. He softens off hia browus to grays; He makej bis red a t"ifle iainter; He gives hls white a yellow haze, This restless, tasteless. taetless painter. He touches here, he touches there. And changes upon changes follow. He gives the head a thoufïhtless hair; He makes the cheek a sliade more hollow. He seems to think it picturesque To trace a complicated tangle Of tiny scrollwork arabesijue Just at the eyelid's outer angle- UntH at last he wrings from you. As faitb in him begins to waver, The cry: "What.! You a painter! Poohl You're uothing but a line enwaverl" And ere you gut the workl to see How frightful Time's contri ved to make you. And how nnskillful ho must be, That gre,u hitFouier, Death. will take yoi Perhapu at just your highest pitch Of inartistic Imperfection, And witb .vour face - and frame - enríen HU vast but valueless rol.wtion. H. D. Traill. Judge Not. Judge uot; the workiug of his braiu And of his heart thou canst not see: What louks to thy dim eyes a stain In God's pure light may only be A scar bror.ght from sume well fought field, Where thou wouldst only ftiint and yield. The look, the air that frets thy Bigut May be a token that below The soul bas closed in deadly fight With some internal ñery foe, Whose glance would scorch thy Biniliftg grace And cast thee shuddering on tby face. - Adelaida A. Procter. Thus, born alike, from virtue first began The differeuc. that distinguished man from man; He claimed nc title from descent of blood, But that whieh made him noble made him good. - Dryden. Virte for Chas. E. Hiseock tor elee' tor.

Article

Subjects
Old News
Ann Arbor Courier