Life’s always at its best upon the screen. It is not perfect. Life is never so. There runs a struggle thru each shifting scene, And shadows often come, their pall to throw Across the landscape. Things go wrong a while. But always comes at last the shine’s glow, And gloom is followed by the song and smile. In every drama wrong must have its reign, In every tale the villain has his day; Gladness we see, contrasting it with pain, And truth is valued but by error’s sway. The right and wrong are alternate in power, The scene is now in sun, now shadow cast, But tho the wrong may triumph for an hour, The right is seated on the throne at last. The Silent Drama (1920) Out of the silence often comes A voice that breaks the stillness deep, And with an eloquence unheard Calls hidden mem’ries from their sleep. It carries power unknown to speech; It speaks directly to the heart, Grown thoughtful in the silences. Such is the screen’s appealing art. It calls the strong to lost resolve. It thrills the weak to better things, It touches sleeping hopes to life And in the songless heart it sings. It opens scenes of loveliness For eyes long used to barren spot, This sacred silence that is heard Where thought is all and voice is not. A Trouble Making World (1920) There’s a word that keeps us from the best of things, Making some men peasants, making others kings, Making all to sorrow, forcing some to die, For uncounted sorrows the one reason why. There’s a word begetting bitterness and strife, Evermore beclouding all the sky of life, Driving men to battle when they ought to be Linked in soul together by fraternity. There’s a word that enters in the holy place, Writes its tale of trouble on the fairest face; Makes of life a struggle, fraught with grasping greed, When its years were given for high thought and deed. There’s a word that robs us of the happy song; Makes the earth a treadmill, elevates the strong; Drives the weak from justice; grinds the poor and worn; Fills the years with hatred; seeds the world with scorn. There’s a word absorbing manhood’s fruitful hour, Careless of life’s meaning, prodigal of power, Making regal spirits satisfied with pelf, It is short but powerful, and its name is self. The Builders (1921) Each stone that goes into the wall And lifts it higher from the clay Is but a life that heeds the call To serve its God from day to day. No hammers on their anvils beat, Yet in some wondrous time to be The finished work will stand complete-- The temple of humanity. The patient builders--who are they, Whose hands have toiled and oft alone, Through many a hard, discouraged day To set e’er night another stone? They are the teachers who have brought The word of righteousness and truth, The great ideal, the noble thought, And dropped them in the heart of youth.