[Poem is on cover page with the following additional text: The Sunday School Journal, August 1922. The cover has an illustration of a historical setting. A man wearing robes and headband, sitting in a prominent stone chair on a raised platform, is looking at an unrolled scroll in his hands. He faces the viewer while four nearby children dressed in chitons and sandals look at him: one stands on each side of the chair, the third sits in front, and the fourth stands in front. The chair and people are left of center. A large column frames the right side. The poem is between the people and column and prominently displayed in a housing resembling the facade of a temple. A tiger skin--head attached with gaping mouth--is in the foreground. Immediately behind all this is a stone wall with an engraving of a person whose activity is obscured by the publication’s title.] The Temple (1922) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.] When each home is a temple, Its every room a shrine, Its hearth a sacred altar Inscribed to things divine; When each eye in the circle Reflects that altar flame, Each mealtime sacramental Unto the Wondrous Name; When each morn is a prayer-time Each evening hour is blessed With all the grace of kindness And all the peace of rest; When each task is a service, Each word a psalm of praise, The world will swing in sunshine Through all the golden days. Voices of the Dawn (1922) Soft breaths of wind that gently pass, Sigh in the branches of a tree, And whisper in the tangled grass; The early droning of a bee, Shaking the dew from dripping wings Among the blossoms on the lawn; The sprightly chirp of waking things. These are the voices of the dawn. The falling of a loosened leaf, That seems loud where all is so still; A field-mouse rustling in a sheaf; The low of kine around the hill; A little tinkling waterfall, Whose bubbles gurgle and are gone; A skylark’s song; a robin’s call. These are the voices of the dawn. The Watchdog of the Sea (1922) Her silent body, slim and gray, Hangs grimly off the bar, Then, like a wraith, she slips away, Through mist to ports afar. She tells not where her course may lie, Nor cares what perils be, She goes, nor ever questions why-- The watchdog of the sea. She plows alike through light and dark, She scents the far wind’s breath; Only at foemen does she bark, And then her bark is death. She keeps our coasts from every threat, Guards home and liberty; Her courage has not failed us yet-- The watchdog of the sea. Where Is Heaven? (1922) WHO has not heaven in his soul May seek o’er land and main, From East to West, from Pole to Pole; But he will seek in vain. He may traverse the mighty sky, Ascend through spaces dim; But heaven with all its ecstacy Will not exist for him.