And yet what power is carried down The conduit through which it runs To turn the factories of the town, And flood its streets with blazing suns. I know some men who are the same. They make no boast with foolish lips, But all their spirits are aflame. Power tingles to their finger tips. “I am not eloquent” (1926) “I am not eloquent,” he said. “I cannot spin of thought’s fine gold A sentence lovely to be read, A story wondrous to be told.” Thus did he answer God one day Upon a new Tiberian shore. And God said, “No, but you can say The word of love. I ask no more.” And so across the hurried years, Across the mighty land and sea, Through calm and tempest, joy and tears, He bore the message faithfully. He bore it till the set of sun, Until his time and strength were spent. Today the service he has done, Beyond all speech, is eloquent. Knocking (1926) THERE’S a sign that always thrills me When its pounding threat I hear, One that always rudely thrills me With the clutching grip of fear. Though the thought of it be shocking, And the homeward journey long, When I hear the engine knocking I am certain something’s wrong. I have known a lot of people, High and low, and near and far, On the street, beneath the steeple, Who were like a motor car. Though successes may come flocking, And though he be going strong, When I hear a person knocking I am certain something’s wrong. Life (1926) I said to God: “Life is a wine-cup, A thing to be drained while we may; And those who can drink it most deeply And emptiest cast it away. The ones who have claimed the full measure Of all the joy it can give, Are those who have learned most completely What it means to be conscious and live.” But God said: “No, life is a picture, A thing you may paint as you will. Your colors are of your own choosing, And yours is the measure of skill. You may paint, and the curse or the blessing With all of their burden or worth, When your brush has been dropped will be treasured As your gift to the children of earth.” The Question v1926 THE women are cutting their tresses To look just the same as the men. They have thrown away skirts, and have taken to shirts, And collars, and neckties; and then The men have begun wearing knickers, With hose of elaborate art. They radiate bliss, but the problem is this: How are we to tell them apart? One day when I saw a young lady Drop a handkerchief, quickly I ran And returned it to her with my heart all astir, But lo, when I spoke, ’twas a man. Then I slapped a young man on the shoulder, And he turned with a manner most tart. ’Twas a lady attired as the fashion required. Say, how do you tell them apart? The Rooster (1926)