A poet took in hand his mighty pen To move the hearts of lyric-loving men. He wrote of prayer, not knowing how to pray; He wrote of Heaven, not having found the way; He wrote of fame, not having reached the goal Where fame’s great treasure thrills the seeking soul; He wrote of Art, and then of Nature sweet, While Nature’s flowers were crushed beneath his feet; He wrote of life, and human love below, The power of which he did not, could not know. At last, grown weary of his every theme, A thought aroused him from his restless dream; He seized his pen,—the inspiration grew To tell of things he really felt and knew: He wrote of “mother” and his “childhood days;” Then high and low began to sing his praise. THANKSGIVING. Not because Thou givest me Life from care and sorrow free Do I thank Thee, Lord, to-day; But because in life’s dark hour, Thou hast given peace and power To sustain me on the way. Not for gift of wealth or fame Do I praise Thy kingly name Kneeling now with grateful heart; But for home, for friends, and health,— Greater gifts than fame or wealth, Blessings of my life a part. Not because the earth is bright With a wealth of joy and light Do I thank Thee, Lord Divine; But because in Home above Life eternal speaks Thy love And the hope of Heaven is mine. MUSINGS. Upon the shining sands a man once strolled; And, looking out across the silvery sea, He saw the waste of waters, blue and cold, Where restless waves were climbing high and free. He paused awhile to watch the changing tide; But, tiring of the noise and sunlight’s glare, He sought a hidden path, and turned aside, Where sweet wild roses scent the balmy air. Then, growing weary as the morning passed, He filled his hands with blossoms that he found, And threw himself beneath an oak at last, Whose brawny branches brushed the grassy ground. He bared his head; and lying ’neath the tree, Arranging wealth of roses in his hands, He thought that, ’bove the branches, he could see The same blue ocean rolling to the sands. His mind to rose thoughts turned in dreamy way,— From untrained blossoms, blooming in the bowers, Whose simple petals fade within a day, Have been developed grander, sweeter flowers. The jacqueminot and all her sisters fair, Now clothed in colors bright and staying late, Because of culture and a proper care Have found a place within the garden gate. So too with life; the untrained children we Whose innocence shall fade within the hours,— With thoughts, like petals, simple, pure, and free,— And minds to be developed like the flowers.