I wrestle not with rage While fury's flame doth burn; It is in vain to stop the stream Until the tide doth turn. But when the flame is out, And ebbing wrath doth end, I turn a late enraged foe Into a quiet friend. And, taught with often proof, A tempered calm I find To be most solace to itself, Best cure for angry mind. No change of fortune's calms Can cast my comforts down; When Fortune smiles I smile to think How quickly she will frown. And when in froward mood She proves an angry foe, Small gain I found to let her come, Less loss to let her go. --Robert Southwell, 1561-95. (One of the Jesuit Fathers who were cruelly executed by Queen Elizabeth.) Don't lose Courage! Spirit brave Carry with you to the grave. Don't lose Time in vain distress! Work, not worry, brings success. Don't lose Hope! who lets her stray Goes forlornly all the way. Don't lose Patience, come what will! Patience ofttimes outruns skill. Don't lose Gladness! every hour Blooms for you some happy flower. Though be foiled your dearest plan, Don't lose Faith in God and man! A CONTRAST Two men toiled side by side from sun to sun, And both were poor; Both sat with children, when the day was done, About their door. One saw the beautiful in crimson cloud And shining moon; The other, with his head in sadness bowed, Made night of noon. One loved each tree and flower and singing bird, On mount or plain; No music in the soul of one was stirred By leaf or rain. One saw the good in every fellow-man And hoped the best; The other marvelled at his Master's plan, And doubt confessed. One, having heaven above and heaven below, Was satisfied; The other, discontented, lived in woe, And hopeless died. --Sarah Knowles Bolton. WHO BIDES HIS TIME Who bides his time, and day by day Faces defeat full patiently, And lifts a mirthful roundelay However poor his fortunes be-- He will not fail in any qualm Of poverty; the paltry dime-- It will grow golden in his palm Who bides his time. Who bides his time--he tastes the sweet Of honey in the saltest tear; And though he fares with slowest feet Joy runs to meet him drawing near; The birds are heralds of his cause, And like a never-ending rhyme The roadsides bloom in his applause Who bides his time. Who bides his time, and fevers not In a hot race that none achieves, Shall wear cool wreathen laurel, wrought With crimson berries in the leaves; And he shall reign a goodly king And sway his hand o'er every clime, With peace writ on his signet ring, Who bides his time. --James Whitcomb Riley. CARELESS CONTENT