I am part of the greening grass, A part of the stars and sun. My heart is a part of the falling dew, The rose and my soul are one. I shall live in a silver maple When the winds and the rain are old; In the sunset light of a winter night I shall sail in a ship of gold. For I am a part of a day gone by, A part of the years to be, A part of the strife and the joy of life, And they each are a part of me. MY MOTHER’S “BIBLE-BOOK.” Her little old red “Bible-book” Lies here upon my stand, So precious are its memories I keep it close at hand. Here on the fly-leaf is her name, Long since ’twas written there, Long ere she took the wander-road In Sabbath-deeps of air. How glad with gladness is the book, Forever, ever new, How dear with unforgetting love, How sad with sadness, too. The silver clasp is warped and worn, And buckles with a lurch, This Holy, Holy “Bible-book” My mother took to church, When I, a village six-year-old, In dainty tier and frill, Walked close beside, as hand in hand, We climbed the steep, long hill. There were no priests in white array, How simple were the rites, No lofty arch, no ruby glass, Beadle nor acolytes, But glory touched each sacred word, Love rippled like a brook, As we together, side by side, Read from this “Bible-book.” Gone with the leaf and summer shine, And youth, but even so, How white and stainless is the page, And O, how long ago It seems since that immortal day! But God, there is no smirch On this--that Holy “Bible-book” My mother took to church. MY FAITH. I shall be fired with strength for that divine event-- The mightiest of life-- When these inspiring scenes, so beautiful, Relinquish to that subtle and resistless spell Which waiteth every man, And every flower and leaf that grows. I shall be given courage of a flying star, The peerless chivalry of convoys of the air; Half unaware I shall pursue my quest, Same as a sea-bird mounts, As light of wing; The flush of morning in my face, The flash that baffles minions of the dark, The power that swung the constellations ’long the upper sky, Impulse, like music, guiding me, Song in my soul; Still knowing I am loved, and love; The friendly past, The lifting present mine, as now, I’ll not distrust, And Life will not deceive me, This I know. AN APOSTROPHE. Old Plymouth is a rambling town, And many leagues of beach there are, Where echoes still the iron-sleet And glows the crimson heart of war. The smoke of battle pressing down Still lurks where Liberty was bought, And minute-men come pouring in, Nor lust of power, or gold they sought. Clear eyed they stand, of knotty arm, O God of Fortune, Fate and Crown, Make sure the bonds of brotherhood ’Twixt this old world and Plymouth-town. GLIMMER. TO EUNICE.