We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse, Time humors us and tiptoes through the house, And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise, With dreams--not tear-drops--brimming our clenched eyes,-- Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain-- We must get home--we must get home again! We must get home! The willow-whistle's call Trills crisp and liquid as the waterfall-- Mocking the trillers in the cherry-trees And making discord of such rhymes as these, That know nor lilt nor cadence but the birds First warbled--then all poets afterwards. We must get home; and, unremembering there All gain of all ambition otherwhere, Rest--from the feverish victory, and the crown Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.-- Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain-- We must get home--we must get home again! We must get home again--we must--we must!-- (Our rainy faces pelted in the dust) Creep back from the vain quest through endless strife To find not anywhere in all of life A happier happiness than blest us then ... We must get home--we must get home again! [Illustration] JUST TO BE GOOD Just to be good-- This is enough--enough! O we who find sin's billows wild and rough, Do we not feel how more than any gold Would be the blameless life we led of old While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss? Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough! It is enough-- Enough--just to be good! To lift our hearts where they are understood; To let the thirst for worldly power and place Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss. Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough! [Illustration] [Illustration] MY FRIEND "He is my friend," I said,-- "Be patient!" Overhead The skies were drear and dim; And lo! the thought of him Smiled on my heart--and then The sun shone out again! "He is my friend!" The words Brought summer and the birds; And all my winter-time Thawed into running rhyme And rippled into song, Warm, tender, brave and strong. And so it sings to-day.-- So may it sing alway! Though waving grasses grow Between, and lilies blow Their trills of perfume clear As laughter to the ear, Let each mute measure end With "Still he is thy friend." [Illustration] [Illustration] THINKIN' BACK I've ben thinkin' back, of late, S'prisin'!--And I'm here to state I'm suspicious it's a sign Of _age_, maybe, or decline Of my faculties,--and yit I'm not _feelin'_ old a bit-- Any more than sixty-four Ain't no _young_ man any more!