I used to want a lovely lawn, a level patch of green, For I have marveled many times at those that I have seen, And in my early dreams of youth the home that I should keep Possessed a lawn of beauty rare, a velvet carpet deep, But I have changed my mind since then--for then I didn't know That where the feet of children run the grass can never grow. Now I might own a lovely lawn, but I should have to say To all the little ones about, "Go somewhere else to play!" And I should have to stretch a wire about my garden space And make the home where gladness reigns, a most forbidding place. By stopping all the merriment which now is ours to know, In time, beyond the slightest doubt, the tender grass would grow. But oh, I want the children near, and so I never say, When they are romping around the home, "Go somewhere else to play!" And though my lawn seems poorly kept, and many a spot is bare, I'd rather see, than growing grass, the youngsters happy there. I've put aside the dream I had in that far long ago-- I'd rather have a playground than a place for grass to grow. _The Hills of Faith_ The hills are in the mist to-day, Their purple robes are put away. Like coast guards in their yellow coats They face the driving rain; Like coast guards in their yellow coats, Who watch the sea for ship-wrecked boats, They watch the land for human craft In trouble on the plain. The gray clouds rush among their peaks, Some weakness there the storm-king seeks. A frightened boulder breaks away And rolls into the glen; A tree is crushed to earth again, But staunch and brave the hills remain, A symbol of unfaltering faith To all the hosts of men. Time was the hills were tinged with gold, About them seas of crimson rolled, A gentle beauty graced their brows As delicate as May Who comes with blossoms in her hair. They laughed away the summer there, But now sublimely stern they stand, Attired in somber gray. Symbols of strength, unmoved they keep Their place against the winds that sweep; Defenders of our coast of faith, They signal to us all That what is strong and best and true Shall breast the gale and live it through To greet the birth of spring again And hear the song bird's call. _Last Night the Baby Cried_ Last night the baby cried. And I, Roused from a sound and soothing sleep, Wondered to hear that little cry. For ten long years in slumber deep I've lived my nights, and so it seemed That what I'd heard I'd only dreamed. For ten long years a banging gate, The milkman's whistle, or the horn Of motors driven at rapid rate, Have wakened me at early dawn; But late last night awake was I, Thinking I'd heard a baby cry.