The modern mantel, I admit, is striking to the eye, And yet it lacks the wealth of charm we knew in days gone by; For on the little marble shelf above the grate fire's glow Were all the sacred treasures of the homestead in a row, The pictures and the onyx clock, the globe of native birds, Which told the things we loved the most in clearer speech than words. There Mother kept in tenderness the trinkets of the years, The tokens of her happier days, the symbols of her tears; The glossy cabinet photographs, the candlesticks of brass, The picture of Niagara Falls blown into heavy glass, And there above the grate fire's glow, for every eye to see, Were all the sacred treasures from her book of memory. But Time has swept these things away, the mantel now is bare. The attic dust lies thick upon the joys once valued there; The photographs are stored away, the birds long since have flown, Nor is it now good form to show the treasured things we own, For when the newer customs come, the ones of old must cease, And yet I'm sorry that we had to lose the chimney piece. _The Crocus_ A yellow crocus bloomed today. Where all is dead and bleak and bare, It flashed its light along the way And radiantly twinkled there. Out of the darkness and the gloom, Braving the blizzard's bitter sting, There came this golden bit of bloom To herald the advancing spring. "Hold out! Hold out!" it seemed to say, "Soon must the siege of winter fall, The daffodils are on their way, The hyacinths have heard you call. "Behind me comes a countless throng Of bigger, braver blooms than I; The woods shall shortly ring with song, Spring's glorious army draweth nigh." A yellow crocus flashed today Its torch of faith for all to see-- The troops of spring are on the way, The captive earth will soon be free. _My Goals_ A little braver when the skies are gray, A little stronger when the road seems long, A little more of patience through the day, And not so quick to magnify a wrong. A little kinder, both of thought and deed, A little gentler with the old and weak, Swifter to sense another's pressing need, And not so fast the hurtful phrase to speak. These are my goals--not flung beyond my power, Not dreams of glory, beautiful but vain, Not the great heights where buds of genius flower, But simple splendors which I ought to gain. These I can do and be from day to day Along the humble pathway where I plod, So that at last when I am called away I need not make apologies to God. _The Carpet on the Stairs_