When the birds come back! When the birds come back! O, the raptures and the rhapsodies that follow in their track! How the memories of by-gones and the joys of other days Smile again with angel faces down the world's entangled ways! And the pleasures come and crown us with the garlands that we lack, When the sunshine floods the valleys and the birds come back! The Ways of Life. The rough way, the hard way, The way that seems so long! Yet still the sweet and happy way Across the fields of song! The sad way, the dark way, The way that leads above; And still the bright and golden way Across the fields of love! The love way, the song way, The way we gladly go,-- The way of blossoms sweet and fair And all the dreams we know! What the world may think of a man is of small consequence either to him or the world; but what he thinks of himself is of infinite and imperishable importance to all the realms of creation. Mister Blue-bird. "Mister Blue-bird! Mister Blue-bird! Don't you think it's rather soon For the making of your music, And the striking of a tune?" "I have heard the lone trees calling And the meadows barren long, For the laughter of the lovers And the raptures of the song! "I have heard the dark buds waiting, And the roses red to be Sent the wailing of their wishes In a message after me! "Never think I come too early! I'm the messenger of spring, And the roses and the lilies Never waken till I sing!" He has Lived in Vain. The poor man who never was a country boy, and made cider, milked the cows, ran off and went swimming, kissed the girls at apple-cuttings and husking bees, bred stone-bruises on his heels, stacked hay in a high wind and mowed it away in a hot loft, swallowed quinine in scraped apple and castor oil in cold coffee, taught the calves to drink and fed them, manipulated the churn-dasher, ate molasses and sulphur and drank sassafras tea in the spring to purify his blood,--that poor man has lived his sinful life in vain! Good-bye to the shadows! Good-bye to the night! We'll walk in the sunshine And laugh in the light; And the roses and lilies of God's holy love With their garlands shall crown us for mansions above! The hewers of wood and the drawers of water do but little of the real work of the world. The horse, the ox, the insensate thing of steam and steel, does quite as much and more. But the men who dream,--who put something of brain and heart and soul into the clods and fashion them into things of beauty for mankind,--these lift the burdens off the shoulders of the race and plant a song upon the lips of toil! "Say Good-bye to Sorrow." Say good-bye to Sorrow, And her ways of night; Song for you will borrow Every sweet delight.