Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

The Rainy Day

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,But at every gust the dead leaves fall,And the day is dark and dreary.My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,And the days are dark and dreary.Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall,Some days must be dark and dreary.H.W. Longfellow.

Let Me Walk With the Men in the Road

'Tis only a half truth the poet has sungOf the "house by the side of the way";Our Master had neither a house nor a home,But He walked with the crowd day by day.And I think, when I read of the poet's desire,That a house by the road would be good;But service is found in its tenderest formWhen we walk with the crowd in the road.So I say, let me walk with the men in the road,Let me seek out the burdens that crush,Let me speak a kind word of good cheer to the weakWho are falling behind in the rush.There are wounds to be healed, there are breaks we must mend,There's a cup of cold water to give;And the man in the road by the side of his friendIs the man who has learned to live.Then tell me no more of the house by the road.There is only one place I can live—It's there with the men who are toiling along,Who are needing the cheer I can give.It is pleasant to live in the house by the wayAnd be a friend, as the poet has said;But the Master is bidding us, "Bear ye their load,For your rest waiteth yonder ahead."I could not remain in the house by the roadAnd watch as the toilers go on,Their faces beclouded with pain and with sin,So burdened, their strength nearly gone.I'll go to their side, I'll speak in good cheer,I'll help them to carry their load;And I'll smile at the man in the house by the way,As I walk with the crowd in the road.Out there in the road that goes by the house,Where the poet is singing his song,I'll walk and I'll work midst the heat of the day,And I'll help falling brothers along—Too busy to live in the house by the way,Too happy for such an abode.And my heart sings its praise to the Master of all,Who is helping me serve in the road.Walter J. Gresham.

If We Understood

Could we but draw back the curtainsThat surround each other's lives,See the naked heart and spirit,Know what spur the action gives,Often we should find it better,Purer than we judged we should,We should love each other better,If we only understood.Could we judge all deeds by motives,See the good and bad within,Often we should love the sinnerAll the while we loathe the sin;Could we know the powers workingTo o'erthrow integrity,We should judge each other's errorsWith more patient charity.If we knew the cares and trials,Knew the effort all in vain,And the bitter disappointment,Understood the loss and gain—Would the grim, eternal roughnessSeem—I wonder—just the same?Should we help where now we hinder,Should we pity where we blame?Ah! we judge each other harshly,Knowing not life's hidden force;Knowing not the fount of actionIs less turbid at its source;Seeing not amid the evilAll the golden grains of good;Oh! we'd love each other better,If we only understood.

A Laugh in Church

She sat on the sliding cushion,The dear, wee woman of four;Her feet, in their shiny slippers,Hung dangling over the floor.She meant to be good; she had promised,And so, with her big, brown eyes,She stared at the meeting-house windowsAnd counted the crawling flies.She looked far up at the preacher,But she thought of the honey beesDroning away at the blossomsThat whitened the cherry trees.She thought of a broken basket,Where, curled in a dusky heap,Three sleek, round puppies, with fringy earsLay snuggled and fast asleep.Such soft warm bodies to cuddle,Such queer little hearts to beat,Such swift, round tongues to kiss,Such sprawling, cushiony feet;She could feel in her clasping fingersThe touch of a satiny skinAnd a cold wet nose exploringThe dimples under her chin.Then a sudden ripple of laughterRan over the parted lipsSo quick that she could not catch itWith her rosy finger-tips.The people whispered, "Bless the child,"As each one waked from a nap,But the dear, wee woman hid her faceFor shame in her mother's lap.

"One, Two, Three!"

It was an old, old, old, old lady,And a boy that was half past three;And the way that they played togetherWas beautiful to see.She couldn't go running and jumping,And the boy, no more could he;For he was a thin little fellow,With a thin little twisted knee,They sat in the yellow sunlight,Out under the maple-tree;And the game that they played I'll tell you,Just as it was told to me.It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing,Though you'd never have known it to be—With an old, old, old, old lady,And a boy with a twisted knee.The boy would bend his face downOn his one little sound right knee,And he'd guess where she was hiding,In guesses One, Two, Three!"You are in the china-closet!"He would cry, and laugh with glee—It wasn't the china-closet;But he still had Two and Three."You are up in Papa's big bedroom,In the chest with the queer old key!"And she said: "You are warm and warmer;But you're not quite right," said she."It can't be the little cupboardWhere Mamma's things used to be—So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!"And he found her with his Three.Then she covered her face with her fingers,That were wrinkled and white and wee,And she guessed where the boy was hiding,With a One and a Two and a Three.And they never had stirred from their places,Right under the maple-tree—This old, old, old, old lady,And the boy with the lame little knee—This dear, dear, dear old lady,And the boy who was half past three.Henry Cuyler Bunner.

Unawares

They said, "The Master is comingTo honor the town to-day,And none can tell at what house or homeThe Master will choose to stay."And I thought while my heart beat wildly,What if He should come to mine,How would I strive to entertainAnd honor the Guest Divine!And straight I turned to toilingTo make my house more neat;I swept, and polished, and garnished.And decked it with blossoms sweet.I was troubled for fear the MasterMight come ere my work was done,And I hasted and worked the faster,And watched the hurrying sun.But right in the midst of my dutiesA woman came to my door;She had come to tell me her sorrowsAnd my comfort and aid to implore,And I said, "I cannot listenNor help you any, to-day;I have greater things to attend to."And the pleader turned away.But soon there came another—A cripple, thin, pale and gray—And said, "Oh, let me stop and restA while in your house, I pray!I have traveled far since morning,I am hungry, and faint, and weak;My heart is full of misery,And comfort and help I seek."And I cried, "I am grieved and sorry,But I cannot help you to-day.I look for a great and noble Guest,"And the cripple went away;And the day wore onward swiftly—And my task was nearly done,And a prayer was ever in my heartThat the Master to me might come.And I thought I would spring to meet Him,And serve him with utmost care,When a little child stood by meWith a face so sweet and fair—Sweet, but with marks of teardrops—And his clothes were tattered and old;A finger was bruised and bleeding,And his little bare feet were cold.And I said, "I'm sorry for you—You are sorely in need of care;But I cannot stop to give it,You must hasten otherwhere."And at the words, a shadowSwept o'er his blue-veined brow,—"Someone will feed and clothe you, dear,But I am too busy now."At last the day was ended,And my toil was over and done;My house was swept and garnished—And I watched in the dark—alone.Watched—but no footfall sounded,No one paused at my gate;No one entered my cottage door;I could only pray—and wait.I waited till night had deepened,And the Master had not come."He has entered some other door," I said,"And gladdened some other home!"My labor had been for nothing,And I bowed my head and I wept,My heart was sore with longing—Yet—in spite of it all—I slept.Then the Master stood before me,And his face was grave and fair;"Three times to-day I came to your door,And craved your pity and care;Three times you sent me onward,Unhelped and uncomforted;And the blessing you might have had was lost,And your chance to serve has fled.""O Lord, dear Lord, forgive me!How could I know it was Thee?"My very soul was shamed and bowedIn the depths of humility.And He said, "The sin is pardoned,But the blessing is lost to thee;For comforting not the least of MineYou have failed to comfort Me."Emma A. Lent.

The Land of Beginning Again

I wish there were some wonderful placeCalled the Land of Beginning Again,Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches,And all our poor, selfish griefsCould be dropped, like a shabby old coat, at the door,And never put on again.I wish we could come on it all unaware,Like the hunter who finds a lost trail;And I wish that the one whom our blindness had doneThe greatest injustice of allCould be at the gate like the old friend that waitsFor the comrade he's gladdest to hail.We would find the things we intended to do,But forgot and remembered too late—Little praises unspoken, little promises broken,And all of the thousand and oneLittle duties neglected that might have perfectedThe days of one less fortunate.It wouldn't be possible not to be kind.In the Land of Beginning Again;And the ones we misjudged and the ones whom we grudgedTheir moments of victory here,Would find the grasp of our loving handclaspMore than penitent lips could explain.For what had been hardest we'd know had been best,And what had seemed loss would be gain,For there isn't a sting that will not take wingWhen we've faced it and laughed it away;And I think that the laughter is most what we're after,In the Land of Beginning Again.So I wish that there were some wonderful placeCalled the Land of Beginning Again,Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches,And all our poor, selfish griefsCould be dropped, like a ragged old coat, at the door,And never put on again.Louisa Fletcher Tarkington.

Poor Little Joe

Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey,Fur I've brought you sumpin' great.Apples? No, a derned sight better!Don't you take no int'rest? Wait!Flowers, Joe—I know'd you'd like 'em—Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high?Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey?There—poor little Joe—don't cry!I was skippin' past a winderW'ere a bang-up lady sot,All amongst a lot of bushes—Each one climbin' from a pot;Every bush had flowers on it—Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh, no!Wish you could 'a seen 'em growin',It was such a stunnin' show.Well, I thought of you, poor feller,Lyin' here so sick and weak,Never knowin' any comfort,And I puts on lots o' cheek."Missus," says I, "if you please, mum,Could I ax you for a rose?For my little brother, missus—Never seed one, I suppose."Then I told her all about you—How I bringed you up—poor Joe!(Lackin' women folks to do it)Sich a imp you was, you know—Till you got that awful tumble,Jist as I had broke yer in(Hard work, too), to earn your livin'Blackin' boots for honest tin.How that tumble crippled of you,So's you couldn't hyper much—Joe, it hurted when I seen youFur the first time with yer crutch."But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,'Pears to weaken every day";Joe, she up and went to cuttin'—That's the how of this bokay.Say! it seems to me, ole feller,You is quite yourself to-night—Kind o' chirk—it's been a fortnitSense yer eyes has been so bright.Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it!Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe.Smellin' of 'em's made you happy?Well, I thought it would, you know.Never see the country, did you?Flowers growin' everywhere!Some time when you're better, Joey,Mebbe I kin take you there.Flowers in heaven? 'M—I s'pose so;Dunno much about it, though;Ain't as fly as wot I might beOn them topics, little Joe.But I've heerd it hinted somewheresThat in heaven's golden gatesThings is everlastin' cheerful—B'lieve that's what the Bible states.Likewise, there folks don't git hungry:So good people, w'en they dies,Finds themselves well fixed forever—Joe my boy, wot ails yer eyes?Thought they looked a little sing'ler.Oh, no! Don't you have no fear;Heaven was made fur such as you is—Joe, wot makes you look so queer?Here—wake up! Oh, don't look that way!Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head!Here's yer flowers—you dropped em, Joey.Oh, my God, can Joe be dead?David L. Proudfit (Peleg Arkwright).

The Ladder of St. Augustine

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,That of our vices we can frameA ladder, if we will but treadBeneath our feet each deed of shame!All common things, each day's events,That with the hour begin and end,Our pleasures and our discontents,Are rounds by which we may ascend.The low desire, the base design,That makes another's virtues less;The revel of the ruddy wine,And all occasions of excess;The longing for ignoble things;The strife for triumph more than truth;The hardening of the heart, that bringsIrreverence for the dreams of youth;All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,That have their root in thoughts of ill;Whatever hinders or impedesThe action of the nobler will;—All these must first be trampled downBeneath our feet, if we would gainIn the bright fields of fair renownThe right of eminent domain.We have not wings, we cannot soar;But we have feet to scale and climbBy slow degrees, by more and more,The cloudy summits of our time.The mighty pyramids of stoneThat wedge-like cleave the desert airs,When nearer seen, and better known,Are but gigantic flights of stairs,The distant mountains, that uprearTheir solid bastions to the skies,Are crossed by pathways, that appearAs we to higher levels rise.The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight.But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.Standing on what too long we boreWith shoulders bent and downcast eyes,We may discern—unseen before—A path to higher destinies.Nor deem the irrevocable PastAs wholly wasted, wholly vain,If, rising on its wrecks, at lastTo something nobler we attain.H.W. Longfellow.

Loss and Gain

When I compareWhat I have lost with what I have gained,What I have missed with what attained,Little room do I find for pride.I am awareHow many days have been idly spent;How like an arrow the good intentHas fallen short or been turned aside.But who shall dareTo measure loss and gain in this wise?Defeat may be victory in disguise;The lowest ebb in the turn of the tide.H.W. Longfellow.

John Thompson's Daughter

(A Parody on "Lord Ullin's Daughter")A fellow near Kentucky's climeCries, "Boatman, do not tarry,And I'll give thee a silver dimeTo row us o'er the ferry.""Now, who would cross the Ohio,This dark and stormy water?""Oh, I am this young lady's beau,And she John Thompson's daughter."We've fled before her father's spiteWith great precipitation,And should he find us here to-night,I'd lose my reputation."They've missed the girl and purse beside,His horsemen hard have pressed me.And who will cheer my bonny bride,If yet they shall arrest me?"Out spoke the boatman then in time,"You shall not fail, don't fear it;I'll go not for your silver dime,But—for your manly spirit."And by my word, the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;For though a storm is coming on,I'll row you o'er the ferry."By this the wind more fiercely rose,The boat was at the landing,And with the drenching rain their clothesGrew wet where they were standing.But still, as wilder rose the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Just back a piece came the police,Their tramping sounded nearer."Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,"It's anything but funny;I'll leave the light of loving eyes,But not my father's money!"And still they hurried in the raceOf wind and rain unsparing;John Thompson reached the landing-place,His wrath was turned to swearing.For by the lightning's angry flash,His child he did discover;One lovely hand held all the cash,And one was round her lover!"Come back, come back," he cried in woe,Across the stormy water;"But leave the purse, and you may go,My daughter, oh, my daughter!"'Twas vain; they reached the other shore,(Such dooms the Fates assign us),The gold he piled went with his child,And he was left there, minus.Phoebe Cary.

Grandfather's Clock

My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf,So it stood ninety years on the floor;It was taller by half than the old man himself,Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,And was always his treasure and pride,But it stopped short ne'er to go againWhen the old man died.In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,Many hours had he spent while a boy;And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to knowAnd to share both his grief and his joy,For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,With a blooming and beautiful bride,But it stopped short never to go againWhen the old man died.My grandfather said that of those he could hire,Not a servant so faithful he found,For it wasted no time and had but one desire,At the close of each week to be wound.And it kept in its place, not a frown upon its face,And its hands never hung by its side.But it stopped short never to go againWhen the old man died.Henry C. Work.

A Cradle Hymn

Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed!Heavenly blessings without numberGently falling on thy head.Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,House and home, thy friends provide;All without thy care or payment:All thy wants are well supplied.How much better thou'rt attendedThan the Son of God could be,When from heaven He descendedAnd became a child like thee!Soft and easy is thy cradle:Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,When His birthplace was a stableAnd His softest bed was hay.Blessed babe! what glorious features—Spotless fair, divinely bright!Must He dwell with brutal creatures?How could angels bear the sight?Was there nothing but a mangerCursed sinners could affordTo receive the heavenly stranger?Did they thus affront their Lord?Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,Though my song might sound too hard;'Tis thy mother sits beside thee,And her arm shall be thy guard.See the kinder shepherds round Him,Telling wonders from the sky!Where they sought Him, there they found Him,With His Virgin mother by.See the lovely babe a-dressing;Lovely infant, how He smiled!When He wept, His mother's blessingSoothed and hush'd the holy Child,Lo, He slumbers in a manger,Where the hornèd oxen fed:—Peace, my darling, here's no danger;There's no ox anear thy bed.May'st thou live to know and fear Him,Trust and love Him all thy days;Then go dwell forever near Him,See His face, and sing His praise!Isaac Watts.

If All the Skies

If all the skies were sunshine,Our faces would be fainTo feel once more upon themThe cooling splash of rain.If all the world were music,Our hearts would often longFor one sweet strain of silence,To break the endless song.If life were always merry,Our souls would seek relief,And rest from weary laughterIn the quiet arms of grief.Henry van Dyke.

The Petrified Fern

In a valley, centuries ago,Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender,Veining delicate and fibers tender,Waving when the wind crept down so low;Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it;Playful sunbeams darted in and found it;Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it;But no foot of man e'er came that way;Earth was young and keeping holiday.Monster fishes swam the silent main;Stately forests waved their giant branches;Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches;Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain,Nature reveled in grand mysteries.But the little fern was not like these,Did not number with the hills and trees,Only grew and waved its sweet, wild way;No one came to note it day by day.Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motionOf the strong, dread currents of the ocean;Moved the hills and shook the haughty wood;Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay,Covered it, and hid it safe away.Oh, the long, long centuries since that day;Oh, the changes! Oh, life's bitter cost,Since the little useless fern was lost!Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful manSearching Nature's secrets far and deep;From a fissure in a rocky steepHe withdrew a stone, o'er which there ranFairy pencilings, a quaint design,Leafage, veining, fibers, clear and fine,And the fern's life lay in every line.So, I think, God hides some souls away,Sweetly to surprise us the Last Day.Mary L. Bolles Branch.

Cleon and I

Cleon hath ten thousand acres,Ne'er a one have I;Cleon dwelleth in a palace,In a cottage, I;Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,Not a penny, I,Yet the poorer of the twain isCleon, and not I.Cleon, true, possesseth acres,But the landscape, I;Half the charms to me it yieldethMoney cannot buy;Cleon harbors sloth and dullness,Freshening vigor, I;He in velvet, I in fustian—Richer man am I.Cleon is a slave to grandeur,Free as thought am I;Cleon fees a score of doctors,Need of none have I;Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,Cleon fears to die;Death may come—he'll find me ready,Happier man am I.Cleon sees no charms in nature,In a daisy, I;Cleon hears no anthems ringing'Twixt the sea and sky;Nature sings to me forever,Earnest listener, I;State for state, with all attendants—Who would change?—Not I.Charles Mackay.

Washington

Great were the hearts and strong the mindsOf those who framed in high debateThe immortal league of love that bindsOur fair, broad empire, State with State.And deep the gladness of the hourWhen, as the auspicious task was done,In solemn trust the sword of powerWas given to Glory's Unspoiled Son.That noble race is gone—the sunsOf fifty years have risen and set;—But the bright links, those chosen ones,So strongly forged, are brighter yet.Wide—as our own free race increase—Wide shall extend the elastic chain,And bind in everlasting peaceState after State, a mighty train.W.C. Bryant.

Towser Shall Be Tied To-Night

A Parody on "Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight."Slow the Kansas sun was setting,O'er the wheat fields far away,Streaking all the air with cobwebsAt the close of one hot day;And the last rays kissed the foreheadOf a man and maiden fair,He with whiskers short and frowsy,She with red and glistening hair,He with shut jaws stern and silent;She, with lips all cold and white,Struggled to keep back the murmur,"Towser shall be tied to-night.""Papa," slowly spoke the daughter,"I am almost seventeen,And I have a real lover,Though he's rather young and green;But he has a horse and buggyAnd a cow and thirty hens,—Boys that start out poor, dear Papa,Make the best of honest men,But if Towser sees and bites him,Fills his eyes with misty light,He will never come again, Pa;Towser must be tied to-night.""Daughter," firmly spoke the farmer,(Every word pierced her young heartLike a carving knife through chickenAs it hunts the tender part)—"I've a patch of early melons,Two of them are ripe to-day;Towser must be loose to watch themOr they'll all be stole away.I have hoed them late and earlyIn dim morn and evening light;Now they're grown I must not lose them;Towser'll not be tied to-night."Then the old man ambled forward,Opened wide the kennel-door,Towser bounded forth to meet himAs he oft had done before.And the farmer stooped and loosed himFrom the dog-chain short and stout;To himself he softly chuckled,"Bessie's feller must look out."But the maiden at the windowSaw the cruel teeth show white;In an undertone she murmured,—"Towser must be tied to-night."Then the maiden's brow grew thoughtfulAnd her breath came short and quick,Till she spied the family clothesline,And she whispered, "That's the trick."From the kitchen door she glidedWith a plate of meat and bread;Towser wagged his tail in greeting,Knowing well he would be fed.In his well-worn leather collar,Tied she then the clothesline tight,All the time her white lips saying:"Towser shall be tied to-night,""There, old doggie," spoke the maiden,"You can watch the melon patch,But the front gate's free and open,When John Henry lifts the latch.For the clothesline tight is fastenedTo the harvest apple tree,You can run and watch the melons,But the front gate you can't see."Then her glad ears hear a buggy,And her eyes grow big and bright,While her young heart says in gladness,"Towser dog is tied to-night."Up the path the young man sauntersWith his eye and cheek aglow;For he loves the red-haired maidenAnd he aims to tell her so.Bessie's roguish little brother,In a fit of boyish glee,Had untied the slender clothesline,From the harvest apple tree.Then old Towser heard the footsteps,Raised his bristles, fixed for fight,—"Bark away," the maiden whispers;"Towser, you are tied to-night."Then old Towser bounded forward,Passed the open kitchen door;Bessie screamed and quickly followed,But John Henry's gone before.Down the path he speeds most quickly,For old Towser sets the pace;And the maiden close behind themShows them she is in the race.Then the clothesline, can she get it?And her eyes grow big and bright;And she springs and grasps it firmly:"Towser shall be tied to-night."Oftentimes a little minuteForms the destiny of men.You can change the fate of nationsBy the stroke of one small pen.Towser made one last long effort,Caught John Henry by the pants,But John Henry kept on runningFor he thought that his last chance.But the maiden held on firmly,And the rope was drawn up tight.But old Towser kept the garments,For he was not tied that night.Then the father hears the racket;With long strides he soon is there,When John Henry and the maiden,Crouching, for the worst prepare.At his feet John tells his story,Shows his clothing soiled and torn;And his face so sad and pleading,Yet so white and scared and worn,Touched the old man's heart with pity,Filled his eyes with misty light."Take her, boy, and make her happy,—Towser shall be tied to-night."