Snow-capped mountain peaks that flash High above a river’s crash,
Shrill songs of birds and children’s laughter, Soft grey shadows trailing after
Sunbeam sprites that seek the woods And lose themselves in solitudes.
All these I’ll love, never hate, And loving them, I will be great.
My love will come in autumn-time When leaves go spinning to the ground And wistful stars in heaven chime With the leaves’ sound.
Then, we shall walk through dusty lanes And pause beneath low-hanging boughs, And there, while soft-hued beauty reigns We’ll make our vows.
Let others seek in spring for sighs When love flames forth from every seed; But love that blooms when nature dies Is love indeed!
Traveling at dusk the noisy city street, I listened to the newsboys’ strident cries Of “Extra,” as with flying feet, They strove to gain this man or that-their prize. But one there was with neither shout nor stride, And, having bought from him, I stood nearby, Pondering the cruel crutches at his side, Blaming the crowd’s neglect, and wondering why—
When suddenly I heard a gruff voice greet The cripple with “On time to-night?” Then, as he handed out the sheet, The Youngster’s answer-“You’re all right. My other reg’lars are a little late. They’ll find I’m short one paper when they come; You see, a strange guy bought one in the wait, I tho’t ’twould cheer him up-he looked so glum!”
So, sheepishly I laughed, and went my way For I had found a city’s heart that day.
“German Retreat From Arras” “Official Films”-they came After “Corinne and Her Minstrels” Had ministered to fame.
After “Corinne and Her Minstrels” Had pigeon-toed away, We saw where bits of churches And bits of horses lay.
We saw bleak desolation; We saw no unscathed tree. We shivered in our comfort And murmured: “Can it be!”
But later, walking homeward, Repeating: “Is it true?” We brushed a khaki shoulder And asked no more. We knew!
When I was but a young lad, And that is long ago, I thought that luck loved every man, And time his only foe, And love was like a hawthorn bush That blossomed every May, And had but to choose his flower, For that’s the young lad’s way.
Oh, youth’s a thriftless squanderer, It’s easy come and spent, And heavy is the going now Where once the light foot went. The hawthorn bush puts on its white, The throstle whistles clear, But Spring comes once for every man Just once in all the year.