WE MUST SEND THEM OUT TO PLAY

Now much there is need of doing must not be done in haste;
But slowly and with patience, as a jungle is changed to a town.
But listen, my brothers, listen; it is not always so:
When a murderer’s hand is lifted to kill, there is no time to waste;
And the way to change his purpose is first to knock him down
And teach him the law of kindness after you give him the blow.

The acorn you plant in the morning will not give shade at noon;
And the thornless cactus must be bred by year on year of toil.
But listen, my brothers, listen; it is not ever the way,
For the roots of the poison ivy plant you cannot pull too soon;
If you would better your garden and make the most of your soil,
Hurry and dig up the evil things and cast them out to-day.

The ancient sin of the nations no law can ever efface;
We must wait for the mothers of men to grow, and give clean souls
to their sons.
But listen, my brothers, listen–when a child cries out in
pain,
We must rise from the banquet board and go, though the host is saying
grace;
We must rise and find the Herod of Greed, who is killing our
little ones,
Nor ever go back to the banquet until the monster is slain.

The strong man waits for justice, with lifted soul and eyes,
As a sturdy oak will face the storm, and does not break or bow.
But listen, my brothers, listen; the child is a child for a
day;
If a merciless foot treads down each shoot, how can the forest rise?
We are robbing the race when we rob a child; we must rescue the
children NOW;
We must rescue the little slaves of Greed and send them out to
play.

IF I WERE A MAN, A YOUNG MAN

If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day,
I would look in the eyes of Life undaunted
By any Fate that might threaten me.
I would give to the world what the world most wanted -
Manhood that knows it can do and be;
Courage that dares, and faith that can see
Clear into the depths of the human soul,
And find God there, and the ultimate goal,
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day.

If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day,
I would think of myself as the masterful creature
Of all the Masterful plan;
The Formless Cause, with form and feature;
The Power that heeds not limit or ban;
Man, wonderful man.
I would do good deeds, and forget them straightway;
I would weave my woes into ropes and climb
Up to the heights of the helper’s gateway;
And Life should serve me, and Time,
And I would sail out, and out, and find
The treasures that lie in the deep sea, Mind.
I would dream, and think, and act;
I would work, and love, and pray,
Till each dream and vision grew into a fact,
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day.

If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day,
I would guard my passions as Kings guard treasures,
And keep them high and clean.
(For the will of a man, with his passions, measures;
It is strong as they are keen.)
I would think of each woman as some one’s mother;
I would think of each man as my own blood brother,
And speed him along on his way.
And the glory of life in this wonderful hour
Should fill me and thrill me with Conscious power,
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day.

THE ETERNAL NOW

Time with his back against the mighty wall,
Which hides from view all future joy and sorrow,
Hears, without answer, the impatient call
Of puny man, to tell him of to-morrow.

Moral, be wise, and to the silence bow,
These useless and unquiet ways forsaking;
Concern thyself with the Eternal Now -
To-day hold all things, ready for thy taking.

HOME

The greatest words are always solitaires,
Set singly in one syllable; like birth,
Life, love, hope, peace. I sing the worth
Of that dear word toward which the whole world fares -
I sing of home.

To make a home, we should take all of love
And much of labour, patience, and keen joy;
Then mix the elements of earth’s alloy
With finer things drawn from the realms above,
The spirit home.

There should be music, melody and song;
Beauty in every spot; an open door
And generous sharing of the pleasure store
With fellow-pilgrims as they pass along,
Seeking for home.

Make ample room for silent friends–the books,
That give so much and only ask for space.
Nor let Utility crowd out the vase
Which has no use save gracing by its looks
The precious home.

To narrow bounds let mirrors lend their aid
And multiply each gracious touch of art;
And let the casual stranger feel the part -
The great creative part–that love has played
Within the home.

Here bring your best in thought and word and deed,
Your sweetest acts, your highest self-control;
Nor save them for some later hour and goal.
Here is the place, and now the time of need,
Here in your home.

MARTYRS OF PEACE

Fame writes ever its song and story,
For heroes of war, in letters of glory.

But where is the story and where is the song
For the heroes of peace and the martyrs of wrong?

They fight their battles in shop and mine;
They die at their posts and make no sign.

They herd like beasts in a slaughter pen;
They live like cattle and suffer like men.

Why, set by the horrors of such a life,
Like a merry-go-round seems the battle’s strife,

And the open sea, and the open boat,
And the deadly cannon with bellowing throat.

Oh, what are they all, with death thrown in,
To the life that has nothing to lose or win -

The life that has nothing to hope or gain
But ill-paid labour and beds of pain?

Fame, where is your story and where is your song
For the martyrs of peace and the victims of wrong?

I AM RUNNING FORTH TO MEET YOU

I am running forth to meet you, O my Master,
For they tell me you are surely on the way;
Yes, they tell me you are coming back again
(While I run, while I run).
And I wish my feet were winged to speed on faster,
And I wish I might behold you here to-day,
Lord of men.

I am running, yet I walk beside my neighbour,
And I take the duties given me to do;
Yes, I take the daily duties as they fall
(While I run, while I run),
And my heart runs to my hand and helps the labour,
For I think this is the way that leads to you,
Lord of all.

I am running, yet I turn from toil and duty,
Oftentimes to just the art of being glad;
Yes, to just the joys that make the earth-world bright
(While I run, while I run).
For the soul that worships God must worship beauty,
And the heart that thinks of You can not be sad,
Lord of light.

I am running, yet I pause to greet my brother,
And I lean to rid my garden of its weed;
Yes, I lean, although I lift my thoughts above
(While I run, while I run).
And I think of that command, ‘Love one another,’
As I hear discordant sounds of creed with creed,
Lord of Love.

I am running, and the road is lit with splendour,
And it brightens and shines fairer with each span;
Yes, it brightens like the highway in a dream
(While I run, while I run).
And my heart to all the world grows very tender,
For I seem to see the Christ in every man,
Lord supreme.

THE LITTLE GO-CART

It was long, long ago that a soul like a flower
Unfolded, and blossomed, and passed in an hour.
It was long, long ago; and the memory seems
Like the pleasures and sorrows that come in our dreams.

The kind years have crowned me with many a joy
Since the going away of my wee little boy;
Each one as it passed me has stooped with a kiss,
And left some delight–knowing one thing I miss.

But when in the park or the street, all elate
A baby I see in his carriage of state,
As proud as a king, in his little go-cart -
I feel all the mother-love stir in my heart!

And I seem to be back in that long-vanished May;
And the baby, who came but to hurry away
In the little white hearse, is not dead, but alive,
And out in his little go-cart for a drive.

I whisper a prayer as he rides down the street,
And my thoughts follow after him, tender and sweet;
For I know, by a law that is vast and divine,
(Though I know not his name) that the baby is mine!

ON AVON’S BREAST I SAW A STATELY SWAN

One day when England’s June was at its best,
I saw a stately and imperious swan
Floating on Avon’s fair untroubled breast.
Sudden, it seemed as if all strife had gone
Out of the world; all discord, all unrest.

The sorrows and the sinnings of the race
Faded away like nightmares in the dawn.
All heaven was one blue background for the grace
Of Avon’s beautiful, slow-moving swan;
And earth held nothing mean or commonplace.

Life seemed no longer to be hurrying on
With unbecoming haste; but softly trod,
As one who reads in emerald leaf, or lawn,
Or crimson rose a message straight from God.
. . . . .
On Avon’s breast I saw a stately swan.

BEAUTY MAKING

Methinks there is no greater work in life
Than making beauty. Can the mind conceive
One little corner in celestial realms
Unbeautiful, or dull or commonplace?
Or picture ugly angels, illy clad?
Beauty and splendour, opulence and joy,
Are attributes of God and His domain,
And so are worth and virtue. But why preach
Of virtue only to the sons of men,
Ignoring beauty, till they think it sin?
Why, if each dweller on this little globe
Could know the sacred meaning of that word
And understand its deep significance,
Men’s thoughts would form in beauty, till their dreams
Of heaven would find expression in their lives,
However humble; they themselves would grow
Godlike, befitting such a fair estate.
Let us be done with what is only good,
Demanding here and now the beautiful;
Lest, with the mind and eye on earth untrained,
We shall be ill at ease when heaven is gained.

TO THE TEACHERS OF THE YOUNG

How large thy task, O teacher of the young,
To take the ravelled threads by parents flung
With careless hands, and through consummate care
To weave a fabric, fine and firm and fair.
God’s uncompleted work is thine to do -
Be brave and true!

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