Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

--Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

Be Strong

          Be strong!
We are not here to play, to dream, to drift;
We have hard work to do, and loads to lift;
Shun not the struggle--face it; 'tis God's gift.

          Be strong!
Say not, "The days are evil. Who's to blame?
And fold the hands and acquiesce--oh shame!
Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name.

          Be strong!
It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,
How hard the battle goes, the day how long;
Faint not--fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.

--Maltbie Davenport Babcock (1858-1901)

Opportunity

Master of human destinies am I.
Fame, love, and fortrune on my footsteps wait,
Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by
Hovel, and mart, and palace, soon or late
I knock unbidden, once at every gate!
If sleeping, wake--if feasting, rise before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate,
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate,
Condemned to failure, penury and woe,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore--
I answer not, and I return no more.

--John James Ingalls (1833-1900)

The Night-Wind

In summer's mellow midnight,
A cloudless moon shone through
Our open parlour window
And rosetrees wet with dew.

I sat in silent musing,
The soft wind waved my hair:
It told me Heaven was glorious,
And sleeping Earth was fair.

I needed not its breathing
To bring such thoughts to me
But still it whispered lowly,
"How dark the woods will be!

"The thick leaves in my murmur
Are rustling like a dream,
and all their myriad voices
Instinct with spirit seem."

I said, "Go, gentle singer,
Thy wooing voice is kind,
But do not think its music
Has power to reach my mind.

"Play with the scented flower,
The young tree's supple bough,
And leave my human feelings
In their own course to flow."

The wanderer would not heed me;
Its kiss grew warmer still--
"O come," it sighed so sweetly,
"I'll win thee 'gainst thy will.

"Have we not been from childhood friends?
Have I not loved thee long?
As long as thou hast loved the night
Whose silence wakes my song.

"And when thy heart is laid at rest
Beneath the church-yard stone
I shall have time enough to mourn
And thou to be alone."

--Charlotte Bronte
September 11, 1840

White House Blues

Czolgosz, mean man,
He shot McKinley with his handkerchief on his hand,
In Buffalo.

Czolgosz, you done him wrong,
You shot McKinley when he was walking along,
In Buffalo, in Buffalo.

The pistol fires, then McKinley falls,
And the doctor says, "McKinley, can't find the ball."
In Buffalo, in Buffalo.

They sent for the doctor, the doctor come,
He come in a trot, and he come in a run,
To Buffalo, to Buffalo.

Forty-four boxes trimmed in lace,
Take him back to the baggage, boys, where we can't see his face,
In Buffalo, in Buffalo.

The engine whistled down the line,
Blowing every station, McKinley was a-dying,
In Buffalo, in Buffalo.

Seventeen coaches all trimmed in black
Took McKinley to the graveyard, but never brought him back,
To Buffalo, to Buffalo.

--Anonymous

On September 6, 1901, Leon Czolgosz, a deranged anarchist, fatally
shot President William McKinley while he was attending the Pan Ameri-
can Exposition in Buffalo, New York. McKinley died September 14th.

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

--William Wordsworth; September 3, 1802