Well for youth to seek the strong, Beautiful, and brave! We, the old, who walk along Gently to the grave, Only pay our court to thee,

‘Little one, who straight hast com… Down the heavenly stair, Tell us all about your home, And the father there.’ ‘He is such a one as I,

Willie speaks. Is it wrong, the wish to be great, For I do wish it so? I have asked already my sister Ka… She says she does not know.

Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We m… To find thee with us in thine anci… Haggard and pale from some bleak w… Empty of all save God and thy lou… Nor with like rugged message quick…

I AM a little weary of my life– Not thy life, blessed Father! Or… Too slowly laves the coral shores… Or I am weary of weariness and st… Open my soul-gates to thy living f…

‘WHO is this little one lying,’ Said Time, ‘at my garden-gate, Moaning and sobbing and crying, Out in the cold so late?’ ‘They lurked until we came near,

When peevish flaws his soul have s… To fretful tears for crossed desir… Obedient to his mother’s word My child to banishment retires. As disappears the moon, when wind

’Tis not the violent hands alone t… The curse, the ravage, and the dow… Although to these full oft the yaw… Owes deadly surfeit; but a keener… A more immortal agony will cling

Hark, in the steeple the dull bell… Over the furrows ill ploughed by… Hark the bird-babble, the loud lar… Hark, from the sky, what the proph… Hark, in the pines, the free Wind…

Sighing above, Rustling below, Thorough the woods The winds go. Beneath, dead crowds;

Out of thy door I run to do the t… That calls upon me. Straight the… Whoops from mine ears the sounds o… About their work, ‘My God, my fat… I turn in haste to see thy blessed…

Quiet, quiet dead, Have ye aught to say From your hidden bed In the earthy clay? Fathers, children, mothers,

Who follows Jesus shall not walk In darksome road with danger rife; But in his heart the Truth will t… And on his way will shine the Lif… So, on the story we must pore

Forth from the city, with the load That makes the trampling low, They walk along the dreary road That dust and ashes go. The other way, toward the gate

Little one, you must not fret That I take your clothes away; Better sleep you so will get, And at morning wake more gay– Saith the children’s mother.