I have been tried, Tried in the fire, And I say this, As the result of dire distress, And tribulation sore-- That a man's happiness doth not consist Of that he hath, but of the faith...
Soul, dost thou fear For to-day or to-morrow? 'Tis the part of a fool To go seeking sorrow. Of thine own doing Thou canst not contrive them. 'Tis He that shall give them;...
Though the times be dark and dreary, Though the way be long, Keep your spirits bright and cheery,-- --"Bide a wee, and dinna weary!" Is a heartsome song.
Each sin has its door of entrance. Keep--that--door--closed! Bolt it tight! Just outside, the wild beast crouches In the night. Pin the bolt with a prayer, God will fix it there.
Burden-bearers are we all, Great and small. Burden-sharers be ye all, Great and small! Where another shares the load, Two draw nearer God. Yet there are burdens we can share with none,...
Evening brings us home,-- From our wanderings afar, From our multifarious labours, From the things that fret and jar; From the highways and the byways, From the hill-tops and the vales;...
Flora, with wondrous feathers in her hat, Rain-soaked, and limp, and feeling very flat, With flowers of sorts in her full basket, sat, Back to the railings, there by Charing Cross,...
"'Tis all a Chequer-Board of Nights and Days, Where Detiny with men for pieces plays, Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays."
Art thou lonely, O my brother? Share thy little with another! Stretch a hand to one unfriended, And thy loneliness is ended. So both thou and he Shall less lonely be. And of thy one loneliness...
"Am I my brother's keeper?" Yes, of a truth! Thine asking is thine answer. That self-condemning cry of Cain Has been the plea of every selfish soul since then,...
An inconclusive peace!-- A peace that would be no peace-- Naught but a treacherous truce for breeding Of a later, greater, baser-still betrayal!-- "No!" ... The spirits of our myriad valiant dead,...
I stood, unseen, within a sumptous room, Where one clothed all in white sat silently. So sweet his presence that a pure soft light Rayed from him, and I saw--most wondrous sight!--...
The spikenard was not wasted;-- All down the tale of years, The fragrance of that broken alabaster Still clings to Mary's memory, As clung its perfume sweet unto her Master.