Oh, spotless woman in a world of shame;
With splendid and silent scorn,
Go back to God as white as you came—
TO JUANITA
Come, listen O love to the voice of the dove,
Come, harken and hear him say
There are many tomorrows, my love, my love.
But only one today.
And all day long you can hear him say
This day in purple is rolled.
And the baby stars of the Milky Way
They are cradled in cradles of gold.
Now what is the secret, serene gray dove,
Of singing so sweetly alway?
There are many tomorrows, my love, my love,
But only one today.
LINES ON BYRON
In men whom men condemn as ill
I find so much of goodness still.
In men whom men pronounce divine
I find so much of sin and blot,
I do not dare to draw a line
Between the two, where God has not.
IS IT WORTH WHILE?
Is it worth while that we jostle a brother
Bearing his load on the rough road of life?
Is it worth while that we jeer at each other
In blackness of heart?—that we war to the knife?
God pity us all in our pitiful strife.
God pity us all as we jostle each other;
God pardon us all for the triumphs we feel
When a fellow goes down; poor heart broken brother.
Pierced to the heart: words are keener than steel.
And mightier far for woe or for weal.
Were it not well in this brief little journey
