Page:Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection).djvu/198

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With every year a phalanx comes
All without sound of feet,
To swell the countless little homes
Along the darksome street,

And some are rich and some are poor,
And others great or small,
But the grass will grow o'er every door
And cover them one and all.


THE GUERDON OF SONG
'Tis not for wealth I sing my simple lays,
Or e'en for fame or for the critic's praise;
But for the joy of feeling and of living
All that I say, and for the joy of giving.

He who can feel that by his life he feeds
A hungry world and fills another's needs,
E'en though his song may be but idle things
Has known the joy for which the poet sings.


TEARS OF ANGELS
Dark was the night, the cheerless starless night,
But darker were the shadows round my soul,
For hope and faith and strength had perished all
And now it seemed there was no truth, no right.

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