And when the fog hung grey, he whistled on his way--
The little children in his train
With rosy lips caught up the strain.
Then I, to hear what he might say,
Followed with them, that sombre day.
"Is it for joy of life," quoth I,
"Good sir, you go awhistling by?"
He smiled, and sighed, and shook his head,
"I cheer my own sad heart," he said.
COMMON-WEALTH
Give thanks, my soul, for the things that are free!
The blue of the sky, the shade of a tree,
And the unowned leagues of the shining sea.
Be grateful, my heart, for everyman's gold;
By road-way and river and hill unfold
Sun-coloured blossoms that never are sold.
For the little joys sometimes say a grace;
The scent of a rose, the frost's fairy lace,
Or the sound of the rain in a quiet place.
Be glad of what cannot be bought or beguiled;
The trust of the tameless, the fearless, the wild,
The song of a bird and the faith of a child.
For prairie and mountain, windswept and high,
For betiding beauty of earth and sky--
Say a benediction e'er you pass by.
Give thanks, my soul, for the things that are free!
The joy of life and the spring's ecstasy,
The dreams that have been and the dreams that will be.
DON CUPID
Oh! little pink and white god of love,
With your tender smiling mouth,
And eyes as blue as the blue above,
Afar in the sunny south.
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