LITMIR.BIZ

      They tell you that Death’s at the turn of the road,

      That under the shade of a cypress you’ll find him,

      And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad

      Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him.

      I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill,

      And we’ll talk of the way we have come through the valley;

      Down below there a bird breaks into a trill,

      And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley.

      You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave—

      “Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing!

      Yet it’s joyful to live, and it’s hard to be brave

      When you watch the sun sink and the daylight is going.”

      We are almost there—our last walk on this height—

      I must bid you good-by at that cross on the mountain.

      See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating light

      Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain!

      And it shines in your face and illumines your soul;

      We are comrades as ever, right here at your going;

      You may rest if you will within sight of the goal,

      While I must return to my oar and the rowing.

      We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a friend;

      I will keep you in sight till the road makes its turning

      Just over the ridge within reach of the end

      Of your arduous toil—the beginning of learning.

      You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge,

      “Au revoir!” and “good night!” while the twilight is creeping

      Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge?

      Yes, I hear your faint voice: “This is rest, and like sleeping!”

      What! You here in the moonlight and thinking of me?

      Is it you, O my comrade, who laughed at my jest?

      But you wept when I told you I longed to be free,

      And you mourned for a while when they laid me at rest.

      I’ve been dead all these years! and to-night in your heart

      There’s a stir of emotion, a vision that slips—

      It’s my face in the moonlight that gives you a start,

      It’s my name that in joy rushes up to your lips!

      Yes, I’m young, oh, so young, and so little I know!

      A mere child that is learning to walk and to run;

      While I grasp at the shadows that wave to and fro

      I am dazzled a bit by the light of the Sun.

      I am learning the lesson, I try to grow wise,

      But at night I am baffled and worn by the strife;

      I am humbled, and then there’s an impulse to rise,

      And a voice whispers, “Onward and win! This is Life!”

      And the Force that is drawing me up to the Height,

      That inspires me and thrills me,—each day a new birth,—

      Is the Force that to Chaos said, “Let there be Light!”

      And it gave us sweet glimpses of Heaven on Earth.

      It is Love! and you know it and feel it, my Soul!

      For you love me in spite of the grave and its bars.

      And it moves the whole Universe on to its goal,

      And it draws frail Humanity up to the stars!

      This is our child, Dear—flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone;

      Here is the end of our youth, and now we begin to atone.

      Now we do feel what their love was—those who have reared us and taught;

      Now do we know of the treasures that neither are sold nor bought.

      Here is the joy of the Race—joy that must grow out of pain;

      Here is the last of our Self—now we are links in the chain.

      Body of yours and mine no more is the measure of grief—

      All that he suffers is ours—and increased while we cry for relief;

      Yea, for our boy, our Beloved, we’ll yearn through the beckoning years—

      Toil for him, laugh with him, struggle, and pour out the fountain of tears!

      Father, it’s your love that safely guides me,

      Always it’s around me, night and day;

      It shelters me, and soothes, but never chides me:

      Yet, father, there’s a shadow in my way.

      All the day, my father, I am playing

      Under trees where sunbeams dance and dart—

      But often just at night when I am praying

      I feel this awful hunger in my heart.

      Father, there is something—it has missed me;

      I’ve felt it through my little days and years;

      And even when you petted me and kissed me

      I’ve cried myself to sleep with burning tears.

      To-day I saw a child and mother walking;

      I caught a gentle shining in her eye,

      And music in her voice when she was talking—

      Oh, father, is it that that makes me cry?

      Oh, never can I put my arms around her,

      Or

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