The Song of the Builder

I sink my piers to the solid rock,
  And I send my steel to the sky,
And I pile up the granite, block by block
  Full twenty stories high;
Nor wind nor weather shall wash away
The thing that I’ve builded, day by day.

Here’s something of mine that shall ever stand
  Till another shall tear it down;
Here is the work of my brain and hand,
  Towering above the town. 
And the idlers gay in their smug content,
Have nothing to leave for a monument.

Here from my girders I look below
  At the throngs which travel by,
For little that’s real will they leave to show
  When it comes their time to die. 
But I, when my time of life is through,
Will leave this building for men to view.

Oh, the work is hard and the days are long,
  But hammers are tools for men,
And granite endures and steel is strong,
  Outliving both brush and pen. 
And ages after my voice is stilled,
Men shall know I lived by the things I build.

Old Years and New

Old years and new years, all blended into one,
The best of what there is to be, the best of what is gone—­
Let’s bury all the failures in the dim and dusty past
And keep the smiles of friendship and laughter to the last.

Old years and new years, life’s in the making still;
We haven’t come to glory yet, but there’s the hope we will;
The dead old year was twelve months long, but now from it we’re free,
And what’s one year of good or bad to all the years to be?

Old years and new years, we need them one and all
To reach the dome of character and build its sheltering wall;
Past failures tried the souls of us, but if their tests we stood. 
The sum of what we are to be may yet be counted good.

Old years and new years, with all their pain and strife,
Are but the bricks and steel and stone with which we fashion life;
So put the sin and shame away, and keep the fine and true,
And on the glory of the past let’s build the better new.

When We’re All Alike

I’ve trudged life’s highway up and down;
  I’ve watched the lines of men march by;
I’ve seen them in the busy town,
  And seen them under country sky;
I’ve talked with toilers in the ranks,
  And walked with men whose hands were white,
And learned, when closed were stores and banks,
  We’re nearly all alike at night.

Just find the wise professor when
  He isn’t lost in ancient lore,
And he, like many other men,
  Romps with his children on the floor. 
He puts his gravity aside
  To share in innocent delight. 
Stripped of position’s pomp and pride,
  We’re nearly all the same at night.

Serving a common cause, we go
  Unto our separate tasks by day,
And rich or poor or great or low,
  Regardless of their place or pay,
Cherish the common dreams of men—­
  A home where love and peace unite. 
We serve the self-same end and plan,
  We’re all alike when it is night.