AT DAWN

Turn to thy window in the silver hour
  That day comes stepping down the hills of night,
Infolded as the leaves infold a flower
  By all her rose-leaf robes of misty light.

Then, like a joy born out of blackest sorrow,
  The miracle of morning seems to say,
“There is no night without its dear to-morrow,
  No lonely dark that does not find the day.”

THE WHISTLER

Throughout the sunny day he whistled on his way—­
  Oh high and low, and gay and sweet,
  The melody rang down the street,
Till all the weary, old, and grey,
Smiled at their work, or stopped to say,
  “Now God be thanked that youth is fair,
  And light of heart, and free from care.”

What time the wind blew high, he whistled and went by—­
  Then clarion clear on every side
  The song was scattered far and wide;
Like birds above a storm that fly
The silver notes soared to the sky,
  “O soul, whose courage does not fail
  But with a song can meet the gale.”

And when the rain fell fast, he whistled as he passed—­
  A little tune the whole world knew,
  A song of love, of love most true;
On through the mist it came at last
To one by sorrow overcast,
  “Dear Christ,” she said, “by night and day
  They serve who praise, as well as pray.”

Though the great world was white, he whistled in the night—­
  The sky was spangled all with gold,
  The bitter wind was keen and cold,
Yet, gay musician, out of sight,
You still put wintry thoughts to flight,
  For summer follows where you fare,
  0 Whistler, so debonair.

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.