Glad tears that rush like rivers down the cheek
  Like gilding gold of morning’s amber light. 
  O happy hearts, by hearths when wills are meek! 
  We welcome sun that chased away the night. 
  The weeping eyes will not acknowledge hate. 
  When lovers meet forgiven after pain,
  Tears cleanse the heart and mind of fire and mote,
  And freshen countenance and bleach the stain. 
  O rain of peace, that washes doubt away,
  And casts a burden from the heart and home. 
  Sad hearts in joy united on this day;
  Now buds will bloom again in garden loam. 
  Glad tears that come unbidden thus and free
  Have banished care and brought you back to me.

THE PROMISE OF SPRING

  Today resplendent in red, grays and gold,
  No wind disturbs the calm of Winter’s rest,
  But quiet and serene on earth’s broad breast
  Is shrub and bush and seed in loamy hold;
  The buds on elm are waiting to unfold,
  Our biddie hen wears crimson on her crest. 
  This gorgeous day, when children laugh and jest,
  And run and dance and not a thought withhold.

  For Winter’s frost was gone at early noon. 
  We know that Spring will come on southern breeze;
  The grass will green and roses bloom again. 
  We love the flowers, summer warmth and boon,
  O joy of earth, in green and swaying trees,
  In buds and bees on this broad prairie plain.

THE DAYS LIVE AGAIN

  O hallowed charm of long departed days;
  The good and bad blend in a sparkling stream. 
  If one recalls youth’s glad and care free ways;
  The distant roar of music is supreme,
  When viewing life’s almost forgotten trail. 
  There is a stream that twines its way about
  Through shady spots, by broken, rotted rail. 
  The falling water glitters, and the trout,
  Again, like precious memories, flash and dart. 
  Through bleak and cold, a precipice once crossed
  Still fills with pride and pain the aging heart;
  For time has now the thorns and rocks embossed,
  And thus the long dead past is always bright,
  For those whose sun is sinking into night.

ROLLING TRUCKS

  Rolling over desert sands
  Steady there are dough-boy’s hands. 
  Gliding past the silver sage
  Caring naught for fame or wage;
  Rolling trucks for Uncle Sam,
  In his kit are bread and ham. 
  Slipping over moon-lit dunes
  Humming low the old men’s tunes. 
  Every moment plays the game,
  Like an iron in a flame. 
  Rolling over desert sands,
  Steady there are dough-boy’s hands.

AT DUSK