I take some things, or let ’em be—­
Good gold has always got the ring;
The best is good enough for me.

Since Fate insists on secrecy,
I have no arguments to bring—­
quarrel not with Destiny.

The fellow that goes “haw” for “gee”
Will find he hasn’t got full swing. 
The best is good enough for me.

One only knows our needs, and He
Does all of the distributing. 
I quarrel not with Destiny;
The best is good enough for me.

[Illustration]

HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB

How slight a thing may set one’s fancy drifting
  Upon the dead sea of the Past!—­A view—­
Sometimes an odor—­or a rooster lifting
  A far-off “Ooh! ooh-ooh!”

And suddenly we find ourselves astray
  In some wood’s-pasture of the Long Ago—­
Or idly dream again upon a day
  Of rest we used to know.

I bit an apple but a moment since—­
  A wilted apple that the worm had spurned.—­
Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints
  Of good old days returned.—­

And so my heart, like some enraptured lute,
  Tinkles a tune so tender and complete,
God’s blessing must be resting on the fruit—­
  So bitter, yet so sweet!

AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY

I’ve thought a power on men and things,
  As my uncle ust to say,—­
And ef folks don’t work as they pray, i jings! 
  W’y, they ain’t no use to pray! 
Ef you want somepin’, and jes dead-set
A-pleadin’ fer it with both eyes wet,
And tears won’t bring it, w’y, you try sweat,
  As my uncle ust to say.

They’s some don’t know their A, B, C’s,
  As my uncle ust to say,
And yit don’t waste no candle-grease,
  Ner whistle their lives away! 
But ef they can’t write no book, ner rhyme
No singin’ song fer to last all time,
They can blaze the way fer the march sublime,
  As my uncle ust to say.

[Illustration]

Whoever’s Foreman of all things here,
  As my uncle ust to say,
He knows each job ’at we’re best fit fer,
  And our round-up, night and day: 
And a-sizin’ His work, east and west,
And north and south, and worst and best. 
I ain’t got nothin’ to suggest,
  As my uncle ust to say.

[Illustration]

WE MUST BELIEVE

"Lord, I believe:  help Thou mine unbelief."

We must believe—­
Being from birth endowed with love and trust—­
Born unto loving;—­and how simply just
That love—­that faith!—­even in the blossom-face
The babe drops dreamward in its resting-place,
Intuitively conscious of the sure
Awakening to rapture ever pure
And sweet and saintly as the mother’s own,
Or the awed father’s, as his arms are thrown
O’er wife and child, to round about them weave
  And wind and bind them as one harvest-sheaf
Of love—­to cleave to, and forever cleave.... 
                  Lord, I believe: 
                      Help Thou mine unbelief.