We must get home again—­we must—­we must!—­
(Our rainy faces pelted in the dust)
Creep back from the vain quest through endless strife
To find not anywhere in all of life
A happier happiness than blest us then ... 
We must get home—­we must get home again!

[Illustration]

JUST TO BE GOOD

Just to be good—­
        This is enough—­enough! 
O we who find sin’s billows wild and rough,
Do we not feel how more than any gold
Would be the blameless life we led of old
While yet our lips knew but a mother’s kiss? 
  Ah! though we miss
  All else but this,
    To be good is enough!

It is enough—­
        Enough—­just to be good! 
To lift our hearts where they are understood;
To let the thirst for worldly power and place
Go unappeased; to smile back in God’s face
With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss. 
  Ah! though we miss
  All else but this,
    To be good is enough!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

MY FRIEND

“He is my friend,” I said,—­
“Be patient!” Overhead
The skies were drear and dim;
And lo! the thought of him
Smiled on my heart—­and then
The sun shone out again!

“He is my friend!” The words
Brought summer and the birds;
And all my winter-time
Thawed into running rhyme
And rippled into song,
Warm, tender, brave and strong.

And so it sings to-day.—­
So may it sing alway! 
Though waving grasses grow
Between, and lilies blow
Their trills of perfume clear
As laughter to the ear,
Let each mute measure end
With “Still he is thy friend.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THINKIN’ BACK

I’ve ben thinkin’ back, of late,
S’prisin’!—­And I’m here to state
I’m suspicious it’s a sign
Of age, maybe, or decline
Of my faculties,—­and yit
I’m not feelin’ old a bit—­
Any more than sixty-four
Ain’t no young man any more!

Thinkin’ back’s a thing ’at grows
On a feller, I suppose—­
Older ’at he gits, i jack,
More he keeps a-thinkin’ back! 
Old as old men git to be,
Er as middle-aged as me,
Folks’ll find us, eye and mind
Fixed on what we’ve left behind—­
Rehabilitatin’-like
Them old times we used to hike
Out barefooted fer the crick,
’Long ’bout Aprile first—­to pick
Out some “warmest” place to go
In a-swimmin’—­Ooh! my-oh!
Wonder now we hadn’t died! 
Grate horseradish on my hide
Jes’ a-thinkin’ how cold then
That-’ere worter must ‘a’ ben!

Thinkin’ back—­W’y, goodness me! 
I kin call their names and see
Every little tad I played
With, er fought, er was afraid
Of, and so made him the best
Friend I had of all the rest!