The selfishness of my own woe forsaking,
       I thought about the singer of that song. 
     Some other breast felt this same weary aching;
       Another found the summer days too long.

     The few sad lines, my sorrow so expressing,
       I read, and on the singer, all unknown,
     I breathed a fervent though a silent blessing,
       And seemed to clasp his hand within my own.

     And though fame pass him and he never know it,
       And though he never sings another strain,
     He has performed the mission of the poet,
       In helping some sad heart to bear its pain.

     [Illustration:]

     I WILL BE WORTHY OF IT.

     I may not reach the heights I seek,
       My untried strength may fail me,
     Or, half-way up the mountain peak,
       Fierce tempests may assail me. 
     But though that place I never gain,
     Herein lies comfort for my pain—­
          I will be worthy of it.

     I may not triumph in success,
       Despite my earnest labor;
     I may not grasp results that bless
       The efforts of my neighbor;
     But though my goal I never see,
     This thought shall always dwell with me—­
          I will be worthy of it.

     The golden glory of Love’s light
       May never fall on my way;
     My path may always lead through night,
       Like some deserted by-way;
     But though life’s dearest joy I miss
     There lies a nameless strength in this—­
          I will be worthy of it.

     SONNET.

     Methinks ofttimes my heart is like some bee
       That goes forth through the summer day and sings. 
       And gathers honey from all growing things
     In garden plot or on the clover lea.

     When the long afternoon grows late, and she
       Would seek her hive, she cannot lift her wings. 
       So heavily the too sweet bin den clings,
     From which she would not, and yet would, fly free.

     So with my full, fond heart; for when it tries
       To lift itself to peace crowned heights, above
       The common way where countless feet have trod,
     Lo! then, this burden of dear human ties,
       This growing weight of precious earthly love,
       Binds down the spirit that would soar to God.

     REGRET.

     There is a haunting phantom called Regret,
       A shadowy creature robed somewhat like Woe,
       But fairer in the face, whom all men know
     By her sad mien and eyes forever wet. 
     No heart would seek her; but once having met,
       All take her by the hand, and to and fro
       They wander through those paths of long ago—­
     Those hallowed ways ’twere wiser to forget.