NOT THEY WHO SOAR

  Not they who soar, but they who plod
  Their rugged way, unhelped, to God
  Are heroes; they who higher fare,
  And, flying, fan the upper air,
  Miss all the toil that hugs the sod. 
  ’Tis they whose backs have felt the rod,
  Whose feet have pressed the path unshod,
  May smile upon defeated care,
    Not they who soar.

  High up there are no thorns to prod,
  Nor boulders lurking ’neath the clod
  To turn the keenness of the share,
  For flight is ever free and rare;
  But heroes they the soil who ’ve trod,
    Not they who soar!

WHITTIER

  Not o’er thy dust let there be spent
  The gush of maudlin sentiment;
  Such drift as that is not for thee,
  Whose life and deeds and songs agree,
  Sublime in their simplicity.

  Nor shall the sorrowing tear be shed. 
  O singer sweet, thou art not dead! 
  In spite of time’s malignant chill,
  With living fire thy songs shall thrill,
  And men shall say, “He liveth still!”

  Great poets never die, for Earth
  Doth count their lives of too great worth
  To lose them from her treasured store;
  So shalt thou live for evermore—­
  Though far thy form from mortal ken—­
  Deep in the hearts and minds of men.

TWO SONGS

  A bee that was searching for sweets one day
  Through the gate of a rose garden happened to stray. 
  In the heart of a rose he hid away,
  And forgot in his bliss the light of day,
  As sipping his honey he buzzed in song;
  Though day was waning, he lingered long,
    For the rose was sweet, so sweet.

  A robin sits pluming his ruddy breast,
  And a madrigal sings to his love in her nest: 
  “Oh, the skies they are blue, the fields are green,
  And the birds in your nest will soon be seen!”
  She hangs on his words with a thrill of love,
  And chirps to him as he sits above
    For the song is sweet, so sweet.

  A maiden was out on a summer’s day
  With the winds and the waves and the flowers at play;
  And she met with a youth of gentle air,
  With the light of the sunshine on his hair. 
  Together they wandered the flowers among;
  They loved, and loving they lingered long,
    For to love is sweet, so sweet.

* * * * *

  Bird of my lady’s bower,
    Sing her a song;
  Tell her that every hour,
    All the day long,
  Thoughts of her come to me,
    Filling my brain
  With the warm ecstasy
    Of love’s refrain.

  Little bird! happy bird! 
    Being so near,
  Where e’en her slightest word
    Thou mayest hear,
  Seeing her glancing eyes,
    Sheen of her hair,
  Thou art in paradise,—­
    Would I were there.