home the elf. 
    But he put by all gifts with sad replies,
  And from his lips these words flowed forth like wine: 
    “O queen, I want no gift but thee,” he said. 
  She heard and looked on him with love-lit eyes,
  Gave him her hand, low murmuring, “I am thine,”
    And at the morrow’s dawning they were wed.

AFTER WHILE

  A poem of faith

  I think that though the clouds be dark,
  That though the waves dash o’er the bark,
  Yet after while the light will come,
  And in calm waters safe at home
        The bark will anchor. 
  Weep not, my sad-eyed, gray-robed maid,
  Because your fairest blossoms fade,
  That sorrow still o’erruns your cup,
  And even though you root them up,
        The weeds grow ranker.

  For after while your tears shall cease,
  And sorrow shall give way to peace;
  The flowers shall bloom, the weeds shall die,
  And in that faith seen, by and by
        Thy woes shall perish. 
  Smile at old Fortune’s adverse tide,
  Smile when the scoffers sneer and chide. 
  Oh, not for you the gems that pale,
  And not for you the flowers that fail;
        Let this thought cherish: 

  That after while the clouds will part,
  And then with joy the waiting heart
  Shall feel the light come stealing in,
  That drives away the cloud of sin
        And breaks its power. 
  And you shall burst your chrysalis,
  And wing away to realms of bliss,
  Untrammelled, pure, divinely free,
  Above all earth’s anxiety
        From that same hour.

THE OL’ TUNES

  You kin talk about yer anthems
    An’ yer arias an’ sich,
  An’ yer modern choir-singin’
    That you think so awful rich;
  But you orter heerd us youngsters
    In the times now far away,
  A-singin’ o’ the ol’ tunes
    In the ol’-fashioned way.

  There was some of us sung treble
    An’ a few of us growled bass,
  An’ the tide o’ song flowed smoothly
    With its ‘comp’niment o’ grace;
  There was spirit in that music,
    An’ a kind o’ solemn sway,
  A-singin’ o’ the ol’ tunes
    In the ol’-fashioned way.

  I remember oft o’ standin’
    In my homespun pantaloons—­
  On my face the bronze an’ freckles
    O’ the suns o’ youthful Junes—­
  Thinkin’ that no mortal minstrel
    Ever chanted sich a lay
  As the ol’ tunes we was singin’
    In the ol’-fashioned way.

  The boys ’ud always lead us,
    An’ the girls ’ud all chime in
  Till the sweetness o’ the singin’
    Robbed the list’nin’ soul o’ sin;
  An’ I used to tell the parson
    ’T was as good to sing as pray,
  When the people sung the ol’ tunes
    In the ol’-fashioned way.