When I was young I longed for Love,
  And held his glory far above
  All other earthly things.  I cried: 
  “Come, Love, dear Love, with me abide;”
  And with my subtlest art I wooed,
  And eagerly the wight pursued. 
  But Love was gay and Love was shy,
  He laughed at me and passed me by.

  Well, I grew old and I grew gray,
  When Wealth came wending down my way. 
  I took his golden hand with glee,
  And comrades from that day were we. 
  Then Love came back with doleful face,
  And prayed that I would give him place. 
  But, though his eyes with tears were dim,
  I turned my back and laughed at him.

A HYMN

After reading “Lead, kindly light.”

  Lead gently, Lord, and slow,
    For oh, my steps are weak,
  And ever as I go,
    Some soothing sentence speak;

  That I may turn my face
    Through doubt’s obscurity
  Toward thine abiding-place,
    E’en tho’ I cannot see.

  For lo, the way is dark;
    Through mist and cloud I grope,
  Save for that fitful spark,
    The little flame of hope.

  Lead gently, Lord, and slow,
    For fear that I may fall;
  I know not where to go
    Unless I hear thy call.

  My fainting soul doth yearn
    For thy green hills afar;
  So let thy mercy burn—­
    My greater, guiding star!

JUST WHISTLE A BIT

  Just whistle a bit, if the day be dark,
    And the sky be overcast: 
  If mute be the voice of the piping lark,
    Why, pipe your own small blast.

  And it’s wonderful how o’er the gray sky-track
  The truant warbler comes stealing back. 
  But why need he come? for your soul’s at rest,
  And the song in the heart,—­ah, that is best.

  Just whistle a bit, if the night be drear
    And the stars refuse to shine: 
  And a gleam that mocks the starlight clear
    Within you glows benign.

  Till the dearth of light in the glooming skies
  Is lost to the sight of your soul-lit eyes. 
  What matters the absence of moon or star? 
  The light within is the best by far.

  Just whistle a bit, if there ’s work to do,
    With the mind or in the soil. 
  And your note will turn out a talisman true
    To exorcise grim Toil.

  It will lighten your burden and make you feel
  That there ’s nothing like work as a sauce for a meal. 
  And with song in your heart and the meal in—­its place,
  There ’ll be joy in your bosom and light in your face.

  Just whistle a bit, if your heart be sore;
  ’Tis a wonderful balm for pain. 
  Just pipe some old melody o’er and o’er
    Till it soothes like summer rain.

  And perhaps ’t would be best in a later day,
  When Death comes stalking down the way,
  To knock at your bosom and see if you ’re fit,
  Then, as you wait calmly, just whistle a bit.