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"For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: 'It might have been!'"
The windows of my soul I throw wide open to the sun!
The age is dull and mean. Men creep, Not walk; with blood too pale and tame To pay the debt they owe to shame; Buy cheap, sell dear; eat. drink, and sleep down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want; Pay tithes for soul-insurance; keep Six days to Mammon, one to Cant
Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers -grey heliotrope And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette Comes fairly in, and silent chorus leads To the pervading symphony of Peace.
Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants at tree, is more than all.
No cloud above, no earth below, A universe of sky and snow.
And step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man.
No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear; But grateful, take the good I find, the best of now and here.
Making their lives a prayer.
