It seems all so pleasant and cheery—­
  No thought of the morrow is theirs,
  And their faces are bright
  With the sun of delight,
  And they dream of no night-brooding cares.

  The women wear garlanded tresses,
  The men have rings on their hands,
  And they sing in their glee,
  For they think they are free—­
  They that know not the treacherous sands.

  Ah, but this be a venturesome journey,
  Forever those sands are ashift,
  And a step to one side
  Means a grasp of the tide,
  And the current is fearful and swift.

  For once in the river of ruin,
  What boots it, to do or to dare,
  For down we must go
  In the turbulent flow,
  To the desolate sea of Despair.

TO HER

  Your presence like a benison to me
    Wakes my sick soul to dreamful ecstasy,
  I fancy that some old Arabian night
  Saw you my houri and my heart’s delight.

  And wandering forth beneath the passionate moon,
    Your love-strung zither and my soul in tune,
  We knew the joy, the haunting of the pain
    That like a flame thrills through me now again.

  To-night we sit where sweet the spice winds blow,
    A wind the northland lacks and ne’er shall know,
  With clasped hands and spirits all aglow
    As in Arabia in the long ago.

A LOVE LETTER

  Oh, I des received a letter f’om de sweetest little gal;
        Oh, my; oh, my. 
  She’s my lovely little sweetheart an’ her name is Sal: 
        Oh, my; oh, my. 
  She writes me dat she loves me an’ she loves me true,
  She wonders ef I’ll tell huh dat I loves huh, too;
  An’ my heaht’s so full o’ music dat I do’ know what to do;
        Oh, my; oh, my.

  I got a man to read it an’ he read it fine;
        Oh, my; oh, my. 
  Dey ain’ no use denying dat her love is mine;
        Oh, my; oh, my. 
  But hyeah’s de t’ing dat’s puttin’ me in such a awful plight,
  I t’ink of huh at mornin’ an’ I dream of huh at night;
  But how’s I gwine to cou’t huh w’en I do’ know how to write? 
        Oh, my; oh, my.

  My heaht is bubblin’ ovah wid de t’ings I want to say;
        Oh, my; oh, my. 
  An’ dey’s lots of folks to copy what I tell ’em fu’ de pay;
        Oh, my; oh, my. 
  But dey’s t’ings dat I’s a-t’inkin’ dat is only fu’ huh ears,
  An’ I couldn’t lu’n to write ’em ef I took a dozen years;
  So to go down daih an’ tell huh is de only way, it ’pears;
        Oh, my; oh, my.

AFTER MANY DAYS

  I’ve always been a faithful man
    An’ tried to live for duty,
  But the stringent mode of life
    Has somewhat lost its beauty.

  The story of the generous bread
    He sent upon the waters,
  Which after many days returns
    To trusting sons and daughters,