Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
    How questioneth the soul that other soul,—­
  The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies,
    But self exposes unto self, a scroll
  Full writ with all life’s acts unwise or wise,
    In characters indelible and known;
  So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise,
    The soul doth view its awful self alone,
  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

  When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes,
    The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm,
  And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize
    For kissing all our passions into calm,
  Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world’s cries,
    Or seek to probe th’ eternal mystery,
  Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies,
    At glooms through which our visions cannot see,
  When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes.

THE POET AND HIS SONG

  A song is but a little thing,
  And yet what joy it is to sing! 
  In hours of toil it gives me zest,
  And when at eve I long for rest;
  When cows come home along the bars,
    And in the fold I hear the bell,
  As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars,
    I sing my song, and all is well.

  There are no ears to hear my lays,
  No lips to lift a word of praise;
  But still, with faith unfaltering,
  I live and laugh and love and sing. 
  What matters yon unheeding throng? 
    They cannot feel my spirit’s spell,
  Since life is sweet and love is long,
    I sing my song, and all is well.

  My days are never days of ease;
  I till my ground and prune my trees. 
  When ripened gold is all the plain,
  I put my sickle to the grain. 
  I labor hard, and toil and sweat,
    While others dream within the dell;
  But even while my brow is wet,
    I sing my song, and all is well.

  Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot,
  My garden makes a desert spot;
  Sometimes a blight upon the tree
  Takes all my fruit away from me;
  And then with throes of bitter pain
    Rebellious passions rise and swell;
  But—­life is more than fruit or grain,
    And so I sing, and all is well.

RETORT

  “Thou art a fool,” said my head to my heart,
  “Indeed, the greatest of fools thou art,
    To be led astray by the trick of a tress,
  By a smiling face or a ribbon smart;”
    And my heart was in sore distress.

  Then Phyllis came by, and her face was fair,
  The light gleamed soft on her raven hair;
    And her lips were blooming a rosy red. 
  Then my heart spoke out with a right bold air: 
    “Thou art worse than a fool, O head!”

ACCOUNTABILITY

  Folks ain’t got no right to censuah othah folks about dey habits;
  Him dat giv’ de squir’ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu’ de rabbits. 
  Him dat built de gread big mountains hollered out de little valleys,
  Him dat made de streets an’ driveways wasn’t shamed to make de alleys.