Earnest, truly, ’fore I start. 
  Well, one day I kissed her cheek;
  Gee, but I felt cheap an’ weak,
  ’Cause at first she kinder flared,
  ‘N’, gracious goodness!  I was scared. 
  But I need n’t been, fer la! 
  Why, she never told her ma. 
  That’s what I call grit, don’t you? 
  Sich a girl’s worth stickin’ to.

PHYLLIS

  Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day,
    Few are my years, but my griefs are not few,
  Ever to youth should each day be a May-day,
    Warm wind and rose-breath and diamonded dew—­
  Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.

  Oh for the sunlight that shines on a May-day! 
    Only the cloud hangeth over my life. 
  Love that should bring me youth’s happiest heyday
    Brings me but seasons of sorrow and strife;
  Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.

  Sunshine or shadow, or gold day or gray day,
    Life must be lived as our destinies rule;
  Leisure or labor or work day or play day—­
    Feasts for the famous and fun for the fool;
  Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.

RIGHT’S SECURITY

  What if the wind do howl without,
  And turn the creaking weather-vane;
  What if the arrows of the rain
  Do beat against the window-pane? 
  Art thou not armored strong and fast
  Against the sallies of the blast? 
  Art thou not sheltered safe and well
  Against the flood’s insistent swell?

  What boots it, that thou stand’st alone,
  And laughest in the battle’s face
  When all the weak have fled the place
  And let their feet and fears keep pace? 
  Thou wavest still thine ensign, high,
  And shoutest thy loud battle-cry;
  Higher than e’er the tempest roared,
  It cleaves the silence like a sword.

  Right arms and armors, too, that man
  Who will not compromise with wrong;
  Though single, he must front the throng,
  And wage the battle hard and long. 
  Minorities, since time began,
  Have shown the better side of man;
  And often in the lists of Time
  One man has made a cause sublime!

IF

  If life were but a dream, my Love,
    And death the waking time;
  If day had not a beam, my Love,
    And night had not a rhyme,—­
      A barren, barren world were this
      Without one saving gleam;
      I ’d only ask that with a kiss
      You ’d wake me from the dream.

  If dreaming were the sum of days,
    And loving were the bane;
  If battling for a wreath of bays
    Could soothe a heart in pain,—­
      I ’d scorn the meed of battle’s might,
      All other aims above
      I ’d choose the human’s higher right,
      To suffer and to love!

THE SONG