In France I Saw A Hill
In France I saw a hill—a gentle
Rising above old tombs to greet the
From soft spring skies.
Beyond these skies dwells hope,
But those green graves bespeak a broken dream.
There was a row of narrow beds, new-made;
Each bore a starry banner and a cross.
And each the name of one who, ere he
His rôle of warrior, met earth's final loss.
They were so young, so eager for the fray!
And thoughts of glory filled each boyish heart,
When over dangerous seas they sailed
To face the foe and play some splendid part.
But in the tedious toil, the dull
Which must precede achievement on the field,
Disease, that secret enemy with
Sly tactics, forced them to disarm and yield.
So they were buried on that hill in France,
Before their ears had heard the battle din;
Before life gave them its dramatic chance—A lasting fame, or glorious death to win.
Yet, looking up beyond their graves of green,
I seem to see them wearing band and star;
Men are rewarded in the Worlds
Not for the way they die, but what they are.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Poor Little Toe
I am all tired out, said the mouth, with a pout, I am all tired out with talk Just wait, said the knee, till you're lame as you can be—And then have to walk—walk—walk My work, said the hand, is the hardest in the land
The Land Of Nowhere
Do you know where the summer blooms all the year 'round, Where there never is rain on a pic-nic day Where the thornless rose in its beauty And little boys never are called from play
Lifes Harmonies
Let no man pray that he know not sorrow, Let no soul ask to be free from pain, For the gall of to-day is the sweet of to-morrow, And the moment's loss is the lifetime's gain
Her Last Letter
Sitting alone by the window, Watching the moonlit street, Bending my head to To the well-known sound of your feet,
