Custer | Page 6

in the next.
=The Old Wooden Cradle=
Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle?The rude hand of Progress has thrust it aside.?No more to its motion o'er sleep's fairy ocean,?Our play-weary wayfarers peacefully glide.
No more by the rhythm of slow-moving rocker,?Their sweet dreamy fancies are fostered and fed;?No more to low singing the cradle goes swinging--?The child of this era is put into bed.
Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle,?It lent to the twilight a strange, subtle charm;?When bees left the clover, when play-time was over,?How safe seemed this shelter from danger or harm.
How soft seemed the pillow, how distant the ceiling,?How weird were the voices that whispered around,?What dreams would come flocking, as rocking and rocking,?We floated away into slumber profound.
Good-bye to the cradle, the old wooden cradle,?The babe of to-day does not know it by sight.?When day leaves the border, with system and order,?The child goes to bed and we put out the light.
I bow to Progression and ask no concession,?Though strewn be her pathway with wrecks of the past;?So off with old lumber, that sweet ark of slumber,?The old wooden cradle, is ruthlessly cast.
=Ambition's Trail=
If all the end of this continuous striving
Were simply _to attain_,?How poor would seem the planning and contriving?The endless urging and the hurried driving
Of body, heart and brain!
But ever in the wake of true achieving,
There shines this glowing trail--?Some other soul will be spurred on, conceiving,?New strength and hope, in its own power believing,
Because _thou_ didst not fail.
Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow,
If thou doth miss the goal,?Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrow?From thee their weakness or their force shall borrow--
On, on, ambitious soul.
=The Traveled Man=
Sometimes I wish the railroads all were torn out,?The ships all sunk among the coral strands.?I am so very weary, yea so worn out,?With tales of those who visit foreign lands.
When asked to dine, to meet these traveled people,?My soup seems brewed from cemetery bones.?The fish grows cold on some cathedral steeple,?I miss two courses while I stare at thrones.
I'm forced to leave my salad quite untasted,?Some musty, moldy temple to explore.?The ices, fruit and coffee all are wasted?While into realms of ancient art I soar.
I'd rather take my chance of life and reason,?If in a den of roaring lions hurled?Than for a single year, ay, for one season,?To dwell with folks who'd traveled round the world.
So patronizing are they, so oppressive,?With pity for the ones who stay at home,?So mighty is their knowledge so aggressive,?I ofttimes wish they had not _ceased_ to roam.
They loathe the new, they quite detest the present;?They revel in a pre-Columbian morn;?Just dare to say America is pleasant,?And die beneath the glances of their scorn.
They are increasing at a rate alarming,?Go where I will, the traveled man is there.?And now I think that rustic wholly charming?Who has not strayed beyond his meadows fair.
=Uncontrolled=
The mighty forces of mysterious space?Are one by one subdued by lordly man.?The awful lightning that for eons ran?Their devastating and untrammeled race,?Now bear his messages from place to place?Like carrier doves. The winds lead on his van;?The lawless elements no longer can?Resist his strength, but yield with sullen grace.
His bold feet scaling heights before untrod,?Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold?He bids go forth and bring him power and pelf.?And yet though ruler, king and demi-god?He walks with his fierce passions uncontrolled?The conquerer of all things--save himself.
=The Tulip Bed At Greeley Square=
You know that oasis, fresh and fair?In the city desert, as Greeley square?
That bright triangle of scented bloom?That lies surrounded by grime and gloom?
Right in the breast of the seething town?Like a gleaming gem or a wanton's gown?
Ah, wonderful things that tulip bed?Unto my listening soul has said.
Over the rattle and roar of the street?I hear a chorus of voices sweet,
Day and night, when I pass that way,?And these are the things the voices say:
"Here, in the heart of the foolish strife,?We live a simple and natural life.
"Here, in the midst of the clash and din,?We know what it is to be calm within.
"Here, environed by sin and shame,?We do what we can with our pure white flame.
"We do what we can with our bloom and grace,?To make the city a fairer place.
"It is well to be good though the world is vile,?And so through the dust and the smoke we smile,
"We are but atoms in chaos tossed,?Yet never a purpose for truth was lost."
Ah, many a sermon is uttered there?By the bed of blossoms in Greeley square.
And he who listens and hears aright,?Is better equipped for the world's hard fight.
=Will=
You will be what you will to be;?Let failure find its false content?In that poor word "environment,"?But spirit scorns it, and is free,
It masters time, it conquers space,?It cows that boastful trickster Chance,?And bids the tyrant Circumstance?Uncrown and fill a servant's place.
The human Will,