Custer | Page 8

on which to lay the blame.?Man makes a mountain of that puny word,?But, like a blade of grass before the scythe,?It falls and withers when a human will,?Stirred by creative force, sweeps toward its aim.
Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. Circumstance?Is but the toy of genius. When a soul?Burns with a god-like purpose to achieve,?All obstacles between it and its goal?Must vanish as the dew before the sun.
"If" is the motto of the dilettante?And idle dreamer; 'tis the poor excuse?Of mediocrity. The truly great?Know not the word, or know it but to scorn,?Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died,?Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.
=Which Are You?=
There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;?Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.
Not the sinner and the saint, for it's well understood,?The good are half bad and the bad are half good.
Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,?You must first know the state of his conscience and health.
Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,?Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.
Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years?Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.
No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean,?Are the people who lift, and the people who lean.
Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses,?Are always divided in just these two classes.
And oddly enough, you will find too, I ween,?There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.
In which class are you? Are you easing the load,?Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?
Or are you a leaner, who lets others share?Your portion of labor, and worry and care?
=The Creed To Be=
Our thoughts are molding unmade spheres,?And, like a blessing or a curse,?They thunder down the formless years,?And ring throughout the universe.
We build our futures, by the shape?Of our desires, and not by acts.?There is no pathway of escape;?No priest-made creeds can alter facts.
Salvation is not begged or bought;?Too long this selfish hope sufficed;?Too long man reeked with lawless thought,?And leaned upon a tortured Christ.
Like shriveled leaves, these worn out creeds?Are dropping from Religion's tree;?The world begins to know its needs,?And souls are crying to be free.
Free from the load of fear and grief,?Man fashioned in an ignorant age;?Free from the ache of unbelief?He fled to in rebellious rage.
No church can bind him to the things?That fed the first crude souls, evolved;?For, mounting up on daring wings,?He questions mysteries all unsolved.
Above the chant of priests, above?The blatant voice of braying doubt,?He hears the still, small voice of Love,?Which sends its simple message out.
And clearer, sweeter, day by day,?Its mandate echoes from the skies,?"Go roll the stone of self away,?And let the Christ within thee rise."
=Music In The Flat=
When Tom and I were married, we took a little flat;?I had a taste for singing and playing and all that.?And Tom, who loved to hear me, said he hoped I would not stop All practice, like so many wives who let their music drop.?So I resolved to set apart an hour or two each day?To keeping vocal chords and hands in trim to sing and play.
The second morning I had been for half an hour or more?At work on Haydn's masses, when a tap came at my door.?A nurse who wore a dainty cap and apron, and a smile,?Ran down to ask if I would cease my music for awhile.?The lady in the flat above was very ill, she said,?And the sound of my piano was distracting to her head.
A fortnight's exercises lost, ere I began them, when,?The following morning at my door, there came that tap again; A woman with an anguished face implored me to forego?My music for some days to come--a man was dead below.?I shut down my piano till the corpse had left the house,?And spoke to Tom in whispers and was quiet as a mouse.
A week of labor limbered up my stiffened hand and voice,?I stole an extra hour from sleep, to practice and rejoice;?When, ting-a-ling, the door-bell rang a discord in my trill-- The baby in the flat across was very, very ill.?For ten long days that infant's life was hanging by a thread, And all that time my instrument was silent as the dead.
So pain and death and sickness came in one perpetual row,?When babies were not born above, then tenants died below.?The funeral over underneath, some one fell ill on top,?And begged me, for the love of God, to let my music drop.?When trouble went not up or down, it stalked across the hall, And so in spite of my resolve, I do not play at all.
=Inspiration=
Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy,?Is inspiration, eager to pursue,?But rather like a maiden, fond, yet coy,?Who gives herself to him who best doth woo.
Once she