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- Poems of Sentiment - 1/14 -

Transcribed from the 1919 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email


Contents: Double Carnations Never Mind Two Women It All Will Come Out Right A Warning Shrines The Watcher Swimming Song The Law Love, Time, and Will The Two Ages Couleur de Rose Last Love Life's Track An Ode to Time Regret and Remorse Easter Morn Blind The Yellow-covered Almanac The Little White Hearse Realisation Success The Lady and the Dame Heaven and Hell Love's Supremacy The Eternal Will Insight A Woman's Love The Paean of Peace "Has Been" Duty's Path March The End of the Summer Sun Shadows "He that Looketh" An Erring Woman's Love A Song of Republics Memorial Day--1892 When baby Souls Sail Out To Another Woman's Baby Diamonds Rubies Sapphires Turquoise Reform A Minor Chord Death's Protest September Wail of an Old-timer Was, Is, and Yet-to-be Mistakes Dual The All-creative Spark Be not Content Action Two Roses Satiety A Solar Eclipse A Suggestion The Depths Life's Opera The Salt Sea-wind New Year Concentration Thoughts Luck


A wild Pink nestled in a garden bed, A rich Carnation flourished high above her, One day he chanced to see her pretty head And leaned and looked again, and grew to love her.

The Moss (her humble mother) saw with fear The ardent glances of the princely stranger; With many an anxious thought and dewy tear She sought to hide her darling from this danger.

The gardener-guardian of this noble bud A cruel trellis interposed between them. No common Pink should mate with royal blood, He said, and sought in every way to wean them.

The poor Pink pined and faded day by day: Her restless lover from his prison bower Called in a priestly bee who passed that way, And sent a message to the sorrowing flower.

The fainting Pink wept as the bee drew near, Droning his prayers, and begged him to confess her. Her weary mother, over-taxed by fear, Slept, while the priest leaned low to shrive and bless her.

But lo! ere long the tale went creeping out, The rich Carnation and the Pink were married! The cunning bee had brought the thing about While Mamma Moss in Slumber's arms had tarried.

And proud descendants of that loving pair, The offspring of that true and ardent passion, Are famous for their beauty everywhere, And leaders in the floral world of fashion.


Whatever your work and whatever its worth, No matter how strong or clever, Some one will sneer if you pause to hear, And scoff at your best endeavour. For the target art has a broad expanse, And wherever you chance to hit it, Though close be your aim to the bull's-eye fame, There are those who will never admit it.

Though the house applauds while the artist plays, And a smiling world adores him, Somebody is there with an ennuied air To say that the acting bores him. For the tower of art has a lofty spire, With many a stair and landing, And those who climb seem small oft-time To one at the bottom standing.

So work along in your chosen niche With a steady purpose to nerve you; Let nothing men say who pass your way Relax your courage or swerve you. The idle will flock by the Temple of Art For just the pleasure of gazing; But climb to the top and do not stop, Though they may not all be praising.


I know two women, and one is chaste And cold as the snows on a winter waste, Stainless ever in act and thought (As a man, born dumb, in speech errs not). But she has malice toward her kind, A cruel tongue and a jealous mind. Void of pity and full of greed, She judges the world by her narrow creed; A brewer of quarrels, a breeder of hate, Yet she holds the key to "Society's" Gate.

The other woman, with heart of flame, Went mad for a love that marred her name: And out of the grave of her murdered faith She rose like a soul that has passed through death. Her aims are noble, her pity so broad, It covers the world like the mercy of God. A soother of discord, a healer of woes, Peace follows her footsteps wherever she goes. The worthier life of the two, no doubt, And yet "Society" locks her out.


Whatever is a cruel wrong, Whatever is unjust, The honest years that speed along Will trample in the dust. In restless youth I railed at fate With all my puny might, But now I know if I but wait It all will come out right.

Poems of Sentiment - 1/14

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