Hide well the path across the field!--
Sing low, the barley and the corn!

. . . . .

"The Spring is come!" a shepherd saith;
Rest thee, Mary--
The passing years are but a breath
And Spring still comes to Nazareth--
Green, green, the barley and the corn!




Inheritance


THERE lived a man who raised his hand and said,
"I will be great!"
And through a long, long life he bravely knocked
At Fame's closed gate.

A son he left who, like his sire, strove
High place to win;--
Worn out, he died and, dying, left no trace
That he had been.

He also left a son, who, without care
Or planning how,
Bore the fair letters of a deathless fame