Father divine.
I do not even know
The way I want to go,
The way that leads to rest:
But, Thou who knowest me,
Lead where I cannot see,
Thou knowest best.

Toys, worthless, yet desired,
Drew me afar to roam.
Father, I am so tired;
I am come home.
The love I held so cheap
I see, so dear, so deep,
So almost understood.
Life is so cold and wild,
I am thy little child -
I WILL be good.



POEM: THE SKYLARK



". . . a dripping shower of notes from the softening blue. It is
the skylark come."--Robert A Field, in the New Age.

"It is the skylark come." For shame!
Robert-a-Cockney is thy name: