Are but the dust, that from her dream Awakes, and knows herself supremeLooks down in dream, and from above Smiles at herself in Jesus' love. Christ's love and Homer's art

Are but the workings of her heart; Through Leonardo's hand she seeks Herself, and through Beethoven speaks In holy thunderings around

The awful message of the ground.

The serene and humble mould
Does in herself all selves enfold-
Kingdoms, destinies, and creeds,
Great dreams and dauntless deeds,
Science that metes the firmament,
The high, inflexible intent
Of one for many sacrificed-
Plato's brain, the heart of Christ;
All love, all legend, and all lore
Are in the dust forevermore.

Even as the growing grass
Up from the soil religions pass,
And the field that bears the rye
Bears parables and prophecy.
Out of the earth the poem grows
Like the lily, or the rose;
And all man is, or yet may be,
Is but herself in agony,

Are but earth when she reveals

All that her secret heart conceals

Down in the dark and silent loam,

Which is ourselves, asleep, at home.

Reprinted by permission of the author from his book, Dust and Light. Copyright 1919, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

The House of Life

Madison Cawein

For biographical note concerning the author, see "Deserted,"

page 39.

The splendid courage and heroism of this poem should be rendered with a strong, firm voice. As every line is heavily charged with meaning, the rate should be slow.

THEY are the wise who look before,

Nor fear to look behind;

Who in the darkness still ignore
Pale shadows of the mind.

Who, having lost, though loss be much,
Still dare to dream and do;
For what was shattered at a touch
It may be mended, too.

The House of Life has many a door

That leads to many a room;
And only they who look before
Shall win from out its gloom.

Who stand and sigh and look behind,
Regretful of past years,

No room of all those rooms shall find
That is not filled with fears.

'Tis better not to stop or stay;

But set all fear aside,

Fling wide the door, whate'er the way,

And enter at a stride.

Who dares, may win to his desire;
Or failing, reach the tower,
Whereon Life lights the beacon-fire

Of one immortal hour.

Reprinted by permission of The Youth's Companion, and by permission of, and special arrangement with, E. P. Dutton and Company.

The Kings

Louise Imogen Guiney

Louise Imogen Guiney was born in Boston, but later resided in Oxford, England. She is well known as an editor of literary works, and published several volumes of her own poetry.

This poem, with its splendid heroism, should be delivered in a firm, strong tone, revealing an unconquerable soul.

A MAN said unto his Angel:

"My spirits are fallen low,

And I cannot carry this battle:
O brother! where might I go?

"The terrible Kings are on me
With spears that are deadly bright;
Against me so from the cradle
Do fate and my fathers fight."

Then said to the man his Angel:
"Thou wavering, witless soul,

Back to the ranks! What matter
To win or lose the whole,

"As judged by the little judges
Who harken not well nor see?
Not thus, by the outer issue,
The Wise shall interpret thee.

"Thy will is the sovereign measure
Of all events of things.

The puniest heart, defying,

Were stronger than all these Kings.

"Though out of the past they gather,
Mind's Doubt, and Bodily Pain,
And pallid Thirst of the Spirit
That is kin to the other twain,

"And Grief, in a cloud of banners,
And ringleted Vain Desires,
And Vice, with the spoils upon him
Of thee and thy beaten sires,-

"While Kings of eternal evil
Yet darken the hills about,
Thy part is with broken sabre
To rise on the last redoubt;

"To fear not sensible failure,
Not covet the game at all,
But fighting, fighting, fighting,
Die, driven against the wall."

Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company.

To-day

Angela Morgan

Angela Morgan was born in Washington, D. C., and was educated at Columbia University and at Chautauqua, N. Y. She began writing early in her life and in 1915 delivered an original poem entitled, "The Battle Cry of Mothers," to the International Congress of Women at The Hague. She has written some fiction and a number of poems, and contributes to several of the leading magazines.

Deliver this inspiring poem with enthusiasm and high heart.

To be alive in such an age!

With every year a lightning page

Turned in the world's great wonder book
Whereon the leaning nations look.

When men speak strong for brotherhood,
For peace and universal good,
When miracles are everywhere
And every inch of common air
Throbs a tremendous prophecy
Of greater marvels yet to be.

O thrilling age!

O willing age!

When steel and stone and rail and rod
Become the avenue of God-

A trump to shout His thunder through,
To crown the work that man may do.

To be alive in such an age!
When man, impatient of his cage,
Thrills to the soul's immortal rage
For conquest-reaches goal on goal,
Travels the earth from pole to pole,