Garners the tempests and the tides
And on a Dream Triumphant rides.
When, hid within a lump of clay,
A light more terrible than day
Proclaims the presence of that Force
Which hurls the planets on their course-
O age with wings!

O age that flings

A challenge to the very sky

Where endless realms of conquest lie.
When earth, on tiptoe, strives to hear
The message of a sister sphere,
Yearning to reach the cosmic wires
That flash Infinity's desires.

To be alive in such an age!
That thunders forth its discontent
With futile creed and sacrament,
Yet craves to utter God's intent,
Seeing beneath the world's unrest
Creation's huge, untiring quest,
And through Tradition's broken crust.
The flame of Truth's triumphant thrust;

Below the seething thought of man

The push of a stupendous Plan.

O age of strife!

O age of life!

When Progress rides her chariot high,
And on the borders of the sky

The signals of the century

Proclaim the things that are to be

The rise of woman to her place,

...

The coming of a nobler race.

To be alive in such an age

To live to it,

To give to it!

Rise, soul, from thy despairing knees.
What if thy lips have drunk the lees?
Fling forth thy sorrow to the wind-
And link thy hope with humankind
The passion of a larger claim

Will put thy puny grief to shame.

Breathe the world thought, do the world deed, Think hugely of thy brother's need.

And what thy woe, and what thy weal?

Look to the work the times reveal!

Give thanks with all thy flaming heart

Crave but to have in it a part.

Give thanks and clasp thy heritage

To be alive in such an age!

Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, Dodd, Mead and Company.

Work

Angela Morgan

For biographical note concerning the author, see "Today," page 116.

This poem should be read with fervor and tensity, but with a spirit of delight pervading the whole.

WORK!

Thank God for the might of it,

The ardor, the urge, the delight of it—
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the brain and the soul on fire-

Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand?

Work!

Thank God for the pride of it,

For the beautiful, conquering tide of it,
Sweeping the life in its furious flood,
Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood,
Mastering stupor and dull despair,
Moving the dreamer to do and dare.
Oh, what is so good as the urge of it,
And what is so glad as the surge of it,

And what is so strong as the summons deep,
Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?

Work!

Thank God for the pace of it,

For the terrible, keen swift race of it;
Fiery steeds in full control,

Nostrils a-quiver to meet the goal.
Work, the Power that drives behind,
Guiding the purposes, taming the mind,
Holding the runaway wishes back,
Reining the will to one steady track,
Speeding the energies faster, faster,
Triumphing over disaster.

Oh, what is so good as the pain of it,
And what is so great as the gain of it?
And what is so kind as the cruel goad,
Forcing us on through the rugged road?

Work!

Thank God for the swing of it,

For the clamoring, hammering ring of it,
Passion of labor daily hurled

On the mighty anvils of the world.
Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it?
And what is so huge as the aim of it?
Thundering on through dearth and doubt,
Calling the plan of the Maker out.
Work, the Titan; Work, the friend,
Shaping the earth to a glorious end,
Draining the swamps and blasting the hills,
Doing whatever the Spirit wills—
Rending a continent apart,

To answer the dream of the Master heart.
Thank God for a world where none may shirk—
Thank God for the splendor of work!

Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, Dodd, Mead and Company.

The Weather-Vane

Bliss Carman

For biographical note concerning Bliss Carman, see "The Winter Scene," page 37.

In spite of the slight theme of this poem, it is successful on account of the exquisite imaginative treatment of the little mermaiden. There is much of the child's fairy tale in the selection, and yet somewhat of deep philosophy. Strive to bring out both.

I SAW a painted weather-vane

That stood above the sands

A little shining mermaiden

That turned and waved her hands.

She turned and turned, and waved and waved,
Then faced up toward the hill,
Then faced about and back again,
Then suddenly stood still.

And every time the wind came up

Out of the great cool sea,

She'd spin and spin and whirl her arms

As if in dancing glee.

And when the wind came down the road
With scent of new-mown hay,

She whirled about and danced again
In ecstasy of play.

It seemed as if her madcap heart
Could never quite decide

Whether her heaven was on the hill,
Or on the drifting tide.

And would she rather be a sprite,
To guard some singing stream,
To sparkle in the Summer field

And through the forest gleam?

Or would she be an ocean child,
A spirit of the deep,
To run upon the billows wild

And in their cradle sleep?