Poetry

Lake County Press, Issue 2392, 7 September 1911, Page 2

Poetry

FROM THE POETS. Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my A willowv brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft. beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. And share mv meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue. The village church among the trees, Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peels shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spme to heaven. —S. ROGERS.

THE LITTLE PATHS By Arthur W. Peach. The little paths of life Go winding everywhere;

Upon them eager feet On countless journeys fare. They meet by pleasant streams, True lovers walk them o’er; Then turning soon, so soon. They part for evermore. 15v some the roses bloom With fragrant wind-blown breath, And luring ways there are To quiet pools of death. They climb to heights austere. They seek grey valleys still; Each like a voiceless guide, With mission to fulfil. The peasant, prince and priest. Search here to find the way That leads with swiftest step To ends for which they pray. No charm there seems to be. No gift of God or man To point the shining way Into a promised land. But if our hearts arc brave, Our lips are tipped with song, And faith and hope are bright. The search shall not be long. Some days our stumbling feet when weary mazes tire, Shall find that little path Unto our heart’s desire.