For DaiMy Inspiration 



A TAGE OF FUGITIl/E VERSE 



The. Joy of Love and Home 



BY EUGE^TE C. DOLSO^T 



SAFE from the dreary winter storm, 

 How warm and restful seems our room; 

 Within the frosted window set, 



Your flowers tonight are all abloom. 



The ivy running on the wall, 



The orange tree with fruit aglow, 



The primroses in pink and white, 



Are fair as summer gardens know. 



If long ago my restless heart 



In quest of sunnier lands would roam, 

 1 found no pleasure like to this— 



The perfect joy of love and home. 



But looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath 

 need to fear. 



Only let him look clear into heaven — the perfect 

 pattern is there. 



If he keeps the face of the Savior forever and 

 always in sight. 



His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his weav- 

 ing is sure to be right. 



And when his task is ended, and the web is 



tossed and shown, 

 He shall hear the voice of the iWaster, it shall say 



to him, "Well done!" 

 And the white-winged angels of Heaven, to hear 



him shall come down. 

 And God shall give him gold for his hire— not 



coin, but a fadeless crown. 



The Tapestry Weavers 



BY ANSON G. CHESTER 



Let us take to our hearts a lesson, no lesson 



can braver be, 

 From the ways of the tapestry weavers on the 



other side of the sea. 

 Above their heads the pattern hangs— they study 



it with care. 



The while their fingers deftly work, their eyes 

 are fastened there. 



They tell this curious thing, besides, of the 

 patient, plodding weaver, 



He works on the wrong side ever more, but 

 works for the right side ever. 



It is only v/hen the weaving stops, and the web 

 is tossed and turned. 



And he sees his real handiwork— that his mar- 

 velous skill is learned— 



Oh, the sight of his delicate beauty, how it pays 

 him for all its cost, 



No daintier work than his was ever done by the 

 frost. 



Thus the master brings him golden hire, and 



gives him praises as well, 

 And how happy the heart of the weaver is, no 



tongue but his own can tell. 



The years of man are the looms of God, let down 



from the place of the sun, 

 Wherein we are weaving always, 'til thy mystic 



web is done, 

 Weaving blindly, but weaving surely, each for 



himself his fate. 

 We may not see hov/ the right side looks— we 



can only weave and wait. 



Dreaming of Home 



It comes to me often in silence 



When the firelight sputters low,— 

 When the black, uncertain shadows 



Seem wraiths of the long ago; 

 Always with a throb of heartache. 



That feels each pulsing vein, 

 Comes the old, unquiet longing 



For the peace of home again. 



I'm sick of the roar of cities 



And of faces cold and strange; 

 I know where thereto warmth of welcome, 



And my yearning fancies range 

 Back to the dear old homestead, 



With an aching sense of pain. 

 But there'll be joy in the coming— 



When 1 go home again. 



When 1 go home! There's music 



That never may die away; 

 And it seems that the hand of angels, 



On mystic harp at play. 

 Have touched with a yearning sadness 



On a beautiful broken strain. 

 To which is my fond heart wording, 



When I go home again. 



Outside of my darkening window 



Is the great world's crash and din. 

 And slowly the winter shadows 



Come drifting, drifting in. 

 Sobbing the night wind murmurs 



To the splash of autumn rain; 

 But I dream of the glorious greeting 



When 1 go home again. 



—Unidentified. 



