The wind had blown up cold;
And too, the oaks were grumbling
Like men agrowing old.

We must all work this morning,
Though rough and harsh outside,
Men labor in the storming
For all must eat betide.




THAT CLOSE DRAWN VEIL


If we could lift that close drawn veil and see,
The anxious hours might pass in rest and sleep.
But wait! Could men but sow and counting reap?
Who would toil on when knowing loss must be?
No wild glad hoping with expectancy!
And wooing lover then might he not weep?
The fortune which would grieve--no shop to keep.
Enough. Man can climb higher and be free.
Leave be the veil and let men struggle through.
Let roots strike down and seek the growing needs;
And living stock stretch up toward the sun
With life and hope. Then let men work and woo,
Not anchorless, nor tumbling drift as weeds.
Fulfilment in the end and laurel won.