And on the flip side of that page are poems.
Ye know not of the power
With which the dark temptation came
In some unguarded hour.
Ye may not know how earnestly
They struggled, or how well,
Until the hour of weakness came
And sadly thus they fell.
Think gently of the erring:
Oh! do not thou forget,
However darkly stained by sin
He is thy brother yet;
Heir of the selfsame heritage,
Child of the selfsame God,
He has but stumbled in the path
Thou hast in weakness trod.
Speak gently to the erring:
For is it not enough
That innocence and peace have gone,
Without thy censure rough?
It sure must be a weary lot,
That sin-stained heart to bear,
And those who share a happier fate
Their chidings well may spare.
Speak gently to the erring:
Thou yet may’st lead them back
With holy words and tones of love,
From misery’s thorny track:
Forget not thou hast often sinned,
And sinful yet must be;
Deal gently with the erring,
then, As God has dealt with thee.
Wheels – Buffalo Express
Father makes a century
Every other day
I am on a racing team,
Earning lots of pay;
Sister’s learning fancy tricks,
Going on the stage;
Little Dick he holds the mile
Record for his age;
Mother rides with Baby Dan
Tied in front-he squeals.
We’re the gayest folks in town,
For we all have wheels.
Searching, riding all the time,
Even late at night.
Then again at early dawn,
For an appetite.
All we talk about is “gears,”
“Saddles,” “chains” and “tires,”
“Records,” “roads” the “makes” that all
And each one admires.
Thus we spend the speeding hours,
Pity each one feels
For our insane neighbors who
Say that we have wheels.
November by Margaret M. Moore
November, solemn-browed, austere,
Stood gazing in the dying year;
Of skies all gray, and fields all bare,
On withering stalks once flowers fair;
On nests deserted, sunset fires,
On hearts with unattained desires.
Swift from the spectral north there came
A crimson rush of boreal flame;
And in the deepening vault o’erhead
A glittering tapestry was spread.
On rocks and shores the wild waves dashed,
By the fierce whips of autumn lashed;
The turbid river’s swollen veins
Shot with swift menace thro’ the plains,
And on dun clouds which bellied low,
Crept the wild forest fire’s mad glow.
From boreal flames and ocean foam,
From glittering hosts in sapphire dome,
From withering stalks and jagged cloud,
November wore the old year’s shroud.
How Will it Be? by J. Albert Libby
How will it be when the day is done,
And the field of the world we are called to leave
In the shadows of mercy’s sinking sun?
Shall we go as reapers to joy, or grieve?
Shall we sing of hope in the harvest yield,
Garnered by us from the world’s wide field?
Or, with many a sigh, if we remain,
Spared ourselves, for the little wrought –
Shall we look back to the golden grain,
Left afield which we might have brought?
Joy will arise as has been the strife
In the grasp of fruit for eternal life.
To find “much fruit” in the better land,
Safely housed from the storms of time,
Gathered and brought by a busy hand,
Will stand a pledge for a life sublime –
Linger and reap as the sun glides low,
The day is ending, we soon must go.
My favorites are the first quote about wise words and the poem “Erring” about judging others.
Stay tuned for more papers that have survived the years.