There be Stars in the sky
And Stars in the heart of man
And Stars in the soul of a child
And Stars in the eyes of woman
This be a little book
Of a flowering of these Stars
That are lamps to manís way
The Flower of Stars
A Little Offering
He Made the World So Beautiful
To Father and Mother
They Showed the Way
The Flowerís Holding
God gives the flowers
Something to hold every day,
Some days, itís the tears of mothers.
Sometimes, itís the years that men call failures.
Sometimes, itís the fragrance of lost words.
Sometimes, it is part of the symphony
God lets it come to tune
In the heart of little flowers.
Sometimes, itís the dreams
For sleepy childrenís eyes.
God knows the flowers
Will make them heaven-wise.
Sometimes, itís just a song of blue.
Sometimes, itís just a thought of you.
The birthing of Man,
And she attends his death.
The white altar fires
Of her high hopes
Are then a little dimmed.
Sometimes, they are almost gone out.
The Little Room
In Manís heart is a little room.
He has named it
And things are ranged along its wall
That he does not wish
To think about.
Every time that he pushes something in there
He closes the door very tightly.
But in hours when he is weary,
In the hours that walk around some midnights
When high fires have burned
To a low flicker
Then the little door swings on its hinges.
And no thing
Will make it stay closed
All of the time.
When he is near death
All the Velvet-footed Wanderers in there
Join the throng around his bed,
"We will not die," they whisper
To one another.
While Beauty waits with drawn lips,
And dry eyes.
But, there is heard
The patter of a little sad rain
In her heartís garden
Where some little flower buds
That were once thinking of the sun
Will never open
Because man keeps a little room
Of Oblivion in his soul.
All Things Live
All Things live;
The innermost thoughts
Of a Manís soul
Walk the highway
Of the Universe,
And are seen
By all the pilgrims,
Who have gone before.
Night walks a pilgrim
Along the pathway of the stars.
Her fine ears filled
With the murmurings
Of manís little sorrows.
She wears a white rose in her girdle.
On sapphires is strung
Her rosary, without its cross.
Its beads are
The anguishes of men
And the emptiness of womanís hope.
She tells them, hour by hour,
Until they are become
Emeralds at dawn,
Glimmering with faith
As a field in the new spring.
The anguishes are become
A cross of pearl,
So Night folds her rosary
In the morning.
Children of Thought
The Morning Winds caress with their hands the flowers come to bud in
the garden of the blue desert. They talk in low starry tones until the
flowers open and they behold the little children sleeping there.
These are children born of the thoughts of man and they are clothed with
his faith. It so happens that some have no robing but the petals of the
flower that encloses them. This has become so because some men have no
faith in their thoughts.
In appeal for their gowning Morning explained to Dawn on the Desert,
"These are the Children of Thought. They help to make the joy songs
of the world."
"I will clothe them," said Faith, "with the silk of
"And I will make for them little velvet gowns of the memories of
maidens on their wedding days," said Recollection.
"I will give them rose-petal handkerchiefs to put in their
pockets," promised the Mother of All the Roses.
"I will give them little bags of the fragrance of Hope," said
the Baby Brother of all the For-get-me-nots, who goes to the sky every day
to bring back blue for their petals.
"We will give them prayer books from our petals," said the
stately Lilies who knew all Godís thoughts and how manís soul was
brother to the star.
This was the day of their gowning- the little Children of Thought.
The Passing of Days saw them playing with the sands of the blue desert,
making joy songs of little grains of sand that are the sufferings in a manís
life through the days of his long pilgrimage.
Words Woman Holds in her Heart
What are the words
Woman holds in her heart?
Wings of the dawning,
And feet of the night,
Mantle of the morning,
Girdle of the twilight.
A white flute and a blue star,
An old way of thinking.
And the song
Of a brook that has come
A long ways from the hills.
The rose of a childís garnden.
The boat of a childís soul.
The shore of manís rest.
She is Dead
"She is dead," they said
And they gathered up the things
Of her days.
Lifeís little spindle,
Her gentle ways,
The comforting words
That were left a wall
About their fears
To keep them from climbing
Into future years.
The hopes of her pleasing,
Her little vigil hours,
The chest of her maiden dreams,
The flowers of a gladder faith,
The lavender of old tears.
The linen of her fingers weaving,
The garments for her childrenís souls
From words writ in the Holy booke.
And the memory
Of strong caressing hands
That they had always found
Afterwards, in one old chest
In the room she had slept in,
They found the gentle joys
Of her waiting yearsó
The petals of the hopes
At her childrenís birthing.
The End of a Sapphire Day
At the long ending
Of a sapphire day
The fields were silvered
With slipping light
While Time was washing
The net of Day
In a turquoise sea
Under a little new moon.
There was a woven water glimmering
Where the net was tired
And Twilight had drawn
Threads for its remaking
From the aureoled opalescence
Of the strong heart of man.
God, going for His evening walk, saw
And caught in His hand
The light that passeth on.
For the net was agleam
With the sheep
Of the ropes of pearl
Woven of the strands
Of the Sorrow of Sorrows--
The Little Crooked Gray Boulder
The little Crooked Gray Boulder dwelt in Godís Garden. He had no
remembering of who brought him there. But the White Swallow knew that he
came from an old country where all the fires were gone out. One time God
burned up manís desire and an old world died. The Little Crooked Gray
Boulder had a dim remembering, but mostly he loved the sky so forgetting
came to him of his early home. Only his heart sang a deep quiet joy and
thumped a great deal. That was because all the molecules of his being were
the little joys God had gathered up in that old world. The gathering was
before its deathing. After that there was no more gathering for the old
world became a breath on the passing wind and went the pathway of other
old worlds. They are become an unseen river in the sky. Sometimes man
feels the current of this river when he is near death. It sings an old
song, for it has known the end.
The Weary Hope
The harp of stars sings
On the rim of the world
While its brethren stars
Through space are hurled.
The sea is restless,
The shore cliffs high,
And as manís thought passes by,
It is played into a song
By this harp of stars.
So the weary hopes of old mothers
Pass into the years, a symphony;
Allegro in the soul of man,
Andante in the eyes of woman,
Con moto in the web of time.
The Clan of the Lichens
We will be gray
For the dumbness of old things,
And we will be
Without form that can be measured
As are old longings.
And we will be like petals
As are new yearnings.
And we will be Gray with a little green
As are old hopes
That live on with a fore-seeing
And a dream.
And we will cling
That no wind may part us
As old friends.
We will be a symbol
Of things grown old
And the beauty that yet is
When youth glory sleeps.
Beauty is a thing not held with hands;
A plant in the heart of man,
The garden of childrenís laughter,
A quiet pool in the eyes of woman.
The calling that leads man far,
A whispering on the wind,
A flute under the white star,
The high urge of manís desire,
The white flame in the red fire.
As Others Are
If we must be as others are,
Let us take the beauty of othersí lives
As the star of the hour.
Let us make a little nose-gay
Of the buds of their joys,
With the fragrance of their sorrows
And the understanding of their hearts.
When most bound, most free
In oneís heart, and a garden.
Free on the hills
And a city within four walls.
A kingdom in a room,
A song on the wind.
The listening heart
That finds a part
In all earthís musings.
A little time, a little day,
A weary way
And a long road.
It whirls with the snow
In the winds on the mountain top,
It beats in the heart of earth,
Flashes in the lightning
And battles in the thunder.
Out in the fields,
Thereís a breath of Freedom
On the winds,
Thereís her touch
In the rustle of the leaves.
And on high seas
Thereís a vanishing footprint.
In the running wave.
But these are not the essences.
When other things we would be doing
And toil falls to our lot
Then Freedom comes to us.
At such a time she carries
No star in her sceptre or crown;
But there is
A comforting rustle in her gown,
As she walks round us
And comes to sitting down.
From where nightly yonder stars
Dream our dreams for us.
She comes--to the heart of man.
From the field without to the field within
She brings the thought fragrance
Of other world and distant star flowers
To begin the incense fires
In the long hall of the mind--
Where come to march the wakeful glories
Of ancient sleeping years.
She marches there another valiant host.
She counts their energetic footsteps
To the ticking of the Futureís minutes.
She marshals them on into the soul
A joyous crowd,
Where listening, they wait their calling.
Her voice is low.
To quickening faith her challenge thrills
While Holy light the Soulís cathedral fills.
And all its dim aisles know
The footfall of the radiant quietness.
And they, her marshalled forces,
They of the tall brotherhood,
They of the glowing wills,
Sing out their anthems high that rise
Like incense mist around the gothic arches,
Until the bells of the sleeping years,
Through the vaulted silences,
Ring back in answering;
And thus their chorus loud in unison
Removes the soulís shroud
The empty hours
With living song
"FREEDOM IS WORK."
Night and the Little Failures
Night took up the web of life
And wove a star thereon
Of amethyst and silver glimmering.
From her rosary she drew a pearl
And gave its holding to this star
Lest coldness come to her heart
With forgetting of sorrowís old tears
In the midst of unfolding years.
Also, Night took from her girdle, a rose
And caught in its petals the hour glimmering
That this star might be a flower
To shed its fragrance on earth fields.
So wove she into beauty
The little failures of man,
But his successes
She cast to earth again.
The Little Comet
A Tale for Children and Taller Ones
There is a little comet
That whirls around the world.
He is seen nearing earth
At the graylight hour of seven.
But, mostly he is seen
Dancing and prancing up and down
The high hall of heavens.
He goeth quickly,
Yet may be always with us.
He sparkles a song
That is like a ribbon
With a jingle ball on it.
Have you heard him sing?
"Iím tired of being just a comet--
Iíd like to find a home.
I can be in a lot of places
At one time,
Only people donít know it.
"My tail can be very big with light
And Iíd like to go to bed at night."