From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 26, 1913. By John Bennett. A hundred years from now, dear heart, We will not care at all. It will not matter then a whit, The honey or the gall. The summer days that we have known Will all forgotten be and flown; The garden will be overgrown Where now the roses fall. A hundred years from now, dear heart, We will not mind the pain. The throbbing, crimson tide of life Will not have left a stain. The song we sing together, dear, The dream we dream together here, Will mean no more than means a tear Amid the summer rain. A hundred years from now, dear heart, The grief will all be o’er; The sea of care will surge in vain Upon a careless shore. These glasses we turn down today, Here at the parting of the way, We shall be wineless then as they, And will not mind it more. A hundred years from now, dear heart, We’ll neither know nor care What came of all life’s bitterness, Or followed love’s despair. Then fill the glasses up again And kiss me through the rose leaf rain; We’ll build one castle more in Spain And dream one more dream there.
Author: desperaudio
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In a Rose Garden
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The Boy That Never Was
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 25, 1913. He never wrote upon the walls, He never did a window break, Through him the cat ne’er lifted squalls So loud they might the dead awake. His little sister never felt A strand of hair pulled from her crown, Upon her cheek no blows were dealt, He ne’er was known to push her down. His mother’s days were free from care, His father never used the strap, I’m sure you’ll not find anywhere So well behaved a little chap. You ask me what his name could be And where this youngster doth reside? I can not answer that. You see, I have a secret to confide: Imagination fondly drew The type of boy these lines describe, Too free from faults to be quite true To life and all the boyhood tribe. And maybe it were better so, That none exists so wondrous good, For if he did, I almost know We’d scarcely love him as we should.
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It Pays to Talk
From the Rock Island Argus, April 24, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. Sim Watson’s stock of wit was small, But he let on he knew it all; He held his head up mighty high; The word he spoke the most was “I;” He had a large amount of gall, And never let a chance go by Whenever he was in a crowd To make his conversation loud. You’d hear his voice above the rest He’d strut and he’d stick out his chest He never “guessed,” he always KNEW; Or, leastwise, he pretended to; He always seemed to worry lest He might be hidden from the view; When taller men than Sim were there You’d see him standin’ on a chair. We all knew his talk was guff, That he was puttin’ up a bluff, And yet, somehow, we kind of got To thinkin’ that he knew a lot; The jokes he told were old and tough— Most of them tales that we’d forgot— But still we’d laugh at what he said, And so his reputation spread. Well, as I see the case today, Sim taught a lesson, anyway; Your stock of knowledge may be small, But don’t stand back against the wall And listen to what others say. Speak up and claim to know it all; Most people will believe you do— The wiser ones are mighty few.
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The Value of Hope
From the Rock Island Argus, April 23, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. How drear a place the world would be If all who fail to win success Permitted all the rest to see The evidence of their distress! How fortunate it is that men So often hide the griefs they bear So often still try bravely when Their breasts are laden with despair. How few men ever would achieve The victories that are so sweet If each should let the world perceive Whenever he had met defeat! How few men would be deemed sublime By those whose hearts are moved to song If each sat grumbling every time His heart ached or his plans went wrong. How little there would be to praise How much to keep us plunged in gloom If each but waited all his days To hear the dreadful crack of doom! ’Tis well that men conceal despair When stubborn fate has used them ill; Why not, if you have woes to bear, Assist by seeming hopeful still?
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I Remember
From the Bisbee Daily Review, April 22, 1913. I remember, I remember When courtin’ Sal I went; The parlor where so many Delightful hours were spent; The good old horsehair sofy, The crayon portraits, too, Which stared so impolitely As crayon portraits do; The whatnot in the corner, Filled up with ancient junk, The stuffed owl on the mantle, Who listened to the bunk. I peddled just like you did, When courtin’ of your gal, And life was simply heaven When I was courtin’ Sal. I remember, I remember How I marched up the aisle. The knot tied by the pastor Has held for quite a while. The horsehair sofy’s missing, They crayon portraits, too. We’re living in apartments, With modern stuff clear through. The stuffed owl is not with us Perched up above the grate; We have no corner what-nots, For we are up to date. I remember, I remember I married Sal you bet. The landlord and collectors Will not let me forget.
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Lady’s Slippers
From the Perth Amboy Evening News, April 21, 1913. Deep hidden in the green of woods, Where rain of sunlight, sifting through The woven layers of the leaves Makes diamonds of the dew, There is a secret nook I know Where yellow lady’s slippers grow. And I have seen from day to day (Though new ones come to take the place) How soon they seem to wear away And lose their first day’s grace. And I have often mourned that they Should be so quick to fade away. It’s strange I never guessed this thing Before, but now I know, Because I found a fairy ring Beside the place they grow— The moss, which is the fairies’ lawn, With toadstools that they sit upon. The fairies put the flowers there Of course. They never grew by chance. At midnight each one takes a pair— They wear the slippers when they dance. And with the peeping of the sun They hang them on their stalks and run.
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Farewell, Old Shoes
From The San Francisco Call, April 20, 1913. By Lester J. Skidmore. Farewell, old shoes! Though greatly I’ve abused you, I really get the blues To think I have to lose you. You’ve been a friend And joy to me; And now we must Part company. Yes, from the day I purchased you, You’ve never pinched like Some shoes do. Just like a glove You’ve fit my feet, And you were ever— Ever neat. You were quite dressy In your day, And on the street cut Quite a sway. And when your shape And beauty, too, Which I once prized, Deserted you, I clung to you most Faithfully, For you had been So kind to me. So many miles You’ve led the way And held your own, too, Day by day. A man’s best friend, None can deny. It breaks my heart To say goodbye. Farewell, old shoes! Though greatly I’ve abused you, I really get the blues To think I have to lose you.
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The Unrealized
From the Evening Star, April 19, 1913. By Philander Johnson. They say our legislature Is going to find a way To conquer human nature And drive its faults away; To shield us from oppression— Although with some regret We note this sad confession: It never happened yet. Mankind has ever striven For sweet Perfection’s state. All power has been given To kings and princes great. On soldiers, saints and others Its hopes the world has set To make men dwell as brothers; It never happened yet.
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The Handy Man
From The Topeka State Journal, April 18, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. Bill Simms was quite a handy man at any sort of trick, Could tinker up a balky watch or fix a windmill quick. Could whittle fancy ornaments or doctor up a calf, Or shoe a horse with lightnin’ speed or run a phonograph. An artist too with chalk or brush quite wonderful was he. The only thing Bill couldn’t draw was just a salary. Bill Simms could make a dandy churn that surely did the work. Could build an automobile that would run without a jerk. Could make a set of bobsleighs that would always run as slick as grease. Could cut a pair of trousers that would always hold their crease. But one thing that Bill couldn’t make at all to save his life— He couldn’t make a livin’ fer himself and kids and wife. Bill Simms could play the violin and almost any horn, Could imitate each bird or beast that ever had been born. The folks kept him busy doin’ odd jobs and all sich. He had no time to settle down in order to get rich. His neighbors all asked favors and he never turned one down; And Bill spent his declinin’ years in livin’ on the town.
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Around the Corner
From the Evening Star, April 16, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Just around the corner there is music soft and sweet; The sunbeams on a holiday go dancing down the street. You see a path where blossoms bend to greet you on your way Through the misty lanes of April to the splendors of the May. Though the sullen shadows linger you can sing a little song While you’re trudging on your journey, which will not be very long. Just around the corner skies are smiling warm and blue— The corner of Contentment street and Lazy avenue. There the butterflies are neighbors and the honeybees are friends, And the wind is sighing comfort where the weeping willow bends. The clumsy tortoise plods along, nor cares where he may roam, And when he’s scared or weary shuts his shell and calls it home. The grasses wave in billows like the flowing of the sea, And the birds are busy nesting, way up yonder in the tree; They are just around the corner, ‘mongst the perfumes and the dew, The corner of Contentment street and Lazy avenue.