Newspaper Poetry

Category: Grand Forks Daily Herald

  • A Tale of the Trail

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 30, 1915. By J. W. Foley.

    This life’s a middlin’ crooked trail, and after forty year
    Of knockin’ round, I’m free to say the right ain’t always clear.
    I’ve seen a lot of folks go wrong—get off the main high road
    An’ fetch up in a swamp somewhere, almost before they knowed.
    I don’t set up to be no judge of right and wrong in men,
    I ain’t been perfect all my life an’ may not be again;
    An’ when I see a chap who looks as though he’s gone astray
    I want to think he started right—an’ only lost his way.

    I like to think the good in folks by far outweighs the ill;
    The trail of life is middlin’ hard an’ lots of it uphill.
    There’s places where there ain’t no guides or signboards up, an’ so
    It’s part guess work an’ partly luck which way you chance to go.
    I’ve seen the trails fork some myself, an’ when I had to choose
    I wasn’t sure when I struck out if it was win or lose.
    So when I see a man who looks as though he’s gone astray
    I want to think he started right an’ only lost his way.

    I’ve seen a lot of folks start out with grit an’ spunk to scale
    The hills’ that purple over there, an’ somehow lose the trail;
    I’ve seen ’em stop an’ start again, not sure about the road,
    And found ’em lost on some blind trail, almost before they knowed.
    I’ve seen ’em circlin’, tired out, with every pathway blind,
    With cliffs before ’em, mountains high, an’ sloughs an’ swamps behind.
    I’ve seen ’em circlin’ through the dusk, when twilight’s gettin’ gray,
    An’ lookin’ for the main highroad—poor chaps who’ve lost their way.

    It ain’t so far from Right to Wrong—the trail ain’t hard to lose;
    There’s times I’d almost give my horse to know which one to choose.
    There ain’t no guides or signboards up to keep you on the track;
    Wrong’s sometimes white as driven snow, an’ right looks awful black.
    I don’t set up to be no judge of right and wrong in men;
    I’ve lost the trail sometimes myself, an’ may get lost again.
    An’ when I see a chap who looks as though he’s gone astray,
    I want to shove my hand in his an’ help him find the way!

  • Discontent

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 20, 1915.

    Formed of the elemental fierce unrest
    That seethes forever in the human breast,
    Coeval with the race of Man am I.
    I seem a curse from which he fain would fly;
    And in his efforts to escape from me
    He pits his might against Immensity,
    And bends the laws of Nature to his will;
    Yet I shall goad him ever on until
    He solve the problem of Infinity
    And read the meaning of life’s mystery.
    Then when he rests on heights as yet untrod,
    And learns that he himself is part of God,
    He’ll know that I first taught him to aspire—
    That I, the Curse, impelled him from the mire.

  • The Cry of the Dreamer

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 14, 1915. By John Boyle O’Reilly.

    I am tired of planning and toiling
        In the crowded hives of men;
    Heart-weary of building and spoiling
        And spoiling and building again.
    And I long for the dear old river,
        Where I dreamed my youth away,
    For a dreamer lives forever,
        And a toiler dies in a day.

    I am sick of the showy seeming
        Of a life that is half a lie;
    Of the faces lined with scheming
        In the throng that hurries by.
    From the sleepless thought’s endeavor,
        I would go where the children play;
    For a dreamer lives forever
        And a thinker dies in a day.

    I can feel no pride, but pity,
        For the burdens the rich endure;
    There is nothing sweet in the city
        But the patient lives of the poor.
    Oh, the little hands too skillful,
        And the child mind choked with weeds!
    The daughter’s heart grown willful,
        And the father’s heart that bleeds!

    No, no! from the street’s rude bustle,
        From trophies of mart and stage,
    I would fly to the wood’s low rustle
        And the meadow’s kindly page.
    Let me dream as of yore by the river
        And be loved for the dream alway;
    For a dreamer lives forever,
        And a thinker dies in a day.

  • Service

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 11, 1915. By John Milton.

    When I consider how my light is spent
        Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
        And that one talent which is death to hide
    Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
        My true account, lest he returning chide—
    Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?
    I fondly ask: But Patience to prevent
    That murmur soon replies: God doth not need
        Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
        Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: His state
    Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
        And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
        They also serve who only stand and wait.

  • Are All the Children In?

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 9, 1915.

    The darkness falls, the wind is high,
    Dense black clouds fill the western sky
        The storm will soon begin;
    The thunders roar, the lightnings flash
    I hear the great round raindrops dash—
        Are all the children in?

    They’re coming softly to my side;
    Their forms within my arms I hide;
        No other arms are sure;
    The storm may rage with fury wild;
    With trusting faith each little child
        With mother feels secure.

    But future days are drawing near;
    They’ll go from this warm shelter here
        Out in the world’s wild din;
    The rain will fall, the cold winds blow,
    I’ll sit alone and long to know
        Are all the children in?

    Will they have shelter then secure,
    Where hearts are waiting strong and sure,
        And love is true when tried?
    Or will they find a broken reed,
    When strength of heart they so much need
        To help them brave the tide?

    God knows it all; His will is best;
    I’ll shield them now, and yield the rest
        In His most righteous hands,
    Sometimes the souls He loves are riven
    By tempests wild, and thus are driven
        Nearer the better land.

    If he should call us home before
    The children land on that blest shore,
        Afar from care and sin,
    I know that I shall watch and wait,
    Till He, the keeper of the gate,
        Lets all the children in.

  • My Teacher

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 30, 1914. By Charles H. Barker.

    To the desk of his teacher a little lad came,
    With his eyes downcast, and his cheeks aflame,
    And he said in a trembling and hesitant tone,
    “I’ve spoiled this leaf; may I have a new one?”

    In place of the sheet so stained and blotted,
    She gave him a new one, clean, unspotted.
    His tear-stained face she lifted, then smiled
    And said, “Try to do better now, my child.”

    To my Teacher I went on my knees, alone;
    The days had passed by and another year flown;
    “Dear Father, hast Thou not a new leaf for me?
    I’ve blotted this other so sadly, I see.”

    In place of the old year so soiled and blotted
    God gave me a new one, clean, unspotted.
    Then into my sorrowing heart He smiled,
    Saying, “Try to do better now, my child.”

  • A Christmas Carol

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 23, 1914. By Edmund Hamilton Sears.

    It came upon the midnight clear,
        The glorious song of old,
    From angels bending near the earth,
        To touch their harps of gold;
    “Peace on earth, good will to men
        From heaven’s all-gracious King!”
    The world in solemn stillness lay
        To hear the angels sing.

    Still through the cloven skies they came,
        With peaceful wings unfurled;
    And still their heavenly music floats
        O’er all the weary world;
    Above its sad and lowly plains
        They bend on hovering wings,
    And o’er its Babel-sounds
        The blessed angels sing.

    But with the woes of sin and strife
        The world has suffered long;
    Beneath the angel strain have rolled
        Two thousand years of wrong;
    And man, at war with man, hears not
        The love song which they bring;
    Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife,
        And hear the angels sing!

    And ye, beneath life’s crushing load,
        Whose forms are bending low,
    Who toil along the climbing way
        With painful steps and slow,
    Look now, for glad and golden hours
        Come swiftly on the wing;
    Oh, rest beside the weary road
        And hear the angels sing.

    For lo, the days are hastening on
        By prophet bards foretold,
    When with the ever-circling years
        Comes round the age of gold;
    When peace shall over all the earth
        Its ancient splendors fling,
    And the whole world give back the song
        Which now the angels sing!

  • The Tree of Life

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 19, 1914.

    In his mother’s sacred eyes,
        Lit from God’s own altar place,
    Earth grows heaven, and gray time dies
        In the infant’s smiling face.
    From the shroud of withered years
        Love and hope come young again,
    And the heart awakened hears
        Songs that make the life of men.

    Children’s lightsome laughter rings;
        Dull waste places hear their tread,
    And the gleams of gracious wings
        Light old chambers of the dead.
    All bright shapes of memory,
        All glad dreams of youth and love,
    Meet about the Christmas tree
        Underneath the mystic dove.

    Time and fate are babbling words,
        Vain vibrations of the tongue,
    Since the song God’s singing birds
        O’er the Babe of Bethlehem sung.
    Child of death that was to be,
        Child of love and life with men
    Round the holy Christmas tree
        Make us children, too, again.

    Eyes that are love’s deathless shrine,
        Where our holiest prayers arise,
    Blest and blessing, dear, divine,
        Little children’s happy eyes,
    In your light the dark years change,
        From your light all foul things flee,
    And all sweet hopes soar and range
        Round the Christ Child’s Christmas tree.

  • The Call to Arms

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 12, 1914. By W. M. Leets.

    There’s a woman sobs her heart out,
    With her head against the door,
    For the man that’s called to leave her,
    God have pity on the poor!
        But it’s beat, drums, beat,
        While the lads march down the street.
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        Keep your tears until they go.

    There’s a crowd of little children
    That march along and shout,
    For it’s fine to play at soldiers
    Now their fathers are called out.
        So it’s beat, drums, beat,
        But who’ll find them food to eat?
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        Ah! the children little know.

    Ther’s a mother who stands watching
    For the last look of her son,
    A worn, poor widow woman,
    And he her only one.
        But it’s beat, drums, beat,
        Though God knows when we shall meet;
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        We must smile and cheer them so.

    There’s a young girl who stands laughing,
    For she thinks a war is grand.
    And it’s fine to see the lads pass,
    And it’s fine to hear the band.
        So it’s beat, drums, beat,
        To the fall of many feet;
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        God go with you where you go
        To the war.

  • The Battle Autumn

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 4, 1914. By John G. Whittier.

    What means the gladness of the plain,
        This joy of eve and morn,
    The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
        And yellow locks of corn?

    Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
        And hearts with hate are hot,
    But even-paced come ‘round the years,
        And nature changes not.

    She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
        With songs our groans of pain;
    She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
        The war field’s crimson stain.

    Still, in the cannon’s pause, we hear
        Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;
    Too near to God to doubt or fear,
        She shares the eternal calm.

    She knows the seed lies safe below
        The fires that burst and burn;
    For all the tears of blood we sow
        She waits the rich return.

    She sees with clearer eye than ours
        The good of suffering born—
    The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
        And ripen like her corn.

    O, give to us, in times like these,
        The vision of her eyes;
    And make her fields and fruited trees
        Our golden prophecies!

    O, give to us her finer ear!
        Above this stormy din.
    We, too, would hear the bells of cheer
        Ring peace and freedom in!