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1921— 1st Edition 




Q^ I neither went to France, nor remained there to write 

^'poetry. I seemed too busy to try to market it. I had to see 

y-and hear and feel. Etchings and photographs, slides and the 

";! films of the life passed before me. Songs and strains and 

symphonies fell upon my ears. Many pictures are yet unde- 

- veloped; many songs unwritten are still ringing in my ears. 

^ Herein are included a few snap-shots and a few bars of 

i music. They have been named from my poem "Rough and 

Brown," because the experience at the Communion in the 

American Church in Paris was not of the transfigured Christ, 

so transcendent as to be unknown; not of the pale faced 

teacher whose scripture has been made so academic as to be 

often obscure; but of the one who was out in the weather, 

becoming tanned, sinewy, and hardened in the service of his 

humble fellows. He was a great reality in which the human 

and divine blended. 

The visions and voices and sounds and experiences that 
came to me were of reality. At the expense of form and tech- 
nique and even a satisfying idealism, it is my greatest wish 
that these lines ring true with reality. 

The Author 



Foreword ! 1 

The New Year Book 5 

God's Easter 7 

Christ Is Dead 9 

Christ or Napoleon i 11 

"Born Across The Sea" 17 

Our Christ . .i 19 

Rough and Brown 21 

The Empty Cup 24 

Three Gifts 27 

The Wise Men 29 

Help of The Hills 31 

The Toad Stool . .i 33 

"Why Could We Not?" 35 


The Intercession 39 

Pickings 40 

'^I Cannot Sleep'^ 44 

The Tides , 48 

Communion 50 

Sergeant Sampson i. . . 51 

Forgive Us 53 

Bill Hodge ) 59 

The Quest For A Theme 62 



Today, I have a brand new book, 
Paged eighteen score and five; but look! 
Before I hide it on my shelf. 
Its blank! Ah, write herein myself! 

Upon the top of every page, 
I'll write some saying of a sage; 
Then quietly with reverent care. 
Compose an earnest, morning prayer. 



To help me really live it then, 
I'll end it with a real amen; 
So I can always justly treat 
The many people whom I meet; 


But e're I turn each blotted leaf, 
Indelible with grief and joy; 
I'll have a smile and story brief 
And tell it to some girl or boy. 



I would not send one symbol 

To veil this Easter- tide; 

Like rabbits, romping nimble, 

Or white eggs, richly dyed. 

My message could not speak well. 

If here your eyes espied 

The songbird, chick or chime-bell, 

With lilies interwined. 


They cover up the picture; 

God's master colors hide; 

They mar the scene from Scripture; 

See Joseph's Tomb, — Christ Died! 

But hark! The earth's a tremble, 

It mourns the Crucified; 

Then see Heaven's Host assemble. 

With Christ throned by God's side. 




(A. D. 30) 
Your Christ is dead, 
The Romans said; 
Into the land of Galilee, 
His frightened, frail 
Disciples fled. 
Rut Caesar's guard 
Were sleeping, hard. 
Again along The Syrian Sea, 
The Risen Christ 
His followers led. 

There were two great world contests between Militarism and 


(A. D. 1918.) 

Your Christ is dead, 

The Prussians said; 

No more the man of Galilee, 

With regal steps 

The earth will tread. 

But Kaiser's arm 

No more can harm; 

Again there rules from sea to sea 

The Risen King 

Of Kings, instead. 




I Brush by the beggar 

And enter the door. 
Heed not the guide 
At the souvenir store; 
Silent and rev'rent 
With uncovered head, 
Come to the tomb 
Of the high, honored dead. 

The ideals of France are not those of Monarchy and Mili- 
tarism, but the ideals of Him whose name was last upon the 
lips of France's real hero or heroine, Joan of Arc. 


Soft and pale blue, 
Is the delicate light, 
Touching the crypt 
Of the Monarch of Might; 
Brilliant, bold rays 
Through the window's gold stain, 
Shine on the Cross 
Of the Prince of Peace, slain. 

Shells of the great 
Hostile guns from afar; 
Bombs of the enemy 
Planes, from above; 
Daily and nightly have 
Threatened the dust 
Of the great hero. 
The populace love. 



Hid is the dark, granilc 
Tomb of the Soldier; 
Buried in hundreds 
Of sand-laden bags; 
Bared on the Cross 
Is the form of the Saviour, 
Only his frail limbs 
Are covered with rags. 


Desperate, dark, is the 
Hour of the nation; 
War-worn and weak 
Is the Army of France, 
Seeking the source 
Of some miracle power 
To stem and hurl back 
The invaders' advance. 

( 13) 

Soldier of Corsica's 
Isle, is it you, 
You whom the Army 
Would summon "arise"? 
Gird on your sabre 
And mount the gray steed; 
Fling the frail flags 
To the shot-shattered skies? 

God-Man of Bethlehem's 
Town, is it you, 
You who should lead 
In this blood-laden hour? 
Not on a charger. 
But in every free breast 
Moving men on 
With a passion and power? 


Christ or Napoleon, 
Conquest — Crusade ? 
Dust or Divinity, 
O tomb of the dead? 
Elbe or Bethlehem — 
Speak, France and say — 
Who will it be 
At the great Army's head? 

History says. 
When all his deeds 
On earth were done, 
His face turned towards 
The setting sun. 
Said "Man of Nazareth, 
You have won." 



Beneath the bags 
His ashes lay, 
And there his flags 
All dusty stay. 
But — the Choir in 
The Chapel sings 
'Jesus lives, 
He's King of Kings.' 



In a land of vines and lilies, 
Near a Sacred Syrian Sea; 
Where caravans and armies came 
From Rome and Araby; 
In the fields of ancient battles, 
Near the Shores of Galilee, 
"In the beauty of the lilies, 
Christ was born across the sea." 

I cannot conceive how Christ can ever come to the earth 
again except as his ideals and. practices of life are reincarnated 
in the lives of men and nations. 


In another land of lilies, 

Near a war-beridden sea; 

Where Nations came to guard the crib 

Of Human Liberty; 

In the fields of modern battles, 

"Millions died to make men free;" 

In the France of vines and lilies, 

Christ's reborn across the sea. 



I know not how that Bethlehem's Babe, 

Could in the God-head be; 

I only know the Manger Child, 

Has brought God's life to me. 

This was a Harvard Prize Christmas hymn, sung to "St. 
Agnes." With no premeditation it is a chronological Christology — a 
faith in the Incarnation, Crucifixion and Resurrection not based on 
arbitrary dogma, not an agnosticism but a testimony both naive 
and scientific — : experience. 



I know not how that Calvary's Cross, 
A world from sin, could free; 
I only know its Matchless Love, 
Has brought God's love to me. 


I know now how that Joseph's Tomb, 
Could solve death's mystery; 
I know there is a Living Christ, 
Our Immortality. 



There walked the Son of God today, 

Along the altar of His shrine; 

Men saw Him as they stooped to pray. 

And felt Him through the bread and wine. 

The silver cup was shining bright, 

The linen cloth was clean and white; 

But as the plate was handed down, 

They saw the bread was rough and brown. 


There came the Son of God one day. 

To worship in His Father's shrine; 

Men saw Him drive the thieves away 

Who profited in doves and kine. 

His righteous eye was shining bright, 

His seamless robe was clean and white; 

But as He cast the tables down, 

They saw his hands were rough and brown. 



There walks the Son of God today, 

Along His world's last battle-line; 

Men see Him as they stop to pray, 

And find Him human, though divine. 

His saddened eye is shining bright. 

His robe, though torn, is clean and white; 

But men thank God that He sent down 

A Son, whose hands were rough and brown. 



("Drink ye all of this.") 

The priest stood robed in white and red, 

Before the altar's cross of gold; 

And held the cup above his head, 

For all the people to behold. 

He blessed the wine when they drew nigh, 

To sip it from the vessel's rim, 

Then drained the silver chalice dry 

In token of the blood of Him. 

Dedicated to the late Arch-deacon Stuck, missionary to Alas- 
ka, who was the celebrant at the Communion in St. Michael's, New 
York. There is no complete communing until His life within our 
life has issued in conduct that spends us as it did men like 
Arch-deacon Stuck. 


Christ came in garments worn and rent 
To greet within the Upper Room 
His frail disciples, 'ere He went 
To meet His own impending doom. 
In symbol of the Cross and Nail, 
He gave the blessed and broken bread, 
Then passed the wine-filled Holy Grail; 
"Now drink ye all of this," He said. 


Thick, sluggish, unspilled blood of mine, 

Which weekly at His sacred tryst. 

Takes by transfusing of the wine 

The sacrificing blood of Christ; 

Leap through my veins and make me bleed 

In conflict for the human need; 

Hot surge with ceaseless discontent 

Until each drop is spilled and spent. 



I wish I had a world of things 

Like books and toys and gowns. 

I would I had the wealth of kings, 

In jewels, robes and crowns; 

For if I were the man, who brings 

The soldiers, drums and clowns. 

And fills the Christmas stockings, 

In hamlets, burghs and towns, 

I'd bring or send you just the thing 

You long have waited for; 

And that would make two hearts to sing 

Now could I ask for more? 

( 27 ) 

Yes, — in this world of things and stuff. 

Three priceless gifts are mine; 

And were they yours 'twould be enough. 

I come to make them thine. 

One, is my own; the next, a hope; 

The third, I point you to. 

They are: my love, the love from friend, 

And the love that dies for you. 

So had I every gift to send. 

And thine to be but three; 

I'd send my love, the love from friend, 

And the love that dies for thee. 



Of three wise men, 
One was a king 
Who ruled and owned 
Most everything: 
Fields and flocks 
Both near and far, 
Deepest mine 
And distant star. 

The second wise man 
Was a priest. 
Who gave the laws 
For man and beast. 
All the people 
Raised their hands 
And bowed the knee 
At his commands. 


Of these three men, 
One was a sage, 
Whose wisdom was 
From age to age; 
Young and old 
Had rarest treat, 
To come and listen 
At his feet. 

These three wise men, 
Priest, sage, and king. 
Who owned, ruled, knew 
Most everything; 
Found the Babe 
Of Bethlehem, 
To be the King 
Of ail of them. 



Into thy bosom, thou 
High Alpine Hills, 
Wearied and worn with 
The war that I flee; 
Gladly I come, for thy 
Quietness stills 
The tense throbbing tumults 
That sent me to thee. 

While on leave, the words of the Psalmist were often sug- 
gested: "I will look unto the hills. Whence cometh my help? 
My help cometh from the Lord who made Heaven and Earth." 

( 31 ) 

Capped with the chaste clouds, 
Clear lakes at thy feet, 
Girded with garments of 
Green grass and tree; 
Sound is the slumber 
And soothing the sleep, 
Given to guests who 
Go up unto thee. 


Fare, fare thee well, thou 
Faint forested forms. 
Source and the symbol of 
Strength unto me; 
Seeing thy sides shroud 
With sunshine and storms, 
Helped me to Him, who 
Made Heaven and thee. 



Despised, shunned whenever seen 
The wretched toad-stool stands, 
And leper-like, cries out "unclean" 
And lifts its horrid hands. 

"But look," it says, "I'm not a toad. 

Be kind, seal not my doom; 

Put back your hand, and sheathe your goad, 

I am a lone mushroom." 


Beware, despise the toad-stool man 
Who lures thee with his guile, 
And tries to poison thee, he can, 
For he is low and vile. 


"Hands off," cries one, "I'm not a brute, 
Beneath this grime, and tan. 
And cotton of a toiler's suit. 
May live an honest man." 



When Jesus lived 
Upon the earth, 
The people blind 
And halt from birth. 
With all the bent 
And pale and lean, 
Mangled in the 
World's machine, 
In simple faith 
About Him kneeled, 
Waiting to be 
Touched and healed. 



A layman living 

In this hour, 

Is found with wondrous 

Healing power. 

And now the crooked, 

Crippled poor 

Are thronging at 

The Temple's door, 

Pleading, hoping 

That again. 

The Church of Christ 

May heal from pain. 


The power of God 
Is potent still, 
To give to men 
His healing skill. 
The simple faith 
Of pastor, priest 
To use this gift 
Has almost ceased. 
And those who would 
Their health receive, 
In neither priest. 
Nor God believe. 


And now the source 
Of greatest hope 
Is current, knife 
And microscope. 
Physician and 
The chemist toil 
To find the herb 
With healing oil. 
But men forget 
The Saviour's way, 
To anoint with oil 
And then to pray. 



I know 
As sure as falls the night, 
At home, across the sea; 

There kneels 
A slender form in white, 
To ask God's care of me. 




{New York Before the War.) 
Little city children, 
With bare and dirty feet, 
Gathered lumps of fuel 
That fell into the street. 
Loud the stones were crying 
When coal trucks rumbled by; 
Frightened lumps leaped over 
Like manna from the sky. 



(France During the War.) 
War-Pinched rich, and peasants, 
I Low-bending in the road, 
Picked the tiny wire-nails 
That fell from passing load. 
Eager, trailing people 
Who sought those trifling things, 
Seemed to think them jewels 
And coins thrown out by kings. 

rhese pictures are absolutely faithful to the facts. 



{Armenia After the War.) 
Hordes of Near-East exiles, 
With children on their backs, 
Trudged from every village 
To reach the rail road tracks. 
Sand between the cross-ties 
Was searched for every grain 
Of precious wheat that filtered 
From every passing train. 


Reverently they bowed the head, 
Thanking God for daily bread, 
Prayed in words their fathers caught 
From ancients whom the Saviour taught. 

( 4:\ ) 


All through the night 

Frail figures creep 

Before my sight : 
Children, children, children stare 
With sunken eyes and glassy glare 
Stunted, starved and spiritless. 
Huddled in their helplessness. 

Go, go, sweet sleep, 

With speed of light 

Across the deep, 

To-night! To-night! 


I cannot eat, 
At every place, 
My glances greet 
A famished face: 
Children, children, children stand 
From each stricken foreign land, 
Marking every move I make. 
Watching every bite I take. 
Up bread and meat. 
Away, and race 
With death! Defeat 
Him: else, disgrace. 


I cannot smile. 

For aught I try, 

I hear the while 

A bitter cry: 
Children, children, children pray 
Shorn of strength to laugh and play; 
Calling for their clothes and bread, 
Finding cold and stones instead. 

Then mile on mile, 

Like lightning fly! 

Go, bid them smile. 

For help is nigh. 


I cannot spend 

Or hoard away; 

I cannot lend 

My gold for pay. 
Children from across the seas, 
See me in my wealth and ease; 
How can I escape their eyes, 
Or muffle their heart-rending cries? 

God help me end 

It! Here I lay 

Half my goods. Send 

It! To-day! 




When the tides of the sea go out, 

Out where no one knows; 
Barnacled bowlders, and sea-weedy stones. 
Queer, crawling crabs, and dead fish-bones; 

Litter the floor 

Of the uncovered shore, 
When the tides of the sea go out. 


When the tides of the sea come in, 

No one knows from where; 
Wind-wrinkled eddies, surf born of the breeze, 
Quick, creeping currents, and swelling seas; 

Cover the floor 

Of the unsightly shore. 
When the tides of the sea come in. 

A picture from the rock coast. Rather than the symbol of 
the alternating tide-like recurrence of war and peace, which after 
leaving a world with all of its horrors, covers it up by a flood 
of idealism, I would have the figure that of an ugly and broken 
life, covered by the divine forgiveness and united with that larger 
life which reaches into the beyond. 



Of those nights 

The cannon were still, 

Thought that I had 

Big as a hill. 

Grew to a mountain, 

Leaped to the sky; 

Made me lose fear 

My "next turn" to die. 



The finest sermon that I got 

Was from old Sampson on his cot; 

An army sergeant twenty years, 
But not the kind a private fears. 

The day he died he turned to me, 
I knew he could not really see; 


"Farewell," he said, "may I forget 
A world, where life is rule and get; 

I'm glad that where I soon will live, 
It's natural to serve and give. 

Our dead and missing gone across 
Won't have an army sergeant boss." 

One way to try to get an idea of who's who and what's what 
in Heaven would be to seek to conceive an individual or a society 
where it is actually habitual and instinctive to "serve and give." 



Little Mother, if you but knew 

Of all the things that we went through: 

The thrilling, chilling squeal of shells 

That shattered to shreads our nervous cells; 

The vermin flying arojund your head 

Just come from what was lying dead; 

The things you never like to tell — 

Well, No-Man's Land, that sickening smell; 

This is neither preachment, nor propaganda nor philosophy, 
it is a photograph, the psychology of privates. 


You would not join those pious folks 

Who talked to take away our smokes. 

You see now, why we fought to get 

Our cut-plug, chew and cigarette? 

You think it sin to smoke and chew 

In all those places we went through? 

Well if you do, sure as we live, Little Mother, 

We'll give it up; will you forgive? 


Minister Man, now you have been 
Right down in the places we were in: 
The shell-hole, pill-box, dug-out, trench. 
With carcasses and human stench; 
The water convoys hit by shells. 
And all around you poisoned wells; 
Your buddies flat with eyes all set, 
Men wanting stuff to help forget; 


Would you call one a drunken hog 

Because he filled on Tommy's grog? 

Lakowski's dead. Will it go hard 

On him for swilling French pinard? 

Say Chaplain, really do you think 

It was a sin for us to drink? 

Well if it was, sure as we live. Minister Man, 

We'll give it up; will you forgive? 


Good Lord Jesus, now you were there; 
And heard the fellows curse and swear; 
With Germans close, machine guns jammed, 
You know the way we cursed and damned. 
And when they pulled that "Kamerad" stuff, 
'Twas "damn the cowards, treat 'em rough, 
Butt or bayonet, ram 'em, jam 'em" 
Right and left you heard "God damn 'em." 


And if about their homes they'd yell, 
We'd stick 'em through with "give 'em Hell." 
Yes times and places "over there," 
The fellows did not have to swear. 
But when our job was fighting "Fritz," 
'Twas like your Scribes and Hypocrites. 
You understand we're positive, Good Lord Jesus, 
We'll give it up, for You'll forgive. 



I can't believe Bill Hodge "went west,' 
He seemed so different from the rest. 

The hardest thing to think of Bill, 
Is that he's somewhere, lying still. 

His body might be buried, dead. 
But Bill is pushing on ahead; 

For he was live from top to toe. 
Always up and on the go; 

This is but a foot-note to my revered teacher Prof. Royce's 
argument for immortality, namely: "the unfinished task." 


If Heaven's a place to sit around, 

It's not where Bill Hodge will be found. 

But if St. Peter lets him through, 
I wonder what he'll find to do? 

Not a clapping with his palms, 
Playing harps and singing psalms. 

It's not in Bill to loaf or shirk, 
I know that he is hard at work. 

For first among our entering mob 
You'll see Bill looking for a job. 

I'll find the place where he "went west" 
And scratch off his tomb "at rest." 


I see him now as he went out. 

Bill Hodge won't halt and face about. 

Whatever Heaven's created for, 
Bill will fight some kind of war. 

Give him to choose one of the stars; 
His war-like soul would pick out Mars. 

I guess the place he's going to, 
Will have enough for all to do. 

God could not look Bill in the face. 
If Heaven was just a loafing place. 



If I but had such human words, 
That sing as sweet as song of birds; 

Which make a picture for the eyes, 
Alluring as Italian skies; 

Yet clear, transparent for the sight. 
As air upon a star-lit night; 

I would always wish to print this at the end of any and 
every volume I may write — And yet I did find a theme, a symbol, 
a fact and a life which is a challenge to the integrity of the in- 
dividual, and the solidarity of the human race. It was Helen Gray 
Cone's poem "The Coat Without a Seam." 


I'd paint and sing a picture-song, 
For all the child-like human throng; 

With greatest theme, the sweetest sound 
That man has ever sung or found. 

A poem not so dark and deep, 
That children will not love or keep; 

Nor sound from music of the spheres, 
Which earth's frail childhood never hears; 

But color for the dullest eyes. 
Which in the memory never dies; 


And voices for the dullest ear, 

Whose tones shall last from year to year, 

From early morn till evening late, 
I listen, dream, implore and wait, 

Each day I hold an empty cup; 
I guess I'll have to give it up. 

So come with me, and let us look 
At Out-of -Door's real picture-book; 

And for the sound more sweet than words, 
I'll stop. Let's listen to the birds. 



s'arrington,'*— F. Wlnslow Adams 

is an insplratioii."— E. M. Stlres. 

lentlc note/' — John Edman. 

lal significances of life.**—- Angela Morgan. 

iessage for world of to-day." — Blshpt) Keeney. 

>ly spiritual and hiiman to teachers and boys." 
feenberg, P. S. 11 Man., N. Y. C. 

^InKtoa lias become the Eugem? Field of the World 
-F. H. J. Paul, Principal De Witt Clinton H. S. 

Idreu Ibye your poems, quote them, want them 
j-«~^ave their money for that purpose." — Mrs, 
j^sett, Sch. Bd. I83 Man., N. Y. C. 


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