Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 January 1910 — Old Favorites [ARTICLE]

Old Favorites

Down to Sleep. November woods are bare and still; November days are clear and bright; Each noon burns up the morning chill; The morning’s snow is gone by night; Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, As through the woods I reverent creeps. Watching all things lie down.-to sleep. I never knew before what beds. Fragrant to Swell, and soft to touch. The forest, sifts and shapes and spreads; I never knew before how much Of human sound there is in such Low tones as through the forest' sweep When all wild things lie down" to sleep. Each day I find new coverlids Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut - -—-tight; 4 -r Sometimes the viewless mother bids y Her ferns kneel down, full in my c i sight; , I hear their chorus of “good-night:“ And half I smile, and half I weep, Listening while they lie down to sleep. November woods are mare and still; November days are bright and good; Life’s noon burns up life’s morning chill; - Life’s night rests feet which long have'stood; Some warm soft bed, in field or wood, The mother will not fail to keep. Where we can lay us down to sleep. —Helen Hunt Jackson. Fame. (From Lycidas.) Alas! what bodts it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd’s trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use. To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise— ■ That last infirmity of noble mind — To scorn delights and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaZe, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. “But not the praise,” Phoebus replied, and tbuch’d my trembling ears; . “Fame Is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistening foil Set oft to the world, nor In broad rumor lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed. Of so much fame In heaven expect thy meed.” —John Milton.