Page:Dreams and Images.djvu/157

 Music, oh, music the master, there in the heat of the noon, A squeaking and battered old organ, rattling a moss-covered tune, Carried me back in my dreaming, far, to the long, long ago; Feeling, 'way down in my heart-chords, hope I thought never could glow; Brought to me, who was a failure, beaten and crossed in the fight, Help in the hour of the darkness—pointed the way to the light.

Perhaps there is no magic in this dull, old world of ours; Perhaps there are no Fairy Tales to gladden heart-break hours; Perhaps there is no beauty and perhaps all things are wrong; But still there is the wonder of a little, old-time song!

GETHSEMANE

Breathes there a man who claimeth not One lonely spot, His own Gethsemane, Whither with his inmost pain He fain Would weary plod, Find the surcease that is known In wind a-moan And sobbing sea, Cry his sorrow hid of men, And then— Touch hands with God.