This is truth the poet sings . . .

Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers -grey heliotrope And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette Comes fairly in, and silent chorus leads To the pervading symphony of Peace.

God is good and God is light In this faith I rest secure, Evil can but serve the right, Over all shall love endure.

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore; The glory from his gray hairs gone For evermore!

This is truth the poet sings . . .

Flowers spring to blossom where she walks The careful ways of duty; Our hard, stiff lines of life with her Are flowing curves of beauty.

Peace hath higher tests of manhood, than battle ever knew.