“Write ye for art,” the critics cry,
“And give your best endeavor,
That down the aisles of length’ning time
Your fame may speed forever!”
“Write ye for truth,” my heart replies,
“And prove that generous giving,
May help some blinded eyes to find
The noblest way of living.”
The simple story, plainly told,
May bear its own conviction,
And words alive with buoyant hope
May supersede their diction.
Give me the horny-handed clasp
Of some good honest neighbor,
Who finds within the words I speak
A strength for earnest labor.
Give me the lifted, grateful smile
Of some poor fainting woman,
Who knows that I regard her soul
As something dear and human.
Give me the fervent, heartfelt prayer
Of just the toiling masses;
To be remembered with their love
Your boasted art surpasses.
And this be mine, whate’er the fault
Of manner, not of matter,
Along the rocky ways of life
Some living truths to scatter.
BIRCH ARNOLD.