Set me a task in which I can put something of my very self, and it is a task no longer; it is joy; it is art.

Set me a task in which I can put something of my very self, and it is a task no longer; it is joy; it is art.

Thy coming is companionedBy presences of bliss;The rivers and the little leavesAll know how good it is.

I took a day to search for God, And found Him not; but as I trod, By rocky ledge, through woods untamed, Just where one scarlet lily flamed, I saw His footprint in the sod

When promise and patience are wearing thin, When endurance is almost driven in, When our angels stand in a waiting hush, Remember the Marne and Ferdinand Foch.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir: We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls, and calls each vagabond by name.