Kate Wheeler - Home Poems

I see her smile in sleep
And to her crib I creep
To kiss the baby face where dimples play;
I smooth her sunny hair
And breathe to God a prayer
That He will teach me how to lead the way.

I see her smile in sleep
And to her couch I creep
To kiss the saintly face where peace doth stay;
I smooth her silvery hair
And breathe to God a prayer
That He will teach me how to find the way.

He, who to elevate himself
Labors with earnest will,
Forgets, that should he wisely try
To elevate the minds near by
And public needs to fill,
Will still continue to advance
And while their cause he does enhance
Will be their teacher still.

He was only a little fellow
With a very plain little face
And his teacher said,
With a shake of the head:
“Dan never can keep his place.”

He was only a little fellow
With a mouth neither rosy nor sweet
And his father said,
With a shake of the head:
“Dan always is under my feet.”

He was only a little fellow
With eyes neither brilliant nor gay
And his mother said,
With a shake of the head:
“Dan always is in my way.”

He was only a little fellow
With a little turned up nose
And his sister said,
With a shake of the head:
“Dan must keep away from my beaux.”

He was only a little fellow
With tumbled apron and hair
And his brother said,
With a shake of the head:
“Dan is out of place in there.”

He was only a little fellow
But at last there came a day
When every one said,
With a shake of the head:
“Dan never was in the way.”

He was only a little fellow
Yet the neighbors came in to weep
While the baby face,
In a rose-decked place,
Was calm in eternal sleep.

He was only a little fellow
Who left his books and his play;
At the Saviour’s call,
Where there’s room for all,
He will never more be in the way.

Under the pines, on a summer’s day,
I list to a whisper from far away,
And, lying low, with my half-closed eyes,
Behold the beauty of fairer skies.
Some say ’tis the sound of the sighing sea,
Whose distant murmer steals over me;
Some say ’tis the baby breeze instead,
That rocks in the branches overhead;
But I know it is neither wave nor breeze,
On shining sands and in leafy trees;
’Tis the music sweet of a voice divine,
That whispers peace to each pensive pine.

Pray not for self if thou wouldst be most blest,—
The prayers for others are for self the best.
Christ is not first if self be first in prayer;
He blesses most when we for others care.
Forget thyself if thou wouldst Christlike be,
Praying for others, some will pray for thee.
While self’s own burdens are of prayer a part
“Thy kingdom come” is prayed not from the heart.
Pray not for light to solve thy problems right,
But be thyself to other souls a light.
God gave thee mighty strength to help the weak,
And yet thy prayers of thine own weakness speak;
God gave thee power to comfort and to teach,
And lift souls up to heights they strive to reach,
And yet thy prayers ascend to His white throne,
Pleading for comfort for thyself alone;
Thou prayest too for wisdom and release,
And hands to draw thee upward into peace,
Forgetting that which Christ would have thee know,—
Peace comes to those who make peace here below;
Forgetting that His arms shall draw thee near
Only as thine are held to others here;
That wisdom comes to thee each passing hour
By teaching others what is in thy power;
That comfort comes by thy own word and deed,
Which comforts others in the hour of need.
If thou wouldst pray for self, ask God to give
More power in prayer that other souls may live.
To live right is to pray and to believe
That Christ will hear, and that “thou shalt receive.”
Two gifts are thine, if thou wouldst pray aright,—
Peace here below, and Heaven’s eternal light.

When baby’s soul is claimed beyond the skies,
And little eyes are closed in final sleep;
When angels hush our darling’s cooing cries,
What words are there to comfort those who weep?

When broken playthings, lying on the floor,
And treasured toys have all been put aside,
When baby wakes to play with them no more,
And fondest hopes that brightened life have died;

When dimpled hands no longer seek the face,
And baby lips no more shall feel the kiss;
When tiny feet have found their resting-place,
What shall be said in such an hour as this?

When baby’s crib is idly standing near,
And cherished form is laid from human sight,
When loved ones think they even now can hear
The little cry that woke them in the night;

When mother puts the baby gowns away,
And ’round her neck can almost seem to feel
Those clinging arms, whose touch will with her stay,
What helpful thoughts can Sympathy reveal?

No mortal can unhappy be
Who lives for other’s good,
And takes an interest in the lives
Of happy brother-hood.

Depression that destroys the mind
Will thereby disappear,
And gloom will all be swept away
In radiant atmosphere.

An unkept field, whose grasses greet the sun,
And pure, white daisies spread like fallen snow;
The shady nooks, where trout brooks gaily run,
And, ’mong the trees, the farm-house quaint and low.

Like some worn soldier on the battle fields
It stands upon the old familiar ground,
And to the past it’s former strength it yields,
While naught but desolation broods around.

’Neath shutters closed the phœbe builds her nest,
While near the eaves the little sparrows fly;
All undisturbed they sing their young to rest,
As did a mother in the years gone by.

The wicker gate is falling to decay,
The narrow paths with growing weeds abound;
The long, low shed thro’ which the sunbeams stray,
Is leaning eastward to the grassy ground.

The barn door creaks upon it’s hinges old;
The prop that stayed it from the winds that blow
No more stands guard against the heat and cold—
The summer’s rain and winter’s drifts of snow.

The lofts, once laden with the new mown hay,
No longer echo with the merry din;
From beam to beam, where children loved to play,
The spiders many a silken cobweb spin.

No more the tinkle of the distant bell
Disturbs the hush of daylight’s waning hours;
The pasture bars, beside a covered well,
Are twined with grape-vines and with fair wild flowers.

The “Bouncing Bet” is growing near the gate,
The climbing roses bloom beside the door;
The brave “Sweet William,” left alone to fate,
Has struggled upward thro’ the grass once more.