Dreams
There is naught in the pathless reach
Of the pale, blue sky above,
There is naught that the stars tell, each to each,
As over the heavens they rove;
That I have not felt, or have not seen
Clad in dull earth or fancy's sheen.
There is naught, in the still, mauve twilight
When the dreams come flitting by,
From lands afar of eternal night,
Or lands of the sunswept sky,
For countless spirits within me dwell
With heaven's efflugence or dark hell.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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To Florence
Sister, when at the grassy mound I stand
Which holds in cold embrace thy mortal frame,
The tears unbidden rush into my mortal eyes
And wash away from me all save the sight
Of thy pure life and patient suffering.
And ever and anon comes memory
Of days gone by when health's bright sun did shine
Upon us both. And tho within the Cloud
I stand, content I am to think of thee
And live as best I may, till by thy side
In God's own time, I lay me down to rest.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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Love's Demesne
Old memories come trooping down
The vistas of the years;
In blue-girt robes of pleasure clad
Or garbed in tears.
Down from the days when hope was young
And sorrow never born,
My thoughts sweep o'er remembered scenes
Unto this morn.
Though motley company they are
Of smile or tear or frown,
They hold aloft the burnished gold
Of my heart's crown.
For through it all and over all
There gleams the light serene,
On purpled walls and crimson heights
In love's demesne.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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Moloch
Old Moloch walks the way tonight
On Flander's poppied field,
Where foe meets foe in steel and might
And never one shall yield.
Old Moloch of the fiery shrine,
Deep in the throes of pain,
Cries for the bleeding anodyne
Of flesh of youths again.
Heart of my heart went out tonight,
Where Moloch holds the way,
To lads of brown and black and white
Who blazon Freedom's day.
Tear down the shrine of Moloch there,
From crimson field and glen,
Tear down the shrine of Moloch where
It shames the hearts of men.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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Is This the Price of Love?
Never again the sight of her?
Never her winsome smile
Shall light the path of my journeying
O'er many a weary mile?
Never again shall her soft voice come
To cheer me all the while?
O Thou, who hearest from above,
Tell me, is this the price of love?
Never again the touch of her lips?
Never her dark, brown eyes
Shall shine on me with the dancing joy
Of stars in the summer skies?
Never again shall my song be aught
Save minor chords of sighs?
O Thou, who hearest from above,
Tell me, is this the price of love?
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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Compensation
I plucked a rose from out a bower fair,
That overhung my garden seat;
And wondered I if, e'er before, bloomed there
A rose so sweet.
Enwrapt in beauty I scarce felt the thorn
That pricked me as I pulled the bud;
Till I beheld the rose that summer morn,
Stained with my blood.
I sang a song that thrilled the evening air
With beauty somewhat kin to love,
And all men know that lyric song so rare
Came from above.
And men rejoice to hear the golden strain;
But no man knew the price I paid,
Nor cared that out of my soul'd deathless pain
The song was made.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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Looking at a Portrait
O why are there eyes like these,
That sparkle and dapple and tease,
So wide with the morning, so deep with the night,
Dancing and gleaming in passioned delight?
O why are there eyes like these?
O why are there lips like these?
Caressed by the southern breeze,
That beckon and call and hold a slave
All who therewith each soul-cry leave?
O why are there lips like these?
O why are there arms like these?
That crumple and crush as they please
A weak man's heart, and in their embrace
Bring a glow of red to a strong man's face?
O why are there arms like these?
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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I would not tarry if I could be gone
I would not tarry if I could be gone
Adown the path where calls my eager mind.
That fate which knows naught but to grip and bind
Holds me within its grasp, a helpless pawn,
And checks my steps when I would travel on.
Forever shall my body lag behind,
And in this Valley with the Moaning Wind
Must I abide with never a glimpse of dawn?
Though bends my body toward the yawning sod,
I can endure the pain, the sorrows rife,
That hold me fast beneath their chastening rod,
If from this turmoil and this endless strife,
Comes there a light to lead Man nearer God,
And guide his footsteps toward the Larger Life.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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Theodore Roosevelt
Now with the dust that bore him he is one,
Silent, into into earth's silent maw ye laid him.
Dimmed is his light, as with the setting sun,
He folds his steps unto the God who made him.
When shall the weak stand and rejoice again
To see his banner in the battle's light?
When shall the humble hear his voice again
Raised from the mountain of majestic right?
O ye shall see that banner gleam again
High o'er the ramparts of a nation's goal;
O ye shall hear that voice redeem again
The blood-stained conscience of a nation's soul.
Rise ye that tremble 'mid such fearful moan,
He stands annointed at Jehovah's throne.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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Africa
A thousand years of darkness in her face,
She turns at last from out the centurys' blight
Of labored moan and dull oppression's might,
To slowly mount the rugged path and trace
Her measured step unto her ancient place.
And upward, ever upward towards the light
She strains, seeing afar the day when right
Shall rule the world and justice leaven the race.
Now bare her swarthy arm and firm her sword,
She stands where Universal Freedom bleeds,
And slays in holy wrath to save the word
Of nations and their puny, boasting creeds.
Sear with the truth, O God, each doubting heart,
Of mankind's need and Afric's gloried part.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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