he
morning into these high windows of mine, free as yonder
fresh young voices welling up to me from the caverns of
brick and mortar below--swelling with song, instinct with
life, tremulous treble and darkening bass. My children, my
little children, are singing to the sunshine, and thus they sing:
Let us cheer the wea-ry trav-el-ler,
Cheer the wea-ry trav-el-ler, Let us
cheer the wea-ry trav-el-ler A-
-long the heav-en-ly way.
And the traveller girds himself, and sets his face toward the
Morning, and goes his way.
The Afterthought
Hear my cry, O God the Reader; vouchsafe that this my
book fall not still-born into the world wilderness. Let there
spring, Gentle One, from out its leaves vigor of thought and
thoughtful deed to reap the harvest wonderful. Let the ears of
a guilty people tingle with truth, and seventy millions sigh for
the righteousness which exalteth nations, in this drear day
when human brotherhood is mockery and a snare. Thus in
Thy good time may infinite reason turn the tangle straight,
and these crooked marks on a fragile leaf be not indeed
THE END
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