The night hath come; it is no longer day?
For age is opportunity no less.

Than youth itself, though in another dress.
And as the evening twilight fades away,
The sky is filled with stars invisible by day.

-Henry W. Longfellow

OPPORTUNITY

Opportunity

ASTER of human destinies am I.

on

Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait,

Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate

Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by
Hovel, and mart, and palace, soon or late
I knock unbidden, once at every gate!
If sleeping, wake-if feasting, rise before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate,
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe

Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate,
Condemned to failure, penury and woe,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore-
I answer not, and I return no more.

-John James Ingalls

Opportunity

HEY do me wrong who say I

THE

come no more

When once I knock and fail to find you in; For every day I stand outside your door,

And bid you wake and rise to fight and win.

Wail not for precious chances passed away,
Weep not for golden ages on the wane;
Each night I burn the records of the day,
At sunrise every soul is born again.

Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped,
To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb:
My judgments seal the dead past with its dead,
But never bind a moment yet to come.

Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep,
I lend my arm to all who say, "I can."
No shamefaced outcast ever sank so deep
But yet might rise and be again a man.

Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast?
Dost reel from righteous retribution's blow?
Then turn from blotted archives of the past
And find the future's pages white as snow.

Art thou a mourner?
Art thou a sinner?

Rouse thee from thy spell!
Sins may be forgiven;

Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell.

Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven.

-Hon. Walter Malone

Opportunity1

ITH doubt and dismay you are smitten,

You think there's no chance for you, son?
Why, the best books haven't been written,
The best race hasn't been run,

The best score hasn't been made yet,
The best song hasn't been sung,
The best tune hasn't been played yet;
Cheer up, for the world is young!

No chance? Why the world is just eager
For things that you ought to create;
Its store of true wealth is still meagre,
Its needs are incessant and great;
It yearns for more power and beauty,
More laughter and love and romance,
More loyalty, labor and duty,

No chance-why there's nothing but chance!

For the best verse hasn't been rhymed yet,
The best house hasn't been planned,
The highest peak hasn't been climbed yet,
The mightiest rivers aren't spanned;
Don't worry and fret, faint-hearted,
The chances have just begun,

For the best jobs haven't been started,
The best work hasn't been done.

-Berton Braley

1 Used by permission of the author.

The Task That Is Given to You1

O EACH one is given a marble to carve for the wall; Astone that is needed to heighten the beauty of all; And only his soul has the magic to give it grace; And only his hands have the cunning to put it in place.

Yes, the task that is given to each one, no other can do; So the errand is waiting; it has waited through ages for you.

And now you appear; and the hushed ones are turning

their gaze,

To see what you do with your chance in the chamber of days.

PALESTINE

-Edwin Markham

Palestine

LESSED land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song,

B where the holiest

Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng; In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee.

With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore,
Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before;
With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.

1 Copyright by Edwin Markham. Used by his permission.

Blue sea of the hills!-in my spirit I hear

The waters, Gennesaret, chime on my ear;

Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down, And thy spray on the dust of his sandals was thrown.

Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green,
And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene;
And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see
The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee!

Hark, a sound in the valley! where swollen and strong, Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along;

Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain, And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain.

There down from his mountains stern Zebulon came,
And Naphtali's stag, with his eyeballs of flame,
And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on,
For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son!

There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang
To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang,
When the princes of Issachar stood by her side,
And the shout of a host in its triumph replied.

Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen,

With the mountains around, and the valleys between;
There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there
The song of the angels rose sweet on the air.

And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw
Their shadows at noon on the ruins below;