Send her a valentine to say
You love her in the same old way.
Just drop the long familiar ways
And live again the old-time days
When love was new and youth was bright
And all was laughter and delight,
And treat her as you would if she
Were still the girl that used to be.

Pretend that all the years have passed
Without one cold and wintry blast;
That you are coming still to woo
Your sweetheart as you used to do;
Forget that you have walked along
The paths of life where right and wrong
And joy and grief in battle are,
And play the heart without a scar.

Be what you were when youth was fine
And send to her a valentine;
Forget the burdens and the woe
That have been given you to know
And to the wife, so fond and true,
The pledges of the past renew
'Twill cure her life of every ill
To find that you're her sweetheart still.

A cry comes over from Oregon
For a carload of maidens full grown,
All of them women of blood and
Come marry our men "to save them."

There are thousands here in these haunts of sin,
Spending their money in gaming and gin,
Corrupt without and corrupt within —
Come marry these men "to save them."

They have each been somebody's pride and joy,
Somebody's petted and pampered boy,
Spoiled for lack of a maiden coy —
Come marry our men "to save them."

You must be healthy, pure, and strong,
Alike to breast and bear the wrong,
Willing to carry a burden long —
Come marry our men "to save them."

You must be leader, but always seem
To be gentle and helpless as love's young dream,
And leaned upon when you seem to lean —
Come marry our men "to save them."

You must be cleanly, and kind, and sweet,
Making a path for their godless feet
Up to the grace of the mercy seat —
Come marry our men "to save them."

Oh, woman, you are sold at a fearful price,
If you wed your virtue to whisky and dice,
And trust your soul to a den of vice —
Don't marry a man "to save him."

A life that is pure needs a pure one in turn,
A being to honor, and not to spurn
An equal love, that shall constant burn —
Don't marry a man "to save him."

A woman's life is a precious thing,
Her love a rose unwithering;
Would you bury it deep in early spring,
By marrying a man "to save him"?

You can pray for his soul from morn till eve,
You can wish the angels to bring reprieve
To his sin-bound heart, but you'll always grieve
If you marry a man "to save him."

God gives to woman a right to press
Her claim to a man's best manliness.
A woman gives all; shall a man give less ?
Don't marry a men "to save him."

How Do I Love Thee?  Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being an ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the Breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Dearest, let these roses
In their purity,
Be a present symbol
Of my love for thee.

Underneath the blossom
Thorns are sure to grow;
Take heed lest you touch them,
They would pain you so!

Ah! my faults like thorns are,
But cannot they be
Hidden 'neath the flower
Of my love for thee?

It isn't the size of your house as such
That matters so much at all.
It's the gentle hand and its loving touch,
That make it great or small.

The friends who come and the hour they
Who out of your house depart,
Will judge it not by the style you show,
But rather by the size of your heart.

It isn't the size of your head so much,
It isn't the wealth you found.
That will make you happy — it's how you touch
The lives that are all around.

For making money is not hard —
To live life well is an art:
How people love you, how they regard,
Is all in the size of your heart.

LOVE springs as lightly from the human heart
As springs the lovely rose upon the brier,
Which turns the common hedge to floral fire,
As Love wings Time with rosy-feathered dart.
But marriage is the subtlest work of art
Of all the arts which lift the spirit higher;
The incarnation of the heart's desire —
Which masters Time — set on Man's will apart.

The Many try, but oh! how few are they
To whom that finest of the arts is given
Which shall teach Love, the rosy runaway,
To bide from bridal Morn to brooding Even.
Yet this — this only — is the narrow way
By which, while yet on earth, we enter heaven.

When troubles come your soul to try
You love the friend who just stands by.
Perhaps there's nothing he or she can do
The thing is strictly up to you.

For there are troubles all your own
And paths the soul must tread alone.
Times when love can't smooth the road
Nor friendship lift the heavy load.

But just to feel you have a friend
Who will stand by until the end.
Whose sympathy through all endures
Whose warm handclasp is always yours.

It helps somehow to pull you through
Although there's nothing he or she can do.
And so with fervent heart we cry ...
God Bless the friend who just stands by.

LOVE is like the wild rose-briar;
   Friendship like the holly-tree.
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,
   But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
   Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again,
   And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,
   And deck thee with holly's sheen,
That, when December blights thy brow,
   He still may leave thy garland green.

THAT out of sight is out of mind
Is true of most we leave behind;
It is not, sure, nor can be true,
My own and dearest love, of you.

They were my friends, 'twas sad to part;
Almost a tear began to start;
But yet as things run on they find
That out of sight is out of mind.

For men that will not idlers be
Must lend their hearts to things they see;
And friends who leave them far behind,
Being out of sight are out of mind.

I do not blame; I think that when
The cold and silent see again,
Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind,
'Twas out of sight was out of mind.

I knew it, when we parted, well,
I knew it, but was loth to tell;
I knew before, what now I find,
That out of sight was out of mind.

That friends, however friends they were,
Still deal with things as things occur,
And that, excepting for the blind,
What's out of sight is out of mind.

But love is, as they tell us, blind;
So out of sight and out of mind
Need not, nor will, I think, be true,
My own and dearest love, of you.

BE a friend.  You don't need money;
Just a disposition sunny;
Just the wish to help another
Get along some way or other;
Just a kindly hand extended
Out to one who's unbefriended;
Just the will to give or lend,
This will make you someone's friend.

Be a friend.  You don't need glory.
Friendship is a simple story.
Pass by trifling errors blindly,
Gaze on honest effort kindly,
Cheer the youth who's bravely trying,
Pity him who's sadly sighing;
Just a little labor spend
On the duties of a friend.

Be a friend.  The pay is bigger
(Though not written by a figure)
Than is earned by people clever
In what's merely self-endeavor.
You'll have friends instead of neighbors
For the profits of your labors;
You'll be richer in the end
Than a prince, if you're a friend.

WE have been friends together
In sunshine and in shade,
Since first beneath the chestnut trees,
In infancy we played.
But coldness dwells within thy heart,
A cloud is on thy brow;
We have been friends together,
Shall a light word part us now?

We have been gay together;
We have laughed at little jests;
For the fount of hope was gushing
Warm and joyous in our breasts,
But laughter now hath fled thy lip,
And sullen glooms thy brow;
We have been gay together,
Shall a light word part us now?

We have been sad together;
We have wept with bitter tears
O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered
The hopes of early years.
The voices which are silent there
Would bid thee clear thy brow;
We have been sad together.
Oh, what shall part us now?

I looked for the fair-fringed gentian
    In the haunts where once it grew,
But I found no trace in the likeliest place,
    Though I searched till the falling dew.
So back I turned to the city,
    And was nearing the busy throng,
When the waning light revealed to my sight
    The flower I had sought so long.

I was weary and full of disquiet;
    I long for the highest and best;
And I failed to find, in the friends once kind,
    An answer which gave me rest.
But there came to me in my trouble
    A friend I had cast aside,
And I thought of the day when the dusty way
    Could give what the field denied.

WHEN I had money, money, O!
I knew no joy till I went poor;
For many a false man as a friend
Came knocking at my door.

Then felt I like a child that holds
A trumpet that he must not blow
Because a man is dead; I dared
Not speak to let this false world know.

Much have I thought of life, and seen
How poor men's hearts are ever light;
And how their wives do hum like bees
About their work from morn till night.

So, when I hear these poor ones laugh,
And see the rich ones coldly frown—
Poor men, think I, need not go up
So much as rich men should come down.

When I had money, money, O!
My many friends proved all untrue;
But now I have no money, O!
My friends are real though very few.

FAME is a food that dead men eat,—
I have no stomach for such meat.
In little light and narrow room,
They eat it in the silent tomb,
With no kind voice of comrade near
To bid the banquet be of cheer.

But Friendship is a nobler thing,—
Of Friendship it is good to sing.
For truly, when a man shall end,
He lives in memory of his friend,
Who doth his better part recall,
And of his faults make funeral.

A Friend
Edgar Guest

A friend is one who stands to share
Your every touch of grief and care.
He comes by chance, but stays by choice;
Your praises he is quick to voice.

No grievous fault or passing whim
Can make an enemy of him.
And though your need be great or small,
His strength is yours throughout it all.

No matter where your path may turn
Your welfare is his chief concern.
No matter what your dream may be
He prays your triumph soon to see.

There is no wish your tongue can tell
But what it is your friend's as well.
The life of him who has a friend
Is double-guarded to the end.

I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me;
I'd like to be the help that you've been always glad to be;
I'd like to mean as much to you each minute of the day
As you have meant, old friend of mine, to me along the way.

I'd like to do the big things and the splendid things for you,
To brush the gray from out your skies and leave them only blue;
I'd like to say the kindly things that I so oft have heard,
And feel that I could rouse your soul the way that mine you've stirred.

I'd like to give you back the joy that you have given me,
Yet that were wishing you a need I hope will never be;
I'd like to make you feel as rich as I, who travel on
Undaunted in the darkest hours with you to lean upon.

I'm wishing at this Christmas time that I could but repay
A portion of the gladness that you've strewn along my way;
And could I have one wish this year, this only would it be:
I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me.