[Written for the Sentinel]


DEAR Father-Mother Love, the day is ending—
Day that began anew with praise to Thee;
Dawn touched the mountain peaks to rose; descending,
Tinged the blue mist of valley gloriously.

Thy little ones the valley have forsaken
For steep ways winding upward to the skies;
In fresh sunlight another step they've taken,—
Celestial heights the goal before their eyes.

The wilderness that marches up the mountain
Baffles each pilgrim—yet Love's arm enfolds;
Forth from the rock there springs a living fountain,
In noontide heat and stress Love's hand upholds.

Dear Father-Mother Love, though light is waning,
And glorious summits still far distant seem,
We know a higher love we have been gaining;
To-morrow leads us farther from the dream.

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