Evening Star

Let the world rock on, its turmoil never ceasing,
If we may have that one bright ray of heaven-inspired light,
If beauty and tranquility our pent-up tears releasing
The everlasting wonder of that first white star of night.

Like a symphony of the masters, timidly transcendent,
In the afterglow of sunset, softly, bravely glowing;
Then, encouraged by increasing darkness, coming forth resplendent,
The benediction of the Lord on all below bestowing.

January 25, 1942


Willow Tree

A willow tree against the sky,
Swaying gracefully,
Nodding dreamily,
Possesses beauty not of earth–
Drooping mournfully,
Dancing mirthfully
To unheard music from above.
I gaze prayerfully,
Almost tearfully,
At something meant for wiser eyes–
For who am I–
Mere sinful mortal–
To look on loveliness divine?

June 4, 1939

The Baby

What is our baby? A gift of God
To be cherished and trained and adored–
New feet to walk where old ones have trod–
The lost youth of his parents, restored.

A pink and white angel with eyes of blue,
Bundle from heaven, sweet as a rose,
Precious elf with a smile that’s new
And the tiniest, saucy round nose.

I’ll hold him and love him and watch him grow–
He’s a baby for such a short span.
It’s a law of nature, as well we know,
That our baby will soon be a man.

April 20, 1944

Becca notes: Janette’s baby turns 71 today!  Happy birthday, Dad!

After the Storm

Oh, God and I had fun last night!
We had fireworks galore,
And every time I struck a match,
He made the heavens roar.

He had me leave my work and come
And sit out by the door,
And then He lit His largest bomb
And threw it on heaven’s floor.

The flash of lightning was so clear–
And oh! The noise it made!
“Oh Lord,” said I, “that one was near!”
He laughed and said, “Afraid?”

May 23, 1937

Little Girls

Whenever God sees little girls
With happy faces, flying curls,
Hearts and feet dancing so madly,
Greeting spring or winter gladly,
Cheering for others’ weary miles–
Don’t you suppose God smiles
And makes more little girls?

May 16, 1937


I planted dry, brown, ugly bulbs
In earth dark, moist, and bare;
The chilling wind of Autumn sang
Its death-song of despair.

“Poor bulbs,” I thought and said a prayer,
“They have no chance, I fear,”
And Winter came and lingered long;
Then skies began to clear.

And with the warm spring sun there came
Long spears of brightest green
And then such proud and gorgeous blooms
They might have graced a queen.

Who, now, can watch this miracle
Of sun and rain and sod,
And still in utter truth declare,
“I don’t believe in God”?

August 2, 1942