From The Washington Herald, March 21, 1913.
 By John A. Joyce.
 

 God is near upon the ocean
     God is near upon the land;
 He is all both rest and motion;
     We are only grains of sand—
 Little mites upon life’s billow,
     May flies buzzing out the hour,
 Dreams upon a fevered pillow,
     Dew drops on a withered flower,
 Only waiting for tomorrow
     That has never come to man
 Here we live in joy and sorrow,
     Chasing phantoms as we can,
 Chasing pleasure, chasing greatness
     Over tangled walks and waves,
 But we learn the bitter lateness
     Just before we find our graves.
 Hope is nigh with fairy fingers,
     Tracing sunbeams on the way;
 Magic memory ever lingers,
     Busy with bygone day;
 Life and death are but the portals
     To a realm of endless rest,
 God is working through his mortals,
     All in some way shall be blessed!