From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 31, 1914. By William F. Kirk.
Wondrous dream love
Don’t forget me.
Don’t it seem, love
Like you’ve met me?
I’m so lonely
O’er your photo
If I only
Knew where to go to.
I have kissed
Your cheeks so pink,
But they taste
Like printer’s ink.
If I knew
Just where to go
I’d love you
And not your photo.
From The Topeka State Journal, January 17, 1914. By William F. Kirk.
Day in, day out, night out, night in,
Where snow is thick and fees are thin,
He hustles with his cheery grin
To fight with ills.
The drives are long, the nights are cold,
He suffers hardships left untold
To call upon some mother old
Across the hills.
Little he says about his pay;
Often he gives his skill away,
And though he’s getting bent and gray
He has no wealth.
His life has been an endless trial,
His motto has been self-denial;
Freely he gives from every vial
For some one’s health.
The gallant soldier goes away
While fife and drum and bugle play
Bravely to conquer or to slay—
That is his part.
The country doctor rides alone
Through rugged roads, o’er stock and stone,
To heal men, not to make them moan;
God bless his heart!
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 9, 1913. By William F. Kirk.
You may write a thousand letters to the maiden you adore,
And declare in every letter that you love her more and more.
You may praise her grace and beauty in a thousand glowing lines,
And compare her eyes of azure with the brightest star that shines.
If you had the pen of Byron you would use it every day
In composing written worship to your sweetheart far away;
But the letter far more welcome to an older, gentler breast
Is the letter to your mother from the boy she loves the best.
Youthful blood is fierce and flaming, and when writing to your love
You will rave about your passion, swearing by the stars above;
Vowing by the moon’s white splendor that the girlie you adore
Is the one you’ll ever cherish as no maid was loved before.
You will pen full many a promise on those pages white and dumb
That you never can live up to in the married years to come.
But a much more precious letter, bringing more and deeper bliss,
Is the letter to your mother from the boy she cannot kiss.
She will read it very often when the lights are soft and low,
Sitting in the same old corner where she held you years ago,
And regardless of its diction or its spelling or its style,
And although its composition would provoke a critic’s smile,
In her old and trembling fingers it becomes a work of art,
Stained by tears of joy and sadness as she hugs it to her heart.
Yes, the letter of all letters, look wherever you may roam,
Is the letter to your mother from her boy away from home.
From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 18, 1913. By William F. Kirk.
There is no rest save sleep and death
For us whom Destiny is driving;
Until the last and feeblest breath
Some part of every man is striving.
The tireless muscles of the strong,
The mental workings of the clever,
Unite, as we are swept along,
In one grand purpose of endeavor.
The idle day and idle dream
Are for the dotard and the fool;
The salmon flashes up the stream;
The coarse carp fattens in the pool.
Striving we live, and striving, shun
The dull content that would enslave us;
And glory, ere the day is done,
Is that unrest the Master gave us.