Nixon Waterman was born in November 1859 in Newark, Illinois. He was a poet as well as a journalist. He used this experience in his poetry and received great acclaim. Many of his poems were also made into songs which were well liked by the people. He passed away in September 1944 but his work lives on.
Table of Contents
Bitter-Sweet
Poet: Nixon Waterman
Just a few tears sprinkled in with our laughter,
Just a few clouds in the blue of the sky;
Showers make brighter the shine that comes after.
Smiles are the sweeter that follow a sigh.
Just a few griefs in the midst of our gladness.
Only for toil there could never be rest.
Songs we love most hold a shadow of sadness,
Joys that are touched with a sorrow are best.
Just a few graves in a land of the living,
Just a few moans in the midst of our mirth.
Just a few wrongs and the bliss of forgiving
Bring the heart glimpses of heaven on earth.
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To Know All Is To Forgive All
by Nixon Waterman
If I knew you and you knew me, –
If both of us could clearly see,
And with an inner sight divine
The meaning of your heart and mine,
I’m sure that we would differ less
And clasp our hand in friendliness;
Our thoughts would pleasantly agree
If I knew you and you knew me.
If I knew you and you knew me,
As each one knows his own self, we
Would look each other in the face
And see therein a truer grace.
Life has so many hidden woes,
So many thorns for every rose;
The “why” of things in our hearts would see,
If I knew you and you knew me.
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What Have We Done Today?
by Nixon Waterman
We shall do so much in the years to come,
But what have we done today?
We shall give our gold in a princely sum,
But what did we give today?
We shall lift the heart, and dry the tear,
We shall plant a hope in the place of fear,
We shall speak the words of love and cheer,
But what did we speak today?
We shall be so kind in the afterwhile,
But what have we been today?
We shall bring to each lonely life a smile,
But what have we brought today?
We shall give to truth a grander birth,
And to steadfast faith a deeper worth,
We shall feed the hungering souls of earth,
But whom have we fed today?
We shall reap such joys in the by and by,
But what have we sown today?
We shall build us mansions in the sky,
But what have we built today?
’Tis sweet in idle dreams to bask,
But here and now do we do our task?
Yes, this is the thing our souls must ask,
“What have we done today?”
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The Rose
by Nixon Waterman
O, rose of June, thou art so fair!
Thy beauty our being entrances,
As though the sweet blossom-scent air,
The butterfly merrily dances.
And when from the fields, so softly steals
The Zephyr gently wooing,
Thy fair leaves fall over trellis and wall,
Our paths with beauty strewing,
O, rose of June, thou art so fair!
Fair queen of flow’res art thou, O rose!
Thy sisters, however we may love them,
When thou thy matchless charms disclose,
Must hold thee in beauty above them.
And when on thy stem, a diadem
Of splendor thou art glowing,
Singing thy praise our glad voices we raise,
Our hearts with joy o’er flowing.
Fair queen of flow’ rs art thou, O rose!
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Good Night
by Nixon Waterman
The gold is fading from the west,
The peaceful worlds is wrapped in rest
The little stars their candles light.
Now from the busy day’s sojourn
And all its welcome tasks we turn,
Bidding the world, fondly good night.
The wind is sleeping in the tree,
And in her golden hive the bee
Is resting till the mourning
The flowers, as they drowse and dream
Amid the fragrant meadows, seem
Bidding the world, fondly good night.
Now stilled are songs of lark and thrush,
Yet on the evening’s tranquil hush
Come sound our spirits to invite
The curfew bells in beauty tool
As o’er the fields their echoes roll,
Bidding the world, fondly good night.
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Autumn Woods
Poet: Nixon Waterman
When skies are bright and fields are brown
And autumn leaves come drifting down
A girl or boy can find true joy
In an ev’ry woodland way.
Then all the sturdy forest trees
Bestowing their gifts with ev’ry breeze
In nutting time the world’s in rhyme
And life’s a golden day.
In bright October’s sparkling air
The russet land is strangely fair,
And ev’ry way our feet may stray
We follow pleasure’s call.
We love the spring with smiling face,
We love the summers mellow grace,
But autumn’s store of fun galore
Still seems the best of all.
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The Life School
by Nixon Waterman
My little boy came from his school today
With his heart in a flurry of glee.
“Oh, papa! they’ve taken our pencils away,
And I’m writing with ink!” said he.
And his breast is filled with a manly pride,
For it joys him much to think
He has lain his pencil and slate aside,
And is writing his words with ink.
Oh, innocent child! Could you guess the truth
You would ask of the years to stay
Mid the slate and pencil cares of youth
That a tear will wash away:
For out in the great big world of men
The wrongs we may do or think
Can never be blotted out again.
For we write them all in ink.
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Far From The Madding Crowd
Poet: Nixon Waterman
“It seems to me I’d like to go
Where bells don’t ring, nor whistles blow;
Nor clocks ner’er strike, nor gongs ne’er sound,
But where there’s stillness all around.
No real still stillness- just the trees’
Low whispering, or the croon of bees;
The drowsy tinkling of the rill,
Or twilight song of whippoorwill.
‘Twould be a joy could I behold
The dappled fields of green and gold,
Or in the cool, sweet clover lie
And watch the cloud-ships drifting by.
I’d like to find some quaint old boat,
And fold its oars, and with it float
Along the lazy, limpid stream
Where water-lilies drowse and dream.
Sometimes it seems to me I must
Just quite the city’s din and dust
And get out where the sky is blue;
And say, how does it seem to you?”
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The Mountain Brook
by Nixon Waterman
Slipping, sliding, dancing, gilding,
Goes the brook, so glad and gay;
Where the sun’s bright beams abiding
Fleck with gold – the shining way,
Glancing, gleaming, babbling, beaming,
Till within the quiet pool,
‘Neath the willow branches dreaming
Rests the brook – so calm and cool.
Crooning, curling, sparkling, whirling,
Calling, murm’ring all day long;
Foaming, swirling, playing, purling,
Sings the Brook its merry song.
Rushing, creeping, laughing, leaping,
Flows the brook by lane and lea,
Till it joins the river sweeping
Ever onward to the sea.
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The Whistler
by Nixon Waterman
A boy I know who’s never sad,
And come what may he’s always glad
Though trouble comes, he sings a merry lay,
So blithe and happy gladdens all the day
With his “Heigh-ho! laughing as I go,”
He whistles care away.
If all the world were like this boy,
We’d banish cares that now annoy; –
O never let a trouble come to stay,
So let us laugh our troubles all away
With a “Heigh-ho! laughing as we go.”
We’ll whistle the care away.
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The Song The Kettle Sings
Poet: Nixon Waterman
Sweet are the songs by lovers sung
As they the old, old story tell,
And sweet the croon of bees among
The clover-blooms and asphodel;
And glad the notes the skylarks trill
At dawn upon their buoyant wings;
But dearer, softer, better still
The low, sweet song the kettle sings.
How strangely come to us again
The pleasant scenes of other days,
The happy, golden moments when
We went our simple, childish ways;
When all life’s journey lay before
And gaily beckoned us with smiles,
Ere we had left our father’s door
To go the many, weary miles.
There by the broad, deep fireplace sit
The aged ones with silvered hair;
Across each face the flashes flit.
And faded cheeks grow flushed and fair;
And strangely mingle smile and tear
As memory in fondness brings
The old, old days, the while they hear
The low, sweet song the kettle sings.
The embers throw their ruddy gleam
On childish figures glad and free
That watch the changing glow and dream
Of wondrous things that are to be.
The future one sweet chime of bells –
Of golden bells, Hope ever rings;
And through their music softly wells
The low, sweet song the kettle sings.
Oh, all the joys my heart has known,
And all the hopes of those to be
Within the kettle’s gentle tone
On gracious wings are borne to me.
And gladness which my care beguiles
Comes bubbling up from youthful springs;
And whispers from the Peaceful Isles
Are in the song the kettle sings.
Would you become a youth again,
Back in that dear old home once more –
Trade all the wisdom sorry men
May have for childhood’s happy lore?
Oh, would you feel the morning dew
Of rest upon life’s tired wings?
Then dream with me and listen to
The low, sweet song the kettle sings.
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Wind In The Trees
by Nixon Waterman
Through the treetops gently swaying
Soft and low the wind a straying,
In the branches pauses to gently
Swing the birds that sweetly, merrily chirp and sing.
And through the starlit night he murmurs till the day
Greets the rosy east and then he steals away, away
In his play and then he steals away.
Gently steals away, away.
Like a mem’ry dim and haunting,
Is the song the wind is chanting,
In the oak-tree’s branches, so broad, so high.
That lift themselves so lovingly toward the sky
Then through the pensive chant, a lighter brighter lay
Breathes the frolic wind and then he steals away, away
Gently steals away, away.
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The Secret of Success
Poet: Nixon Waterman
One day in huckleberry time, when little Johnny Flails
And half a dozen other boys were starting with their pails
To gather berries, Johnny’s pa, in talking with him, said
That he could tell him how to pick so he’d come out ahead.
“First find your bush,” said Johnny’s pa, “and then stick to it till
You’ve picked it clean. Let those go chasing all about who will
In search of better bushes, but it’s picking tells, my son.
To look at fifty bushes doesn’t count like picking one.”
And Johnny did as he was told, and sure enough he found
By sticking to his bush while all the others chased around
In search of better picking, ’twas as his father said;
For while the others looked he worked, and so came out ahead.
And Johnny recollected this when he became a man.
And first of all he laid him out a well-determined plan.
So while the brilliant triflers failed with all their brains and push.
Wise steady-going Johnny won by “sticking to his bush.”
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A Rose To The Living
Poet: Nixon Waterman
A rose to the living is more
Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead;
In filling love’s infinite store,
A rose to the living is more,
If graciously given before
The hungering spirit is fled, –
A rose to the living is more
Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.
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Which Road?
Poet: Nixon Waterman
If you could go back to the forks of the road,
Back the long miles you have carried the load;
Back to the place where you had to decide
By this way or that through your life to abide;
Back of the grieving and back of the care,
Back to the place where the future was fair, –
If you were this day that decision to make,
O brother in sorrow! which road would you take?
Then suppose that again to the forks you went back,
After you’d trodden the other long track;
After you’d found that its promises fair
Were all a delusion that led to a snare, –
That the road you first travelled with sighs and unrest,
Though dreary and rough, was most graciously blest,
With balm for each bruise and a charm for each ache, –
O brother in sorrow! which road would you take?
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A Middle-Aged Love Story
Poet: Nixon Waterman
With every tick of the clock, my dear,
The days go singing by.
And the skies are blue and our hearts are true,
And there’s love in your laughing eye.
And never you care if the silver hair
Steals into each golden lock,
For your heart must know you dearer grow
With every tick of the clock.
With every tick of the clock, my dear.
We drift from the shores of youth.
And we swifter glide on the broader tide
Of the grander sea of truth.
The flight of time but smoothes to rhyme
Life’s every grief and shock.
And we nearer grow in love’s glad glow
With every tick of the clock.
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The Year’s Delights
Poet: Nixon Waterman
When the days are chill and the winds are shrill
And the snow-wreaths crown the earth.
Then the kind fates lend a book and a friend
And a seat by the glowing hearth.
And the hoarse, deep shout of the storm without,
And the Frost’s breath keen and thin,
Add cheer and grace to the firelit face
Of the friend and the book within.
When the wild-bird calls, then away with walls
For the fields and the open sky!
For the land and sea are a home for me.
And the big world, broad and high.
Then I find my books in the running brooks.
And my friends by the wave-washed shores.
Where we glean and grow in the glint and glow
Of the boundless out-of-doors.
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Toward Sunset
Poet: Nixon Waterman
Oh, come, my lore, and walk with me
Through the orchard’s leafy ways.
And hear the song of bird and bee
We heard in other days.
When all the world was good and kind
When hearts were warm and true
And the narrowest path our feet could find
Was wide enough for two.
Once more we’ll keep a loving tryst
Beneath the bending boughs.
Where first your trembling lips were kissed,
And first we breathed our vows.
There where with beating heart you came
To greet me at the bars,
And, waiting, I would speak your name.
And spell it in the stars.
Time sprinkles frost upon our heads,
But love’s eternal youth
Dwells in each happy breast and sheds
The beauty born of truth.
And heart to heart and lip to lip
We’ll breathe our vows divine,
Till in the last long sleep you slip
Your loving hand in mine.
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Memories
Poet: Nixon Waterman
If you’ve ever been a rover
Through the fields of fragrant clover.
Where life is all a simple round of bliss.
When at eve the sun is sinking
Or the stars are faintly blinking,
You can call to mind a picture such as this:
Hark ! the cows are homeward roaming
Through the pasture’s dewy gloaming,
I can hear them gently lowing through the dells,
While from out the bosky dingle
Come the softly tangled jingle
And the oft-repeated echo of the bells.
Strange how Memory will fling her
Arms about some scenes we bring her,
And the fleeting years but make them fonder grow;
Though I wander far and sadly
From that dear old home, how gladly
I recall the cherished scenes of long ago.
Hark ! the cows are homeward roaming
Through the pasture’s dewy gloaming,
I can hear them gently lowing through the dells,
While from out the bosky dingle
Come the softly tangled jingle
And the oft-repeated echo of the bells.
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Dr. Goodcheer’s Remedy
Poet: Nixon Waterman
Feel all out of kilter, do you?
Nothing goes to suit you quite?
Skies seem sort of dark and clouded.
Though the day is fair and bright?
Eyes affected, fail to notice
Beauty spread on every hand?
Hearing so impaired you’ve missing
Songs of promise, sweet and grand?
No! your case is not uncommon –
Tis a popular distress:
Though ’tis not at all contagious.
Thousands have it more or less.
But it yields to simple treatment.
And is easy quite to cure;
If you follow my directions.
Quick recovery is sure.
Take a bit of cheerful thinking
Add a portion of content.
And with both let glad endeavor.
Mixed with earnestness, be blent:
These, with care and skill compounded
Will produce a magic oil
That is bound to cure, if taken
With a lot of honest toil.
If your heart is dull and heavy;
If your hope is pale with doubt:
Try this wondrous Oil of Promise.
For ’twill drive the evil out.
Who will mix it? Not the druggist
From the bottles on his shelf;
The ingredients required
You must find within yourself.
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A Robin’s Song At Daybreak
Poet: Nixon Waterman
Half-way between the dark and dawn,
Ere day had come or night had gone;
Somewhere between the bliss of dreams and dread of waking wearily,
Still half unconscious that I heard.
There came the far, faint voice of bird.
The welcome daybreak greeting of a robin singing cheerily.
The song seemed like a ribbon slight
Drawn ‘tween the realms of day and night,
And as I listened to the notes my heart went beating merrily;
Would that the world on waking from
Its dreams to toil might ever come.
Joyed by the daybreak welcome of a robin singing cheerily.
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The Golden Age
Poet: Nixon Waterman
Oh, the olden, golden days,
Oh, the pebbled path that strays
Where the yellow willow quivers by the river’s winding ways;
Oh, the lazy, hazy stream
Where the lilies drowse and dream.
Their sunny hearts of honey in their burnished bowls of cream.
Oh, the youthful, truthful times,
When the world was wrapped in rhymes,
And hills and dells were silver bells that rang their rarest chime;
Oh, still they thrill me when
I thwart the thoughts of men,
And, just a boy, amid the joy of living, live again.
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Does Any One Know?
Poet: Nixon Waterman
Does any one know what’s in your heart and mine,
The sorrow and song,
The demon of sin and the angel divine,
The right and the wrong;
The dread of the darkness, the love of day.
The ebb and the flow
Of hope and of doubt forever and aye –
Does any one know?
Does any one hearken to music of bells,
And the sigh of the sea,
And the whisper of woodlands that murmurs and swells
For you and for me;
The sound of fond voices that ever respond.
In tones soft and low,
To the prayer we are breathing into the beyond.
Does any one know?
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