Walter Malone

They do me wrong who say I come no more
When once I knock and fail to find you in;
For every day I stand outside your door,
And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win.

Wail not for precious chances passed away,
Weep not for golden ages on the wane!
Each night I burn the records of the day—
At sunrise every soul is born again!

Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped,
To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb;
My judgements seal the dead past with its dead,
But never bind a moment yet to come.

Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep;
I lend my arm to all who say "I Can!"
No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep,
But yet might rise and be again a man.

Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast?
Dost reel from righteous Retribution's blow?
Then turn from blotted archives of the past,
And find the future's pages white as snow.

Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell;
Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven;
Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell,
Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven.

I Love Thy Faults

Walter Malone

I love thy faults. If angels said to me,
"We give thee power to change her at thy will,"
My heart, forever loyal unto thee,
Would leave thee as thou art, my darling, still.

If, like a sculptor in the days of old,
My hands might mould a form and face divine,
Mine eyes would turn from all their beauty cold,
And see no sweet face in the world but thine.

If I should tread through blest abodes above,
And win the love of angels wondrous fair,
My soul would fear their chill perfection, love,
And then return, thy lowly lot to share.

If thou hast faults, my creed shall make them right.
I love thee only, and I ever will.
If thou art lowly, yet thy hut is bright—
If heaven disown thee, I shall claim thee still.

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