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On one page in this collection of his early verses, Eckley Macklin describes what every other page so gracefully achieves: "Oh, poet, do not spread before me the table of despair. Bring me the cup of love. Set before me the platter of beauty. Kindle for me one tiny spark of light, that having sipped one drop, tasted one morsel, discovered one path unseen before, I may with new life continue on my journey one more day. And I will take a little of you with me to share with another weary traveller whom I may meet along the way. And who knows with whom he may later share? Then, poet, you will...

Christmas Eve, The little family of four, Though very poor, Did not grieve That their supper on that holy night Was to be no more Than a bowl of broth. They did not bemoan their pitiful plight, By growing so wroth As to blame God for negligent oversight. In fact, in faith, they were as grateful For that sparse fare as for a plateful Of yuletide turkey and dressing. Then came a new blessing That was not on the docket, When father found a lone coin in his pocket. Just enough for a loaf of bread "Son, run to the baker's," his mother said. Before it closes." And off the lad sped. What cropped up...