--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Robertson, Grace Zenor collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 16 number: 8 published: 1913-06 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Robertson, Grace Zenor, "One Song," *Improvement Era* 16, no. 8 (June 1913): 780–781.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1608unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera1608unse start_page: 780 end_page: 781 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1913-06) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1608unse publication_year: 1913 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1913, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # One Song One Song BY GRACE ZENOR ROBERTSON. Surely the fine arts are given of God to man that he may express the divinity of his soul, and of all arts there is none more efficient than the gift of song.; Music is a language which appeals to all; it holds the power to touch the hearts of men, uplift their souls and open for some the gates of that eternal city where dwells tile Master of all music. • I have listened to some of the world's best operas, and for days and days their wonderful melodies have lingered in my memory— waking or sleeping and far into the night. But the song I love best of all, is not one of these — it is not found among the classics and is not often sung, perhaps, by singers of renown ; it is found among the old songs which have been laid aside as things of which one has grown weary. Often and often as I wander among earth's children, it comes back to me — its tenderness and haunting sweetness have been interwoven with the more, earthly threads of life. "When the swallows homeward fly, When the roses scattered lie — " Sometimes, I see again, in dreams, a land I love, its whitewalled towns, its slow-flowing rivers, bordered by moss-hung branches. I see the rose gardens and feel the sunshine — the burning sunshine, as it floods with gold a waste of burning sand, stretching far away toward the blue Sierra Madre mountains. It is joy to live again the balmy southern nights, when shadows fell so slowly, so softly, over the valley — softening the rugged hills into beauty and changing the desert into a plain of peace ; when the cool winds came in from the ocean and kissed the drooping leaves and flowers into life again. Sometimes the moon came swinging over the low mountains like a golden chariot, and far through the dusky, whispering trees we saw its gleaming on the river, on the white walls of the town, while from some open door-way came the soft notes of a Spanish love-song. It was a night like this — fairer than this — it seems to me — I heard first, my song. The old-fashioned garden was a tangle of roses — great southern roses, in all their fragrant glory, mingling their perfume with woodbine which clung with sweetness to each veranda and curtained each low window of the house. On the morrow, our missionary boy would be far on his journey to another land — a land of strangers; we would meet no ONE SONG 781 more -for months, for years, and perhaps — but never would we speak our fears. We lingered those last flying moments, where so often we had stood together by the vine-wreathed pillar of the porch — silently— this night, I know not why — only I could not speak. A chime of bells pealed in the Spanish church, beyond the river and again I heard the sweet notes of a song; some-one was singing just across the way — so tenderly, so sweetly, I cannot forget, and the pathos of the song crept into my life — -while the face of the man at my side was turned toward the shadow. "When the swallows homeward fly, When the roses scattered lie. — " When the late rose petals were scattered among the drifted autumn leaves, he came to us again — but the boyish lips could not smile to us a greeting, nor the dark eyes open at our pleading words. As a soldier he had gone out to the world with his armor of loVe and purity, and so — he had come back to us once more, as soldiers sometimes come to those they love. I wonder not now that the song held for us then such strange forebodings. I wonder not that when I hear the words again with their soft music, it is to me the sweetest song of all ! DARKER, IDAHO The Singer. Happy be the man who sings To men on earth of heavenly things, And gives "life's drab" bright shining wings; And points beyond the stars. Revered the man who molds the dust, Takes from things the rime and rust, Teaches men in God to trust. And shows a life beyond. True man is he who teaches men, Read the words from God's great pen, Points to things beyond their ken To signs of Greater Being. For he shall live again in years, When kin bedew his grave with tears, And he shall bid them cease their fearsShall help them carry all their cares, By the Spirit of his song. Aubrey Parker.