Kitabı oku: «The Cornflower, and Other Poems», sayfa 5

THE KING'S GIFT

TO E. S. R

 
The new year coming to us with swift feet
Is the King's gift,
And all that in it lies
Will make our lives more rounded and complete.
It may be laughter,
May be tear-filled eyes;
It may be gain of love,
Or loss of love;
It may be thorns, or bloom and breath of flowers,
The full fruition of these hopes that move —
It may be what will break these hearts of ours,
What matter? 'Tis the great gift of the King —
We do not need to fear what it may bring.
 

THE PASSAGE

 
O soul on God's high seas! the way is strange and long,
Yet fling your pennons out, and spread your canvas strong;
For though to mortal eyes so small a craft you seem,
The highest star in heaven cloth lend you guiding gleam.
 
 
O soul on God's high seas! look to your course with care,
Fear most when winds are kind and skies are blue and fair.
Your helm must sway at touch of no hand save your own —
The soul that sails on God's high seas must sail alone.
 
 
O soul on God's high seas! sail on with steady aim,
Unmoved by winds of praise, untouched by seas of blame.
Beyond the lonely ways, beyond the guiding star,
There stretches out the strand and golden harbor bar.
 

AIR CASTLES

 
I built a castle in the air —
A radiant thing made out of dreams;
Love's dear desire its golden stair —
Naught heavier than a hope was there —
A thing of mist and rainbow gleams.
 
 
But when it fell – ah! when it fell,
Though made o' dreams and mist and shine,
The mystery of it who can tell?
Its falling shook both heaven and hell,
And ground to dust this heart of mine.
 

YOUTH AND JUNE

 
I was your lover long ago, sweet June,
Ere life grew hard; I am your lover still,
And follow gladly to the wondrous tune
You pipe on golden reeds to vale and hill.
I am your lover still – to me you seem
To hold the fragrance of the joys long dead —
The brightness and the beauty of the dream
We dreamed in youth – to hold the tears we shed,
The laughter of our lips – the faith that lies
Back in that season dear to every heart,
Life's springtime, when God's earth and God's blue skies
Are, measured by our glance, not far apart.
 

THE MOTHER

 
As "Peace on earth!" the glad world sings one glorious Christmas morn,
"Peace, peace on earth! Good-will to men! Peace, peace! the Christ is born!"
As through the courts, the wondrous courts, of heaven hosannas ring,
As harpers strike their harps of gold and "Glory! Glory!" sing,
Upon the City's threshold fair
A woman steps, and lingers there.
 
 
The eyes she turns on Peter's face with unshed tears are dim,
"Tell Christ," she says, "a mother waits who fain would speak with Him."
Through all the music, far above the highest, grandest note
Of triumph, and of joy and praise, her soft voice seems to float;
And hearing it, straight from His throne
Comes down to her the Kingly One
With shining face and eyes that hold
Such wealth of love and peace,
She feels her trembling heart grow bold,
Her doubt and grieving cease.
"Dear Lord!" she cries, and lowly kneels, "I have a prayer to make;
O do Thou hear and answer it for Thine own mercy's sake,
Since heaven will not seem fair to me
If one dear face I may not see.
 
 
"Dear Christ, a mother's love is great
To shield, to guide, to watch, to wait.
The last kiss that I gave on earth was to my wayward son,
Whose soul, though deeply stainèd by sin, may yet by love be won
To penitence, to higher walk, to purer, holier way;
O wilt Thou let me to go to him and guard him night and day?
 
 
"Thou wert a babe in Bethlehem, a mother guarded Thee.
I pray Thee now, for her dear sake, to hearken unto me!
Remember how she held Thee close, and crooned Thee, sweet and low,
The lullabies that mothers sang long centuries ago,
And bared her snowy breast to Thee,
And stroked Thy forehead tenderly.
 
 
"And kissed Thee oft, and told herself, again and yet again,
To hold Thee thus one hour outweighed the travail and the pain!
Dear Christ, this city is most fair; its glories thrill and move;
O doth it grieve Thee that my heart cleaves to an earthly love?
That on mine eyes heaven's beauties dim
Because my heart is back with him?
 
 
"With him – the wandering son of mine, the wayward one – whose need
Of patient love and guiding hand is very great indeed!
Think not I love Thee not, dear Lord, nor long for heaven's rest;
'Tis only that the mother-heart throbs fiercely in my breast.
On this glad morning of Thy birth,
O grant me leave to visit earth!"
 
 
Lo! on her head she feels the touch of tender wounded hand,
"Fear not," she hears, "a love like thine the Christ can understand.
No mother prays in vain to Me on this day of the year,
For when the faltering words she speaks fall on My waiting ear,
I do remember that My cheek
Lay on a bosom warm,
I do remember Bethlehem,
And Mary's cradling arm."
 

LOVE'S LESSON

 
One lesson let us bear in mind —
Be very gentle with our own,
Be to their faults a little blind,
Nor wound them by a look or tone.
 
 
Put self behind! turn tender eyes;
Keep back the words that hurt and sting;
We learn, when sorrow makes us wise,
Forbearance is the grandest thing.
 
 
Be patient lest some day we turn
Our eyes on loved one fast asleep,
And whisper, as we lean and yearn,
"How often I have made you weep!
 
 
"Some loved you not and words let fall
That must have piercèd your gentle breast,
But I, who loved you best of all,
Hurt you far more than all the rest."
 
 
One lesson let us keep in mind —
To hold our dear ones close and fast,
Since loyal hearts are hard to find,
And life and love so soon are past.
 

IMMORTALITY

 
The fluttering leaves above his grave,
The grasses creeping toward the light,
The flowers fragile, sweet, and brave,
That hide the earth clods from our sight,
 
 
The swelling buds on shrub and tree,
The golden gleam of daffodil,
The violet blooming fair and free
Where late the winds blew harsh and chill,
 
 
The lily lifting up its breath
Where snowdrifts spread but yesterday —
All cry: "Where is thy sting, O death?
O grave, where is thy victory?"
 
 
Each Eastertide the old world sings
Her anthem sweet and true and strong,
And all the tender growing things
Join in her resurrection song.
 

AUGUST

 
God in His own right hand doth take each day —
Each sun-filled day – each rare and radiant night,
And drop it softly on the earth and say:
"Touch earth with heaven's own beauty and delight."
 

A SONG OF HARVEST HOME

 
Praise God for blessings great and small,
For garden bloom and orchard store,
The crimson vine upon the wall,
The green and gold of maples tall,
For harvest-field and threshing-floor!
 
 
Praise God for children's laughter shrill,
For clinging hands and tender eyes,
For looks that lift and words that thrill,
For friends that love through good and ill,
For home, and all home's tender ties!
 
 
Praise God for losses and for gain,
For tears to shed, and songs to sing,
For gleams of gold and mists of rain,
For the year's full joy, the year's deep pain,
The grieving and the comforting!
 

THE USURER

 
Fate says, and flaunts her stores of gold,
"I'll loan you happiness untold.
What is it you desire of me?"
A perfect hour in which to be
In love with life, and glad, and good,
The bliss of being understood,
Amid life's cares a little space
To feast your eyes upon a face,
The whispered word, the love-filled tone,
The warmth of lips that meet your own,
To-day of Fate you borrow;
In hunger of the heart, and pain,
In loneliness, and longing vain,
You pay the debt to-morrow!
 
 
Prince, let grim Fate take what she will
Of treasures rare, of joys that thrill,
Enact the cruel usurer's part,
Leave empty arms and hungry heart,
Take what she can of love and trust,
Take all life's gladness, if she must,
Take meeting smile and parting kiss —
The benediction and the bliss.
What then? The fairest thing of all
Is ours, O Prince, beyond recall —
Not even Fate would dare to seize
Our store of golden memories.
 

MIRACLES

 
Love met a worldling on the way,
And softly crept into his breast.
Straight Self and Greed refused to stay
Where Love had dared to make his nest.
 
 
Love met a mourner on the road,
And said: "I'll bear thee company."
Full soon the mourner lost his load
Of grief, and care, and misery.
 
 
Into a grim and cheerless home
Love forced his way through barriers tall;
Fled wretchedness, and chill, and gloom —
The golden sunshine flooded all.
 

PEACE

 
Unbroken peace, I ween, is sweeter far
Than reconciliation. Love's red scar,
Though salved with kiss of penitence, and tears,
Remains, full oft, unhealed through all the years.
 

LIFE'S GRANDEST THINGS

 
What is the greatest work of all?
The work that comes every day;
The work that waits us on ev'ry hand
Is work that, for us, is truly grand,
And the love of work is our pay.
 
 
What is the highest life of all?
It is living, day by day,
True to ourselves and true to the right,
Living the truth from dawn till the night,
And the love of truth for our pay.
 
 
What is the grandest thing of all —
Is it winning Heaven some day?
No, and a thousand times say no;
'Tis making this old world thrill and glow
With the sun of love till each shall know
Something of Heaven here below,
And God's well done for our pay.
 

STRENGTH

 
Write on Life's tablet all things tender, great and good,
Uncaring that full oft thou art misunderstood.
Interpretation true is foreign to the throng
That runs and reads; heed not its praise or blame. Be strong!
Write on with steady hand, and, smiling, say, "'Tis well!"
If when thy deeds spell Heaven
The rabble read out Hell.
 

THE TIME AND THE DEED

 
Art going to do a kindly deed?
'Tis never too soon to begin;
Make haste, make haste, for the moments speed,
The world, my dear one, has pressing need
Of your tender thought and kindly deed.
'Tis never too soon to begin.
 
 
But if the deed be a selfish one,
'Tis ever too soon to begin;
If some heart will be sorer when all is done,
Put it off! put it off from sun to sun,
Remembering always, my own dear one,
'Tis ever too soon to begin.
 

DISCONTENT

 
My soul spoke low to Discontent:
Long hast thou lodged with me,
Now, ere the strength of me is spent,
I would be quit of thee.
 
 
Thy presence means revolt, unrest,
Means labor, longing, pain;
Go, leave me, thou unwelcome guest,
Nor trouble me again.
 
 
I longed for peace – for peace I cried;
You would not let her in;
No room was there for aught beside
The turmoil and the din.
 
 
I longed for rest, prayed life might yield
Soft joy and dear delight;
You urged me to the battlefield,
And flung me in the fight.
 
 
We two part company to-day.
Now, ere my strength be spent,
I open wide my doors and say:
"Begone, thou Discontent!"
 
 
Then something strong and sweet and fair
Rose up and made reply:
Who gave you the desire to dare
And do the right? 'Twas I.
 
 
The coward soul craves pleasant things,
Soft joys and dear delights —
I scourged you till you spread your wings
And soared to nobler heights.
 
 
You know me but imperfectly —
My surname is Divine;
God's own right hand did prison me
Within this soul of thine,
 
 
Lest thou, forgetting work and strife,
By human longings prest,
Shouldst miss the grandest things of life,
Its battles and unrest.
 

A PRAYER OF LOVE

 
A prayer of love, O Father!
A fair and flowery way
Life stretches out before these
On this their marriage day.
O pour Thy choicest blessing,
Withhold no gift of Thine,
Fill all their world with beauty
And tenderness divine!
 
 
A prayer of love, O Father!
This holy love and pure,
That thrills the soul to rapture,
O may it e'er endure!
The richest of earth's treasures,
The gold without alloy,
The flower of faith unfading,
The full, the perfect joy!
 
 
No mist of tears or doubting,
But in their steadfast eyes
The light divine, the light of love,
The light of Paradise.
A prayer of love, O Father!
A prayer of love to Thee,
God's best be theirs for life, for death,
And all Eternity!
 

WILD STRAWBERRIES

 
The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways —
Ho! for the fields and the wildwood!
The scents, the sights, and the dear delights —
Ho! for our care-free childhood!
 
 
Heavy the air with a fragrance rare,
Strawberries ripe in the meadow,
Luscious and red where the vines are spread
Thickly in sun and shadow.
 
 
The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways,
Chorus of wild birds calling:
"Strawberry ripe! Ho! strawberry ripe!"
From dawn till the dew is falling.
 

SPRING

 
O the frozen valley and frozen hill make a coffin wide and deep,
And the dead river lies, all its laughter stilled within it, fast asleep.
 
 
The trees that have played with the merry thing, and freighted its breast with leaves,
Give never a murmur or sigh of woe – they are dead – no dead thing grieves.
 
 
No carol of love from a song-bird's throat; the world lies naked and still,
For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the gruesome chill.
 
 
Not a flower – a blue forget-me-not, a wild rose, or jasmine soft —
To lay its bloom on the dead river's lips, that have kissed them all so oft.
 
 
But look! a ladder is spanning the space 'twixt earth and the sky beyond,
A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace – the strong, the subtle, the fond!
 
 
Spring, with the warmth in her footsteps light, and the breeze and the fragrant breath,
Is coming to press her radiant face to that which is cold in death.
 
 
Spring, with a mantle made of the gold held close in a sunbeam's heart
Thrown over her shoulders bonnie and bare – see the sap in the great trees start!
 
 
Where the hem of this flowing garment trails, see the glow, the color bright,
A stirring and spreading of something fair – the dawn is chasing the night!
 
 
Spring, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein,
The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again.
 
 
Spring, with the hyacinths filling her lap and violet seeds in her hair,
With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;
 
 
Spring, with the daffodils at her feet and pansies abloom in her eyes,
Spring, with enough of God in herself to make the dead to arise!
 
 
For see, as she bends o'er the coffin deep – the frozen valley and hill —
The dead river stirs, – ah, that ling'ring kiss is making its heart to thrill!
 
 
And then as she closer and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud,
Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!
 
 
The hill where she rested is all abloom, the wood is green as of old,
And wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.
 

MADAM GRUNDY

 
Madam, they say, has lost her way.
Tell me, has she passed thither?
Let her alone and she'll come home,
And bring her tales all with her.
 

THE SPLENDOR OF THE DAYS

 
Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean
Pipe their gladness – sweeter, shriller – one would think the world was green.
O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!
See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!
Mark the warm October haze!
Mark the splendor of the days!
And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!
 
 
See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;
If you listen you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low —
"We are naked," so the fields say, "stripped of all our golden dress."
"Heed it not," October answers, "for I love ye none the less.
Share my beauty and my cheer
While we rest together here,
In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year."
 
 
All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime's light and grace,
All the riches of the harvest, crown her head and light her face;
And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,
While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass.
O the warm October haze!
O the splendor of the days!
O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!
 

GOD'S WARMTH IS SHE

 
O glad sun, creeping through the casement wide,
A million blossoms have you kissed since morn,
But none so fair as this one at my side —
Touch soft the bit of love, the babe new born.
 
 
Towards all the world my love and pity flow,
With high resolves, with trust, with sympathy.
This happy heart of mine is all aglow —
This heart that was so cold – God's warmth is she.
 

HER PRAYER

 
Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled,
The sunshine falling on her golden hair;
The moaning of a soul with hurt unhealed
Was her low-breathed and broken cry of prayer.
 
 
"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand!
I pray Thee, lay it on this heart of mine —
This heart so sick with grief it cannot stand
Aught heavier than this tender touch of Thine.
 
 
"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let it press
Here, where the hurt is hardest, where the pain
Throbs fiercest, and the utter emptiness
Mocks at glad memories and longings vain!
 
 
"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago
Slept by Thy mother's side in Bethlehem!
Think of her cradling arms, her love-song low,
And pity me when Thou dost think of them.
 
 
"My baby girl, my pretty dear, I miss
Morning and noon and night – her ways so wise,
The patting of her soft, warm hands, the kiss,
The cooing voice, the sunshine of her eyes.
 
 
"I sleep, and dream she nestles close, my own,
Her red mouth on my breast; I wake and cry.
She sleeps out yonder in the dark, alone —
My arms are empty and my bosom dry.
 
 
"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, will surely bring
Healing for this great anguish that I bear!
A nursing babe, a little dimpled thing,
God might have left her to her mother's care!
 
 
"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let me feel
Its touch to-day, and past all doubting prove
Thou hast not lost Thine ancient power to heal —
Press out the bitterness, fill up with love!
 
 
"O Babe that in the manger rude did sleep!
O Prince of Peace, Thy tender wounded palm
Still holds the oil of joy for those that weep!
Still holds the comforting, the Gilead's balm!"
 

DECORATING THE OLD CHURCH

 
Gray old gardener, what do you bring?
"Laurel and ivy and bay,
With palms for the crowning of a King —
The morrow is Christmas Day.
 
 
"Holly with thorns, and berries like blood
On its shiny greenness flung.
O the piercèd side, and the thorny crown,
And the cross whereon He hung!
 
 
"The mistletoe, meaning All-healing,
Hangs close to the holly's thorn,
Lest we forget that on Christmas Day
The Healer of Souls was born.
 
 
"Ivy's for faith; on the altar rail
Let it creep where all may see;
It crept till it kissed a cheek so pale
That night in Gethsemane.
 
 
"Bay's for remembrance, full and sweet;
It speaks with its fragrant breath
Of manger and cross and a lowly tomb,
And a love that conquered death.
 
 
"And laurel leaves for the wreath I bring,
The laurel for victory,
And palms for the crowning of a King —
The morrow is Christmas Day."
 

ENVY

 
When Satan sends – to vex the mind of man
And urge him on to meanness and to wrong —
His satellites, there is not one that can
Acquit itself like envy. Not so strong
As lust, so quick as fear, so big as hate —
A pigmy thing, the twin of sordid greed —
Its work all noble things to underrate,
Decry fair face, fair form, fair thought, fair deed,
A sneer it has for what is highest, best,
For love's soft voice, and virtue's robe of white;
Truth is not true, and pity is not kind,
A great task done is but a pastime light.
Tormented and tormenting is the mind
That grants to envy room to make its nest.
 

THE SONG OF THE BELLS

 
He frowned and shook his snowy head.
"Those clanging bells! they deafen quite
With their unmeaning song," he said.
"I'm weary of it all to-night —
The gladness, sadness. I'm so old
I have no sympathy to spare,
My heart has grown so hard and cold,
So full of self, I do not care
How many laugh, or long, or grieve
In all the world this Christmas eve.
 
 
"There was a time long, long ago —
They take our best, the passing years —
For the old life, and faith, and glow.
I'd give – what's on my cheek? Not tears!
I have a whim. To-night I'll spend
Till eyes turn on me gratefully —
An old man's whim, just to pretend
That he is what he used to be;
For this one night, not want nor pain
Shall look to me for help in vain."
 
 
"A foolish whim!" he muttered oft,
The while he gave to those in need;
But strangely warm and strangely soft
His old face grew, for self and greed
Slipped from him. Ah, it made him glow
To hear the blessing, thanks, the prayer.
He looked into his heart, and lo!
The old-time faith and love were there.
"Ring out, old bells, right gladly ring!"
He said, "Full sweet the song you sing."
 

QUEBEC

 
Quebec, the gray old city on the hill,
Lies, with a golden glory on her head,
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still,
Of other days and her belovèd dead.
The doves are nesting in the cannons grim,
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim
Above a field of battle stretching wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past,
The strife, the valor of the long ago
Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast
She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace,
A wondrous softness on her gray old face.