Kitabı oku: «The Cornflower, and Other Poems», sayfa 7

JESSIE

 
You miss the touch of her dear hand,
Her laughter gay and sweet,
The dimpled cheek, the sunny smile,
The patter of her feet.
 
 
The loving glances she bestowed,
The tender tales she told —
The world, since she has gone away,
Seems empty, drear and cold.
 
 
Dear, oft you prayed that God would give
Your darling joy and grace,
That pain or loss might never dim
The brightness of her face.
 
 
That her young heart might keep its trust,
Its purity so white,
Its wealth of sweet unselfishness,
Her eyes their radiant light,
 
 
Her fair, soft face its innocence
Of every guile and wrong,
And nothing touch to mar the joy
And gladness of her song.
 
 
God heard the prayer; His answer came —
Now, cease thy murmuring, cease —
"Come, little one, come home," He said,
"Unto the Land of Peace!"
 
 
You sheltered her upon your breast,
The child so quaint and wise,
To-day, where sorrow is unknown,
She walks in paradise.
 
 
Her eyes have learned the mystery,
Her feet the vale have crost,
But, friend of mine, you'll find again
The treasure you have lost.
 
 
Your arms will surely clasp once more
The little fair-haired girl
Who waits for you within the gates
Of jasper and of pearl.
 

POYNINGS

 
Do you remember that June day among
The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills?
Above, the straggling flocks of fleecy clouds
That skipped and chased each other merrily
In God's warm pasturage, the azure sky;
Below, the hills that stretched their mighty heads
As though they fain would neighbor with that sky.
Deep, vivid green, save where the flocks showed white;
The wise ewes hiding from the glow of noon
In shady spots, the short-wooled lambs at play,
And over all the stillness of the hills,
The sweet and solemn stillness of the hills.
 
 
The shepherds gave us just such looks of mild
Surprise as did the sheep they shepherded.
"Ye are not of the hills," so said the looks,
"Not of our kind, but strangers come from out
The busy, bustling world to taste the sweets
Of silence and of peace. We wish you well."
In eager quest of what the hills might hide,
Some valley of content, some spring of youth,
Some deep, enchanted dell filled to the brim
With subtle mysteries, allurement rare,
We followed down a path, a little crooked,
Wand'ring path that lost itself and found itself
So oft we knew it for the playmate of the stream
That went with us and sang a clamorous song —
A never-ending song of flock and fold
Of sea-mist and of sun – until at length
We came into a valley warm and wide,
A cradle 'mong the hills. In it there lay
No infant hamlet, but one gray and old
That dozed and dreamed the soft June hours away.
 
 
Gardens there were with fragrant wall-flowers filled,
And daffodils, and rhododendrons pale,
And sweet, old-fashioned pinks, phlox, rosemary;
An avenue of elms, with cottages,
And barefoot children sporting on the green.
"'Tis Poynings," said the rustic, "see, the church
Lies yonder, and the graveyard just beyond;
This path will lead you straight to it."
 
 
Do you remember – rather, will you e'er forget? —
That gray church built, how many centuries
Ago? The worn stone steps, the oaken door,
The crumbling walls, the altar carved,
The stories told by stained-glass windows set
Deep in the walls; the ivy, thick and green,
Which crept and hid the grayness quite from sight.
Within, the smell of roses from the sheaf
Of scarlet bloom before the altar laid,
Close mingled with the mould and must of age;
On wall and floor memorials to the dead,
Who, unafraid, had slumbered there so long.
 
 
And then the graveyard out among the trees —
No graveyard, but a garden, flower filled —
Moss roses white as moth wings in the night,
And lilies sorrowful but very sweet,
Low-growing violets in grasses hid,
And rue which spoke of some heart's bitterness.
Old Time had decked the stones with lichens rare,
Rubbed out with careless hand the lettering:
In memory of someone's life and love
Each stood, but whose we might not know.
 
 
And while we lingered in the perfumed gloom,
And watched the golden sunshine smite the hills,
An English blackbird straight began a song
So sweet, so high, so shrill, so wondrous clear,
That! listening, our eyes grew dim the while
Our hearts did thrill. Whoe'er has heard the song
An English blackbird carols forth in June
Knows well the power it has, the wondrous charm!
Strangers were we within the gates, and so
He gave us welcome, clearer, warmer still,
A welcome to the beauty and the bloom,
The silence of the churchyard old and gray,
A welcome to the grasses and the brook,
The shade of feathery elm trees, and the glow
Of sunlight quivering, golden on the sward,
A welcome to the valley dim, and to
The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills.
 

SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA

 
Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,
Sing to the breezes passing by,
Sing your jubilant song and sweet,
Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!
 
 
Earth that held thee and skies that kissed
Morning and noon and night for long,
Sun and rain and dew and mist,
All that has made you glad and strong.
 
 
The harvest fields of the far, far west
Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!
Every ripple upon its breast
Sings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold!
 
 
Far as the eye can reach it goes,
Farther yet, 'till there seems no end,
Under a sky where blue and rose
With the gold and turquoise softly blend.
 
 
Here, where sweep the prairies lone,
Broad and beautiful in God's eyes,
Here in this young land, all our own,
The garner-house of the old world lies.
 

DAWN

 
I cannot echo the old wish to die at morn, as darkness strays!
We have been glad together greeting some new-born radiant days,
The earth would hold me, every day familiar things
Would weigh me fast,
The stir, the touch of morn, the bird that on swift wings
Goes flitting past.
Some flower would lift to me its tender tear-wet face, and send its breath
To whisper of the earth, its beauty and its grace,
And combat death.
It would be light, and I would see in thy dear eyes
The sorrow grow.
Love, could I lift my own, undimmed, to paradise
And leave thee so!
A thousand cords would hold me down to this low sphere,
When thou didst grieve;
Ah! should death come upon morn's rosy breast, I fear
I'd crave reprieve.
But when, her gold all spent, the sad day takes her flight,
When shadows creep,
Then just to put my hand in thine and say, "Good-night,"
And fall asleep.
 

THE CRICKET

 
O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth,
With its piping and its chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!
There is magic in the music that he flings us with such zest:
"Love's the only wealth that's lasting – who cares aught for all the rest?
Never mind though ill-luck dog you, never mind though times are hard,
Have you not the wife and bairns?" chirps the sweet, insistent bard —
Chirps and chirps, until you heed him, till your heart is all aglow —
"Love's the only wealth that's lasting, home's a bit of heaven below."
O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth,
With his piping and his chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!
 

EARTH TO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

 
You cannot take from out my heart the growing,
The green, sweet growing, and the vivid thrill.
"O Earth," you cry, "you should be old, not glowing
With youth and all youth's strength and beauty still!"
 
 
Old, and the new hopes stirring in my bosom!
Old, and my children drawing life from me!
Old, in my womb the tender bud and blossom!
Old, steeped in richness and fertility!
 
 
Old, while the growing things call to each other,
In language I alone can understand:
"How she doth nourish us, this wondrous mother
Who is so beautiful and strong and grand!"
 
 
Old, while the wild things of the forest hide them
In my gray coverts, which no eye can trace!
Hunted or hurt, 'tis my task to provide them
Healing and soothing and a hiding place.
 
 
And then, my human children, could you listen
To secrets whispered in the stillness deep
Of noonday, or when night-dews fall and glisten —
'Tis on my bosom that men laugh and weep.
 
 
Some tell me moving tales of love and passion,
Of gladness all too great to be pent in —
The sweet, old theme which does not change its fashion —
Another cries out brokenly of sin.
 
 
While others filled with sorrow, fain to share it,
Hide tear-wet faces on my soft brown breast,
Sobbing: "Dear Mother Earth, we cannot bear it,
Grim death has stolen all that we loved best!"
 
 
The old familiar cry of loss and sorrow
I hear to-day – I heard it yesterday —
Ay, and will hear in every glad to-morrow
That ye may bring to me, O Century.
 
 
I answer mourner, penitent, and lover,
With quick'ning stir, with bud and leaf and sap:
"Peace, peace," I say, "when life's brief day is over
Ye shall sleep soundly in your mother's lap."
 
 
The loss, the longing of mankind I'm sharing,
The hopes, the joys, the laughter and the tears,
And yet you think I should be old, uncaring,
The barren, worn-out plaything of the years!
 
 
Past centuries have not trodden out my greenness
With all their marches, as you well can see,
Nor will you bring me withered age or leanness.
March on – what are your hundred years to me.
 
 
While life and growth within me glow and flourish,
While in the sunshine and the falling rain
I, the great Mother, do bring forth and nourish
The springtime blossom and the harvest grain?
 
 
March on, O Century, I am safe holden
In God's right hand, the garner-house of truth —
The hand that holds the treasure rare and golden
Of life, and sweetness, and eternal youth!
 

THAIL BURN

 
The river is a ribbon wide,
The falls a snowy feather,
And stretching far on ilka side
Are hills abloom wi' heather.
The wind comes loitering frae the west
By weight o' sweets retarded;
The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest,
A Golden Fleece unguarded.
 
 
We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair,
That hand in hand do tarry;
The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr,
The lass is Highland Mary.
He tells her they will never pairt —
'Tis life and luve taegither —
The world has got the song by hairt
He sang among the heather.
 
 
'Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago,
Yet all remember dearly
The eyes, the hair, the brow o' snow
O' her he luved sae dearly.
And lads still woo their lassies dear,
I' cot and hall and dairy,
By words he whispered i' the ear
O' his ain Highland Mary.
 

THE LAKE SHORE ROAD

 
'Tis noon, the meadow stretches in the sun,
And every little spear of grass uplifts its slimness to the glow
To let the heavy-laden bees pass out.
 
 
A stream comes at a snail's pace through the gloom
Of shrub and fern and brake,
Leaps o'er a wall, goes singing on to find
The coolness of the lake.
 
 
A wild rose spreads her greenness on a hedge,
And flings her tinted blossoms in the air;
The sweetbriar neighbors with that porcupine
Of shrubs, the gooseberry; with parasol
Of white the elderberry shades her head
And dreams of purple fruit and wine-press chill.
 
 
From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,
A bird flies with a call of love and joy
That wins an answer straight
From that brown thing of gladness on a bough,
Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,
The proud and watchful mate.
 
 
The wind comes heavy freighted from the wood,
With jasmine, honeysuckle, iris, phlox,
And lilies red and white;
The blue lake murmurs, and the world seems all
A garden of delight.
 

MAGDALENE

 
A woman in her youth, but lost to all
The joys of innocence. Love she had known,
Such love as leaves the soul filled full of shame.
Passion was hers, hate and impurity,
The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain
To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush
Of fallen womanhood, the envy of
The spotless, the desire that they might sink
Low in the mire as she.
Oh, what a soul
She carried on that day! The women drew
Their robes back from her touch, men leered,
And children seemed afraid to meet
The devilish beauty of her form and face.
Shunned and alone,
Till One came to her side,
And spake her name, and took her hand in His.
And what He said
Is past the telling. There are things the heart
Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world;
And when He went His way,
Upon her brow, where shame had lain,
Was set the one sweet word:
Forgiveness.
 

MY LADY NIGHTINGALE

 
I heard you singing in the grove,
My Lady Nightingale;
The thirsty leaves were drinking dew,
And all the sky was pale.
 
 
A silence – clear as bells of peace
Your song thrilled on the air,
Each liquid note a thing of joy,
And sweet beyond compare.
 
 
Not all of joy – a haunting strain
Of sorrow and of tears,
A note of grief which seemed to voice
The sadness of the years.
 
 
'Twas pure, 'twas clear, 'twas wondrous sweet,
My Lady Nightingale,
Yet subtly sad, the song you sang
When all the sky was pale.
 

THE ORCHARD

 
There's no garden like an orchard,
Nature shows no fairer thing
Than the apple trees in blossom
In these late days o' the spring.
 
 
Here the robin redbreast's nesting,
Here, from golden dawn till night,
Honey bees are gaily swimming
In a sea of pink and white.
 
 
Just a sea of fragrant blossoms,
Steeped in sunshine, drenched in dew,
Just a fragrant breath which tells you
Earth is fair again and new.
 
 
Just a breath of subtle sweetness,
Breath which holds the spice o' youth,
Holds the promise o' the summer —
Holds the best o' things, forsooth.
 
 
There's no garden like an orchard,
Nature shows no fairer thing
Than the apple trees in blossom
In these late days o' the spring.
 

OCTOBER

 
Who is it says May is the crown of the year?
Who is it says June is the gladdest?
Who is it says Autumn is withered and sere,
The gloomiest season and saddest?
 
 
You shut to your doors as I come with my train,
And heed not the challenge I'm flinging,
The ruddy leaf washed by the fresh falling rain,
The scarlet vine creeping and clinging!
 
 
Come out where I'm holding my court like a queen,
With canopy rare stretching over;
Come out where I revel in amber and green,
And soon I may call you my lover!
 
 
Come out to the hillside, come out to the vale,
Come out ere your mood turns to blaming,
Come out where my gold is, my red gold and pale,
Come out where my banners are flaming!
 
 
Come out where the bare furrows stretch in the glow,
Come out where the stubble fields glisten,
Where the wind it blows high, and the wind it blows low,
And the lean grasses dance as they listen!
 

ST. ANDREW'S DAY – A TOAST

 
Wha cares if skies be dull and gray?
Wha heeds November weather?
Let ilka Scot be glad to-day
The whole wide warl' thegither.
 
 
We're a' a prood and stubborn lot,
And clannish – sae fowk name us —
Ay, but with sic guid cause none ought
Tae judge us, or tae blame us,
 
 
For joys that are we'll pledge to-day
A land baith fair and glowing —
Here's tae the hames o' Canada,
Wi' luve and peace o'erflowing!
 
 
For joys that were, for auld lang syne,
For tender chords that bind us,
A toast – your hand, auld friend, in mine —
"The land we left behind us!"
 
 
Ho, lowlanders! Ho, hielandmen!
We'll toast her a' thegither,
Here's tae each bonnie loch and glen!
Here's tae her hills and heather!
 
 
Here's tae the auld hame far away!
While tender mists do blind us,
We'll pledge on this, St. Andrew's day,
"The land we left behind us!"
 

WHEN TREES ARE GREEN

 
Would you be glad of heart and good?
Would you forget life's toil and care?
Come, lose yourself in this old wood
When May's soft touch is everywhere.
 
 
The hawthorn trees are white as snow,
The basswood flaunts its feathery sprays,
The willows kiss the stream below
And listen to its flatteries:
 
 
"O willows supple, yellow, green,
Long have I flowed o'er stock and stone,
I say with truth I have not seen
A rarer beauty than your own!"
 
 
The rough-bark hickory, elm, and beech
With quick'ning thrill and growth are rife;
Oak, maple, through the heart of each
There runs a glorious tide of life.
 
 
Fresh leaves, young buds on every hand,
On trunk and limb a hint of red,
The gleam of poplars tall that stand
With God's own sunshine on their head.
 
 
The mandrake's silken parasol
Is fluttering in the breezes bold,
And yonder where the waters brawl
The buttercups show green and gold.
 
 
The slender grape-vine sways and weaves,
From sun-kissed sward and nook of gloom
There comes the smell of earth and leaves,
The breath of wild-flowers all abloom.
 
 
Spring's gleam is on the robin's breast,
Spring's joy is in the robin's song:
"My mate is in yon sheltered nest;
Ho! love is sweet and summer long!"
 
 
While full and jubilant and clear,
All the long day, from dawn till dark,
The trill of bobolink we hear,
Of hermit thrush and meadowlark.
 
 
Sit here among the grass and fern
Unmindful of the cares of life,
The lessons we have had to learn,
The hurts we've gotten in the strife.
 
 
There's youth in every breath we take,
Forgetfulness of loss and tears,
Within the heart there seems to wake
The gladness of the long past years.
 
 
Peace keeps us company to-day
In this old fragrant, shadowy wood;
We lift our eyes to heaven and say:
The world is fair and God is good.
 

O RADIANCE OF LIFE'S MORNING

 
O Radiance of life's morning! O gold without alloy!
O love that lives through all the years! O full, O perfect joy!
 
 
The hills of earth touch heaven, the heaven of blue and gold,
And angel voices swell the song of love and peace untold!
 
 
O radiance of life's morning!
The dew within the rose,
The fragrance fresh from Eden
That freights each breeze that blows!
 
 
Dear Christ, the wine of Cana pour out in rich supply,
These hearts keep young with gladness while all the years go by!
 
 
O radiance of life's morning!
O gold without alloy!
O love that lives through all the years,
O full, O perfect joy!
 

THE IDLER

 
If but one spark of honest zeal
Flashes to life within his breast —
A feeble, flick'ring spark at best;
If for a moment he doth feel
A dim desire to throw aside
The bonds that idleness has wrought,
To do, to be the man he ought,
The tyrant thing he calls his pride —
 
 
The curse of all things good on earth —
Takes on the cruel midwife's role,
And each high impulse of the soul
Is strangled in the hour of birth.
"To dig I am ashamed," quoth he;
"Mine is the pride of name and race
That scorns to fill such humble space —
Life's lowly tasks are not for me."
 
 
Oh, he can flatter with his tongue,
Can toady to the rich and great,
Can fawn on those he feels to hate,
Until from out his nature's wrung
Each shred of honesty and zeal,
Each impulse independent, strong,
Till truth and honor's but a song,
And naught is beautiful or real.
 

THE TRUST

 
We steal the brawn, we steal the brain;
The man beneath us in the fight
Soon learns how helpless and how vain
To plead for justice or for right.
We steal the youth, we steal the health,
Hope, courage, aspiration high;
We steal men's all to make for wealth —
We will repent us by and by.
 
 
Meantime, a gift will heaven appease —
Great God, forgive our charities!
 
 
We steal the children's laughter shrill,
We steal their joys e'er they can taste,
"Why skip like young lambs on a hill?
Go, get ye to your task in haste."
No matter that they droop and tire,
That heaven cries out against the sin,
The gold, red gold, that we desire
Their dimpled hands must help to win.
 
 
A cheque for missions, if you please —
Great God, forgive our charities!
 
 
We steal the light from lover's eyes,
We hush the tale he has to tell
Of pure desire, of tender ties —
No man can serve two masters well.
So loot his treasury of pride,
His holy hopes and visions steal,
His hearth-fire scatter far and wide,
And grind the sparks beneath your heel.
 
 
A cheque will cover sins like these —
Great God, forgive our charities!
 

WHEN PAGANINI PLAYS

 
"Dawn!" laughs the bow, and we straight see the sky,
Crimson, and golden, and gray,
See the rosy cloudlets go drifting by,
And the sheen on the lark as, soaring high,
He carols to greet the day.
 
 
Fast moves the bow o'er the wonderful strings —
We feel the joy in the air —
'Tis alive with the glory of growing things,
With wild honeysuckle that creeps and clings,
Rose of the briar bush – queen of the springs —
Anemones frail and fair!
 
 
We listen, and whisper with laughter low,
"It voices rare gladness, that ancient bow!"
 
 
Then, sad as the plaint of a child at night —
A child aweary with play —
The falling of shadows, a lost delight,
The moaning of watchers counting the flight
Of hours 'twixt the dark and day.
 
 
It echoes the cry of a broken heart,
It grieves o'er a "might have been,"
It holds all the passionate tears that start
When our heaven and our earth drift far apart,
And the way lies dark between.
 
 
It stills all our laughter, and whispers low —
'Tis heart-strings it plays on, that ancient bow!
 

TO-DAY YOU UNDERSTAND

 
You lifted eyes pain-filled to me,
Sad, questioning eyes that did demand
Why I should thrust back, childishly,
The friendship warm you offered me —
Ah, sweet, to-day you understand!
 
 
'Twas that my heart beat rapturously
At word of thine, at touch of hand,
At tender glance vouchsafed to me
The while I knew it must not be —
Ah, sweet, to-day you understand!
 
 
There's neither pain nor mystery
In that far-off and fragrant land
To which you journeyed fearlessly;
By gates of pearl and jasper sea —
Ah, sweet, to-day you understand!