Part 1
BROWN LEAVES AND OTHER VERSES
BY ELLA STEVENS HARRIS
ALTAVISTA 16 ROCKLEDGE ROAD MONTCLAIR
COPYRIGHT 1912 BY ELLA STEVENS HARRIS
OSWALD PRESS, NEW YORK
ONE HUNDRED COPIES OF THIS BOOK HAVE BEEN PRIVATELY PRINTED.
THIS COPY IS NUMBER 68
_From time to time, for many years, some of these verses have appeared in newspapers and periodicals. They are here collected at the request of friends._
E. S. H.
TO E. P. H.
The language of the human heart, Nor tongue nor pen may tell; But other eyes look into ours, And understand us well.
No gift is worthy, my Beloved, Of what thou art to me; But these frail children of my love, I would bestow on thee.
The years will come, the years will go, As poets oft have sung; But Love is Life, and Life is Love, And Love, is ever young!
CONTENTS
PAGE
Brown Leaves 3
TO THE DAISIES 5
ABSENCE 7
TO FLORENCE 9
NATURE’S INFLUENCE 11
A VALENTINE 13
A SPRING REVERIE 15
TO HER DOLLY 19
MY PRAYER 21
ANNIVERSARY ODE 23
OUR HEROES 25
A CALL TO SPRING 27
UPPER AIR 29
DREAMS 31
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW 33
COLUMBUS 35
LOST DAYS 37
MOTHER’S PRAYER 39
EXPECTATION 41
THE SILENCE OF THE ROSEBUD 43
SEED-TIME AND HARVEST 45
TO A BLUE-FRINGED GENTIAN 47
A FRAGMENT 49
MY CHRISTMAS WISH 51
TO A ROSEBUD 53
TREES 55
BROWN LEAVES
From the pipes of old Winter, has come a shrill blast, And upon the gray earth a pure mantle is cast. ’Tis a garment of snow-flakes come down from the skies And beneath it, in silence, the patient earth lies.
The moaning and rustling of dead leaves is past-- The comforter came, they are sheltered at last. O, brown leaves of autumn! ’Tis a wise hand that leads, And he sends what is best, who best knoweth our needs. He gives and he takes, and in taking he gives: From life cometh death, and in dying we live. From mists of the river, the brooklet and sea This beautiful shroud has been woven, and ye Of its coming wist not, for from out the still air It as silently fell as an answer to prayer. O, could ye but creep from your coverlet white And visit your home, a most wonderful sight Would gladden your hearts, for the sun met the snow, And the frost followed on with his cold breath, and lo! Your home is a palace of crystal more bright Than Aladdin beheld with his magical light.
Ye glow and ye fade--but as wondrous to me Is the leaf on the ground as the leaf on the tree: For links in time’s chain clasp eternity fast And the chain becomes endless. Ever the past Pays its debt to the future, leaf-life, or man’s, So perfect the system that surely no hands But of Infinite wisdom and love could be The author of such an unerring decree. Who knoweth the end? Little leaflets, not we! Enough for ourselves, as we hang on life’s tree, To gather the sunshine and freely bestow Our shade to the weary and faint ones below. And when we grow brown, as, surely we must, The end will be glorious can we but trust That the Infinite love, which careth for all, Forgets not the little brown leaves when they fall.
TO THE DAISIES
O Daisies, with your golden hearts And petals white as snow, Ye are, indeed, fond Summer’s eyes O speak! for I would know The secrets of this month of June Of all months of the year, And not one June of all my life Was ever half so dear.
The secrets of this month of June With your soft eyes declare: What is it makes the roses bloom, And beauty everywhere? Is it the longing in the seed That speaketh in the flower; And is this longing satisfied To breathe for one short hour,
And vanish? Nay: the hidden power, In seed-life unto me Seems deathless, as the human-soul, Was, and will always be-- And what though on the silent air, The perfume dies away Of the June roses, and they fade-- Behold! shall any say, However wise, that this is loss: Alas! shall any deign Deny, that Nature’s wondrous laws May not restore again? The waves roll in upon the shore, Recede, and come again And thirsty clouds drink in the floods, To give them back, in rain. O Daisies, when bright June is past, And all your beauty fled; If in my memory ye but live, I dare not call ye dead, For ye have led me to the fount From whence all beauty springs, Your silence filled my soul with awe, And gave my spirit wings. The self-same tint in morning’s glow And in the crimson flush Of the June roses, I behold In timid maidens’ blush. O Daisies, listen unto me, My secret I impart-- Love’s sweetest flowers are all ablow; ’Tis June-time in my heart!
Go tell my secret to some bird, The bob-o-link were best-- Tell him to ask his patient wife To sit upon the nest; And him unto my lover go, And, as my minstrel sent, Ask him to sing that song he sang When he a-wooing went.
Thou think’st he might not find him? It might be well to say, My love, like light, will go before To ’luminate the way.
ABSENCE
Thou art away and I am here. The one that’s left is lonesome, dear.
I long to look into your face. I long to-night for your embrace.
Like hopeless grief, the wind and rain Beats at my darkened window pane.
There’ll come a time, my love, I know, When one of us must surely go.
Beyond the call of voice or tear-- Which shall it be? I question, dear.
O, coward heart, find hope and rest-- Whatever comes to thee is best!
TO FLORENCE
(On Her Tenth Birthday.)
I am very sad and lonely, dear, Do you care for what I say? I once had a beautiful baby-- But now she has gone away.
To-day I went up to the garret, And there in a chest I found Little shirts, little shoes and stockings And a dainty little gown.
Scarcely large enough for your dolly Are the things she used to wear,-- Do you know where has gone my baby, My baby--with soft, brown hair?
She was such a beautiful baby-- I had thought to keep her so, But she slipped away with each passing day And I did not see her go.
* * * * *
Then I had a child, as lovely As my babe had seemed to me; But she is gone and I gaze through tears But her face I may not see.
I remember her childish prattle, The wonderful things she’d say, Her winsome smile and her merry laugh-- Now, why did _she_ go away?
Her hair was soft as the thistle’s down, But the sunshine lingered there And wreathed such glory about her brow As I never have seen elsewhere.
In the garret we put her high-chair, And saved her rattle and ball, But she never came back to claim them And all in vain was my call.
* * * * *
“I will not go and leave you As the others went away.” Yes, I hear what you are saying, dear, That you will be sure to stay.
* * * * *
It must be that I was dreaming Of days that have passed away-- What is it, my own little daughter, You are ten years old, to-day?
Yes, nestle up closer, my darling, You have banished all my care,-- For you are my beautiful baby And my child with the sunlit hair.
As I look in your soft, brown eyes, dear, My baby’s face I see, And I know not what to call you, _now_ Save my blessed trinity.
NATURE’S INFLUENCE
O, is there aught in this wide world more strange, Or aught more wonderful in spheres unknown, Than nature’s influence on human life? We go into the open field or wood, And she is there, and we are thrilled, and feel An ecstacy which words cannot define-- A touch too delicate for human speech.
The robin’s song comes floating on the air, And all his soul is in it--it is more To me than grandest opera, for by it Is ushered in the sweet arbutus bloom And tulips gay and yellow daffodils. I stray amid a field of daisy bloom-- That all-pervading Presence seems most nigh, The atmosphere they breathe is full of cheer. Who that has wandered with them, has not felt His burdens lightened and his sorrows healed? I know not why, but common flowers declare Truth unto me when hot-house-cultured fail, And yet, however reared, no bud could ope But felt the Awakener’s touch of magic.
This do they teach. The same warm rays of sun Fall on the nettle-plant, as fall upon The sweet briar-rose, and the rain-laden cloud Passes not by the meanest weed that grows. And do not wayside flowers invite alike The rich and humble? To possess is more Than ownership. Who takes from harvest-field Food for the inner life may richer be Than he who fills his granary to the brim. Jesus, who spake strong words for human needs But spake what every soul has felt and known-- That life and body are of greater worth, Than food and raiment.
Red’ning in the Spring Each maple tree reveals that wondrous care Which never slumbers. Throbbed our human hearts In harmony with Nature’s, should we feel It less, when dead leaves rustle ’neath our feet, And winds of Autumn sing funereal dirge?
Why do men question of a future life? The tiniest grass blades, springing from the sod, Are bridges, whereupon with trusting feet I can in safety cross the stream of doubt-- Wing of bird and cloud which floats above me, Pebble and sea shell which the tide brings in, Op’ning bud and tinted leaf of autumn, Ye all are messengers unto my soul. For ye are typical, and the revealers Of the All-Beautiful, whom I adore!
A VALENTINE
(To E. P. H.)
A Valentine--Now if I might But somehow tempt her to alight-- I mean my Muse--I’d try to say Some word to cheer thy heart, to-day. I know the meaning they attach To Valentines: but then I’ll scratch That off, and write, as to a friend-- ’Tis fair, if so we comprehend. How strange, that certain days and hours, That certain trees and certain flowers, Alone possess, as ’twere, a key To certain rooms in memory.
When but a child, they used to say That birds, like lovers, went away In search of mates: and even now I dimly can remember how Their words I doubted, till one day Our purple pigeon flew away, Returned at night, and by his side Fluttered his little snow-white bride. And ne’er this day comes ’round to me But flutters in my memory The purple and the snow-white dove Cooing their tender notes of love.
Some word to cheer thee, did I say? Words--what are words? As helpless they As blinded eyes to lead the feet O’er tangled pathways, did they meet Not some felt need, or if they be Not warm with loving sympathy. If magic were my art, and I Could banish from thine inner sky All clouds of sorrow and of pain, I would not do it. Following rain Is brighter sky; at sorrow’s fire Our joys are tempered. Mounting higher Than human wish is human need, And wrapped beneath the husks of creed Is what we think, and feel, and know, Of the deep things of God. And so My best and only wish shall be That thou mayst solve life’s mystery.
A SPRING REVERIE
Winter has at last unlocked the portals of his icy castle and ushered into our presence the very queen of all the seasons. Let us fling open the doorways of our hearts and give a generous welcome. How silently she moves among us, and yet our finer ear may hear her in the springing grass and opening blossoms. We feel her magic touch in everything about us. She whispers, and the slumbering earth awakes to new life and beauty. Would we might sing her praises with hearts as full as the happy, joyous birds.
I wonder, if we would, we could not make our daily lives fuller of praises and thanksgiving-songs; clothe wearying, unlovely care, with beauty? And I wonder, too, if we are not ourselves to blame, if in the pleasant walks of life we gather not enough of sunshine up to last through cloudy weather? And yet, we must dream our own dreams and live our own lives.
The hearts of little children drink in the spring sunshine as freely, even, as the birds and flowers. And are not their voices sweeter than the song of birds and their lives dearer than all the blossoms?
A maiden sits and dreams, and in her fancy she weaves the golden meshes of a nest that will one day be her own, and if her morning and evening carol shall be sweeter than the bird’s it is not strange, for is not her nest dearer and her love deeper?
In the spring sunshine a mother muses, and her thoughts have flown backward. She sits ’mid blasted buds and voiceless birds, in a springtime of long ago; and though her whole pathway is strewn with flowers, it is not so much to her as to know that on those little graves the violets are come again. She tends them with a loving care, for they speak precious promises unto her soul.
The aged couple number over and over again the many springtimes their lives have known in light and shadow. They drink not in the full sunshine of these delicious days, for their nest and nestlings are all gone, and they are waiting for a more glorious springtime yet to come--waiting for eternal sunshine and perpetual blossoms.
Upon the faces of men of great crime, through all the scars of sin, may be found traces of happy days of innocence and pleasure. Doubtless, as the springtime sun streams faintly into the cell of many a criminal, memory is quickened to life by its soft rays, and flowers of tenderness which have long slumbered bloom again, in the garden of his heart. Perhaps he may remember days all sunshine, days of loving--when a dear face and the light of glad eyes transfigured everything into a world of glory. But temptation, like sorrow, overtakes us when we are least prepared, and on the stream of life we either drift with its current, or with strength of will and determined purpose, pull our fragile bark against it.
None need so much human sympathy and divine love and favor as the poor in spirit. The poor in purse may vie in happiness with the rich; but to a life from which the light of hope has all gone out, the journey to the end is drear and desolate. Thus, it is we dream our own dreams and live our own lives, however much we may live for others.
For myself--
To feel that the springtime is coming, That the wildwood is all full of song; That the leaves, and the grasses and blossoms, In beauty are creeping along,
Thrills my soul with a deep song of gladness; And the depths of my being are stirred, Till I feel that the Master is tuning My voice to the voice of the bird.
And what harmony thrills all creation, From the brooklet’s musical flow To the wonderful tide of the ocean, With its ceaseless murmur of woe.
Yet, He who made earth, sky and all things, Reckons man of Himself, a part-- And what to nature is budding and bloom, Symbols love in the human heart.
And I look at the world as I see it, With its mingled sorrow and strife, And my lips cry out the thought of my heart, What a wonderful thing is life!
With eyes to behold the glory of God In the stars or the blossoms of Spring, And hearts _feel_ a love, that lips may not tell, Of a glorified Presence, within.
TO HER DOLLY
Come here, poor little Dolly, And sit upon my knee, I will smooth your tangled tresses, For I feel in sympathy.
You say your own little mamma Has gone away, and so You must be very lonely, For you always used to go.
I can tell you a secret, Dolly, I am sorry it is true, But since your mamma has grown so tall She cannot play with you.
Yet she’ll never forget you, Dolly, She told me so to-day, And said that you, and all your things, She was going to put away.
And often, very often, She would come and look at you, Would take you up, and smooth your hair And I’m sure that this is true.
For the mother heart never forgets us Whatever you hear dolls say, It always loves and forgives us E’en when we go astray.
Perhaps, dear little Dolly, In the days that are to be, Other little pink hands will dress you, And fondle you tenderly.
It may be her own little daughter Will fold you to her breast, And softly whisper, “I love you, dear, I love you the very best.”
’Twere pleasant to dream of Dolly As you lie in the dark up there, Though it n’er come true, ’Twere better to hope, For it saves us from despair.
MY PRAYER
How shall I pray to Thee, my God, Out on the troubled sea; Where billows rage and tempest roars-- How shall I pray to Thee?
How shall I pray to Thee, my God; No beacon-light I see; And I am far, so far, from home-- How shall I pray to Thee?
* * * * *
My life, nor wind, nor wave, can harm Wherever I may be; For here, or there, I am Thy child, Through all eternity.
Still, I _must_ pray to Thee, my God, Whate’er Thy plan may be; Till thought of Thee shall calm for me The raging of the sea!
ANNIVERSARY ODE
Thoughts Suggested by the Anniversary of the Death of Longfellow.
A year ago to-day and the “Old Bells Of Boston” told to waiting, anxious hearts, That all was over. Hushed was human speech-- The busy town forgot its need of toil, And rich and poor donned holiday attire And wept together. He did sing for all, And all did weep for him. E’en children’s tears, Fell for him, for they loved him and his song. O, noble King of Song! thy reign ends not With death.
Thy kingdom is the human heart; And just so long as sympathy can soothe, Or words of hope encourage struggling souls, So long thy kingdom will abide with men. And as the clouds shed dewdrops on the flowers, Or violets breathe their fragrance on the air, E’en so thy poems, on our common lives, Shed sweet refreshment, and we love thy name. Surely “There is no death!” Such souls as thine Make all life seem immortal. The sunshine, From thy verse, dispels the clouds of doubt With an effulgent glory. Hid with God Is all the future; yet enough is shown To stimulate our trust for all the rest. And, as the raindrop, tracing back its source, Finds it in mist of brook or ocean’s spray, So, from the depth of the Eternal Love, Springs individual being. Passing time Is but as links in the unending chain, Which binds the whole together. Overhead, Some stars shine brighter than the rest, yet each Adds glory to the whole; beneath our feet The spring flowers bloom again, the breath of some Comes laden with a fragrance, which delights, Some void of beauty, or of sweet perfume, Yet in God’s fields no mean weed blooms in vain.
From filthiest pool as pure a drop of rain May be distilled, as from the crystal river, And must we not believe that darkened lives Will, somehow, in God’s time, be glorified?
OUR HEROES
(Written for, and sung at G. A. R. Memorial Celebration.)
What fitter tribute could we bring, Our Father and our God, Than spring-time flowers with fragrance sweet, To deck our heroes’ sod!
With magic word each open’ng flower Proclaims, that all must die, And dew drops glisten in each bud, Like tear drops in the eye.
O, noble patriots! naught of ours, Is meet for you, our braves, But rarest gifts of God we bring, And cast them on your graves.
And He who clothes the tender grass, And decks the lily fair; Will twine for you immortal flowers, With His abiding care.
A CALL TO SPRING
Where art thou, tardy Spring? E’en while my song I sing Thou shouldst be with us.
O, couldst thou only see What welcome waiteth thee, In field and forest.
Art held by winter fast, And hast not power to cast Off his rude shackles?
Too long has been his reign, Summon thy fairy train, Charge him to loose thee.
Come to thy woodland bower, Green grass and op’ning flower Will spring to greet thee.
Red-vested troubadour Hath left a sunny shore, That he may cheer thee.
Blue-coated minstrelsy Waiteth impatiently For thy glad coming.
Sweet are the songs they sing, As on impatient wing Gaily they flutter.
Sweet--that a lover’s notes May burst from feathered throats. Is there a doubter?
Did ever regal ear, In ancient ages hear Music diviner?
Unto each human life With all its joy and strife, Come, with renewing.
Breathe o’er each new-made grave, Till the green grasses wave, Like victory’s banner.
Come with thy healing balm, To the sick chamber--calm All who are restless.
Breathe o’er each buried hope Till some bright flower shall ope With its peace message.
Unto each gladsome heart Come, and thy store impart Of joy and beauty.
Lovers are walking near Hast thou no wish to hear What they are saying?
If magic be thine art, Unto such lives impart Strength to be faithful.
Plead with the tempted heart, That as the green blades start From the dry grasses,
So from sin’s death and gloom New life may rise and bloom, And that forever,
Nobler than warrior’s claim, Is the undying fame Of souls victorious.
UPPER AIR
(To E. P. H.)