Part 4
A Fancied Loss
If some day in your heart is born the thought That one held dear is careless of the gift Of tenderness, so fully, freely given, I pray you, friend, to strangle it at birth.
There are no losses half so real to us, As losses which are not--have never been-- A friendship gone! we say, and drop a tear For wasted faith, and love, and loyalty.
When, if we did but know the simple truth, The gladness in these foolish hearts of ours-- The gladness and the full content would leave No room for sadness, and no place for doubt.
How Close?
How close will Jesus come to thee? So close thine eyes can trace The wondrous love He has for thee, Upon His shining face.
How close will Jesus come to thee? So close, that thou cans’t feel The sense of safety that He brings O’er all thy being steal.
How close will Jesus come to thee? So close that thou canst hear The whisper of His tender voice Ring softly on thine ear.
How close will Jesus come to thee? So close that doubts will cease-- Thy soul with sorrow weighed, and sin, Find healing--joy--and peace.
In the Wood
To me, there comes a time in leafy June When nature calls from wood, and stream, and field, Calls low at dawn, calls loud and clear at noon, Calls most persuasively when stars come out Up in the blue, and other voices hush, And _Come_! I hear her say, _come out with me_, Come leave the low cramped rooms, the weary task, Come take the path through meadow, and through wood, Climb up the breezy hills and look abroad, Climb down into the valleys deep and wide And rest a space! There is no rest so full As that which I will give you as you lie On grassy knoll; I’ll give for lullaby The rustle of the leaves tossed by the wind, For covering the sunbeams meshed and snared By waving boughs; I’ll fill your lungs with air Made fragrant in the bowers I call my own. Come! Come! I’ll keep you company, I have A potion brewed, a wondrous healing thing, Which brings forgetfulness of lurking care, And rubs out from the mind the memory Of loss, of striving and defeat--Come! Come!
I went, I left the city far behind, I went because she called--my fair first love! I went at sunrise that for one full day I might be with her, thrill beneath her touch As in the long ago when she did claim The full affection of my untried youth.
O freshness, living freshness of a day In June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight And not a stain of wear shows on the grass Beneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls, “Our day of loveliness is past and gone!” I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells, The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks, The wild flowers found the sunlight where they stood, And some hid their white faces quite away, While others lifted up their starry eyes And seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze, I revelled in the grandeur and the strength Of towering trunks, and great wide-spreading limbs, I revelled in the silence--far away A noisy world I knew was waiting me, But no sound from it reached me as I went By tangled pathway through that wilderness.
At noon I came out to the fields, sat down And ate my lunch with hearty appetite, Just at the foot of a wide hill which hid The highway quite from sight, and shut me in.
A meadow stretched itself out in the sun, Each little blade of green did thrust its face Up to the glow. The clover heads bent down To let their visitors--the bees--pass out, The heavy-footed honey bees. Ah, fond Are they of the sweet juices stored in fragrant phials! So fond, that in the breeze they smell them out And straightway sally forth to taste the same, And carry samples home. Down in the grass A thousand insects hummed; a shallow stream Laughed in the sunshine, speeding o’er the stones To find the coolness of the shady wood. The cattle laid their wide mouths to its breast And slaked their thirst, and made their dappled sides Swell out; then lowing forth their full content They turned again to wade through knee-deep grass. From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade, A bird flew, with a call of love and joy, That drew from her proved mate, perched on a bough Too slight to hold him and his weight of song, An answering note, replete with tenderness, That sent the echo of its sweetness on Into the dim old wood. A wild-rose spread Its greenness o’er a corner of the fence, And hung its tinted blossoms out to grace The lowly spot, and make of it a bower.
But fairer than the meadow or the wood-- Than wild-rose blooming by the zig-zag fence-- Than nesting bird, or softly murmuring stream-- Than cattle standing knee-deep in the grass-- Than dew-washed fern, or golden-hearted flowers-- Fairer than sunbeam’s mesh or dappled shade-- Or aught that I had seen this day of days Was she, the glad young thing whose buoyant feet Trod the slim path which wound its changeful way Down the tall hill, past alders all abloom.
A girl, a young girl, is a gracious sight, A thing to make the eye light gaily up, We see our youth in her--the joy of youth Smiles out at us from her white-lidded eyes, The careless grace of youth is on her lips, The innocence of youth shines on her brow, The prettiness of youth is on her cheek, Her softness is the softness of a flower, Her brightness and her beauty have the fresh And healthy glow of morn. Her laughter stirs A host of memories sleeping in our heart, And makes a present hour of some far-off, Some dear and half-forgotten yesterday.
I wonder if the day will ever come When we will be so old--so old and dull That we will listen to, yet never heed The sweetest sound of all the sounds which ring Out through this world’s big aisles--the rippling laugh Which comes from red young lips--comes straight from some Rich storehouse in the breast, a storehouse filled With gladness great, and hope, and all things good?
She stopped to pluck a bouquet for her gown From the sweetbriar that nodded in the sun, And presently I heard a little “Oh!” Of pain. That hand of hers the briar in greed Had caught, and held so closely that its mark Showed plainly on the warm and pink-palmed thing. But she did pluck it, and its fragrance found A place among the white folds at her neck, And in the silken girdle which did creep About the rounded slimness of her waist.
Then down she sat to rest her for awhile, And I could hear her crooning to herself:
“O Sweetbriar, growing all alone In shady, lonesome places, By all but sun and dew unknown, How full you are of graces!
O Sweetbriar, with your fragrance rare You woo me to come nigh you, Your breath so fills the heavy air I cannot well pass by you!
O Sweetbriar, growing by the brook The sleek, fat cattle wade in, Say, will you share your cozy nook With me--a happy maiden?
O Sweetbriar, do the dew-drops fall And make your soft leaves glisten? O Sweetbriar, does the west wind call, And do you wait and listen?”
Lac Deschene
O pretty, shallow, mimic lake! Hedged in by rushes and wild rice, Why is it that the wind can wake And make you angry in a trice? You were so peaceful and so still Before the wind crept round the hill!
The roystering, mischievous wind That stooped and kissed you as you lay In sunshine steeped--all bland and kind-- Then racing, went away--away To stir the languor of the wood, And make its mutterings understood.
And you, O pretty, shallow lake, Must needs get ruffled and perplexed! He kissed and fled, now wide-awake You are at once, and cross, and vexed; Lift your soft arms and let them fall-- There is no stillness now at all.
I think the pain of it is not That it crept down to wake and kiss, And give attentions all unsought, I think the pain of it is this: On your warm breast it did not stay, It kissed, and then raced far away.
You are so jealous you must cry And toss about in much unrest-- The rushes bend, the white gulls fly-- In this wild mood I like you best. You were too peaceful, and too still Before the wind crept round the hill.
Deserted
She stood that night with a face so set, So filled with bitterness and despair, Closing my eyes, I can see her yet, Sorrowful, broken, but passing fair.
Her eyes were fixed on the sky above, Where stars were shining so soft and clear; Did the ghosts of innocence and love Steal out of the gloom and stand quite near?
So young to quiver beneath such smart! A fairer brow ’twould be hard to find-- The pity of it! a broken heart, And childhood lying so close behind.
I heard her whisper, “’Twas long ago That I laughed for joy at the touch of morn, Kneeled down and prayed in the light and glow-- Ah me! I cry now--tempest-torn:
“‘Thank God for night, and the world asleep’-- Their eyes pierce through me the long, long day-- Thank God for the darkness, soft and deep, That folds me, and hides me quite away!”
My Neighbor
Say not, _I love the Lord_, unless you find Within you, welling up by day and night, A love, strong, full, and deep, for humankind-- Unless you find it always a delight To show the weary one a resting-place-- To show the doubting one Faith’s shining way-- To show the erring one the door of Grace-- To show the sorrowing one where they may lay Their broken hearts,--the heaviness--the care-- The grief, the agony too sharp to bear.
When each man is the neighbor whom we love, According to the gracious measure of His word, Then may we lift our eyes to heaven above, And say with rapture sweet: _I love the Lord_.
Hollyhocks
Say, did you ever go to a place Where nobody lived you cared about, An’ jest go wanderin’ up an’ down, Into all the great big stores, an’ out.
An’ meetin’ sich heaps, an’ heaps of folks, That pass you by with never a nod, Till you got to feelin’ through an’ through Jest right down lonesome, an, ’most outlawed.
An’ you tell yourself if someone said “_Will you have this place?_” You’d say, No thanks! I wouldn’t live here for all the world, Give me the fields, an’ the brooks an’ banks.
Why the stuff that grows in your lots here Can’t touch one side of our country stuff, You have things tended to, right up fine, But nature is sweet, though maybe rough.
An’ your blossoms aren’t half so nice, Nor your creepin’ vines, nor growin’ grass, Why! ’cause ours swim in the sun all day, An’ yours stretch their necks to see him pass.
So you try somehow to pass the time, A-wanderin’ up, and a-wanderin’ down, So sick of yourself, but sicker still Of the folks you meet, in that old town.
Such dressy folks that don’t care a snap, Not knowin’ you from Adam’s off ox, An’ by an’ by you lift up your eyes, An’ see such a clump of hollyhocks,
A-holdin’ their own in some grand place, With their shiny leaves spread in the sun, Noddin’ so friendly, seemin’ to say “Come in old neighbor, an’ share the fun!”
There’s no flower nicer it seems to me, There’s nothin’ prettier grows nor blows, Though some folks call them old-fashioned things, A-thinkin’ them homely I suppose.
But you come across them some fine day When you’re so homesick you can’t get air Enough for your lungs down through your throat, Because of the lump that’s stoppin’ there.
An’ say, I would’nt wonder a bit In you felt a mist come in your eyes At sight of the bright familiar things,-- The nicest flowers under the skies.
For they set me thinkin’ of a house, That stands by itself among the trees, With a big wide porch, an’ stragglin’ walk Bordered by jest such flowers as these,
Till you hear the old familiar sounds, The chirpin’, the buzzin’ soft an’ low, An’ sniff the breath that comes with the wind From the ripe, red clover down below.
Till a big warm feelin’ swamps your heart, You’re not so lonesome, there on their stalks Are friends a-plenty, smilin’ at you, The pretty old-fashioned hollyhocks.
Folks write of pansy, rose, and fern, But if I was a poet an’ could rhyme, I wouldn’t bother with common things, I’d write of hollyhocks, every time.
The Miscreant
He glares out from the gathering dusk With furtive glancing eye, A creature hunted, and at war With every passer-by.
Such a malignant face he turns, You feel a sudden fear, Born of the knowledge which proclaims An evil thing is near.
A man goes by--ah, mark that scowl-- A woman young and fair, Evil the look he bends on her-- Then comes a gallant pair.
A laddie tall, and by his side A baby-girl, who cries _Good night!_ out to the miscreant, And laughs up in his eyes.
At strife is he with all the world, But for a moment’s space, Something akin to tenderness Flares up in that dark face.
Her Birthday
Your birthday, my girl with the tender eyes, And the dower of youth and zest, It is kind of heaven to give us this day, When the world is looking its best, When the crimson roses are all abloom With their sisters of paler grace, When the sun makes warm, and the dew makes glad Each velvety beautiful face.
When the breeze which comes seems a heavy breath,-- From the lungs of the earth o’ergrown With the fairest things, and the sweetest things That ever was seen, or known, When the bird has an added note of pride In each carol of joy he sings, _Do you know? can you guess? my pretty mate, And the wee things under my wings!_
Your birthday, my girl with the tender eyes And the fair young cheek and brow, Your birthday, my girl with the smiling lips, What things shall I wish for you now? Come close--put your two hands into my own While I wish you a happy year, While I wish you the best that heaven can give To a maiden so sweet and dear.
While I wish you love with never a stint, For the riches of love are great-- While I wish that shadows may flee your path, And the glorious sunshine wait, While I wish you the happiness, full and deep, The gladness and brightness of life, A place in your heart for the white dove of peace, But none for the whisper of strife.
Your birthday, my girl with the tender eyes And the shimmering braids of hair-- I say as I look through a mist of tears, It is good to be young and fair, It is well to lean on the Father’s arm, Love forces the words in a flood: _God bless my girl with the tender eyes! God bless her and keep her good!_
Slander
The man who with the breath lent him by heaven Speaks words that soil the whiteness of a life Is but an assassin, for death is given As surely by the tongue, as by the knife. He does the devil’s basest work--no less-- Who deals in calumnies--who throws the mire On snowy robes whose hem he dare not press His foul lips to. The pity of it! _Liar_, Yet half believed, by such as deem the good Or evil but the outcome of a mood. O slanderer, if fierce imps meet in hell For converse, when the long day’s toil is through, Of _you_ they have this worthy thing to tell, _He does the work we are ashamed to do!_
Summer Holidays
School’s out! they cried, two happy wights; School’s out for such a while, The old bell won’t ding-dong to-day And make us run a mile. It seems too good--no lessons now To tire us right out, We’ve not a single thing to do But run, and play, and shout.
We’re going fishing in the creek With bran new hook an’ line, We’re going hunting in the woods, O, holidays are fine! We’re going to wade out in the pond And scare the ducks and drake, We’re going haying in the field, And swimming in the lake.
We’re going to jump, we’re going to sing, And yell, and make a noise-- ’Cause holidays come from the sky For tired-out, shut-up boys. That mean old bell that called so loud Each time that it was rung, _Come right straight in and hurry up!_ Has just to hold its tongue.
Violet
O wrinkled, withered little flower, You were so pretty and so blue The day that you were given me, By Mariana, fair and true.
Angry and jealous had I been That fragrant budding day in spring-- Strange, that a man should let his mind Be vexed by some light simple thing!
She had gone walking with my friend, A splendid fellow, with a face As handsome as Apollo’s own, And figure full of manly grace.
And seeing that he gave to her What seemed to me a tender gaze, And that she was in happy mood, My jealousy was all ablaze.
I called her traitor in my heart-- Was she not mine by every right? Had I not held her to my breast, And whispered things one starlight night?
I strode away to where the waves Rushed on the beach with sullen roar, She cared not for me, why should I Think fondly of her any more?
Yet, when she softly called my name, My heart beat quick with love and wrath, And through the twilight soft and dim I saw her coming down the path.
Then love was dumb, and anger spake, The eyes of her grew proud and shy, I called her heartless, and coquette-- What but a jealous fool was I?
She turned to leave me, then I grew Ashamed of all my bitter speech, But she seemed now so far from me, I could not hope her grace to reach.
“Wait, Mariana, wait, and say Farewell to one you hold in scorn!” I cried, “and give to him I pray One of the flowers you have worn.”
O, Violet, she lifted you Up with her slender finger tips, Laid you for one brief moment’s space Against the redness of her lips.
Then gave you softly to my hand-- O, Violet, so sweet and shy! In all God’s universe there was No happier man, I wot, than I.
My Lady of the Silver Tongue
My Lady of the Silver Tongue, Do you not feel a thrill of shame? The woman is so fair and young-- Why seek to steal away her fame? Nay, never mind that haughty stare, For you and I must measure swords, To tell you to your face I dare, A lie lurked in your pretty words.
Did you not say awhile ago “_I am her friend_,”--in earnest tone-- And soft that voice of yours, and low-- “_I am her friend when all is done_;” As though a friend a doubt would fling, And evil tongues to wagging start! _I am her friend_--ah, there the sting, No friend will grieve and hurt a heart!
Your eyes are very warm and kind, And sweet the smile upon your lips, I read the truth--I am not blind-- False are you to your finger-tips, And I would rather be, to-day, The slandered woman, fair and young, Than be yourself, so proud and gay, My Lady of the Silver Tongue!
A friend’s heart holds no wronging doubt, No envy--meaner far than hate-- With tenderness it pieces out The small shortcomings, and the great. So when you slander--blush for shame-- Or, to some gossip’s tale attend, I pray you take some other name, And never say, _I am her friend_.
For loyalty is not a jest, No sweeter word is said or sung, Take time to learn that truth is best, My Lady of the Silver Tongue.
Sweeping to the Sea
O river, sweeping to the sea! How clear your waters are,-- So clear they mirror faithfully Each fleecy cloud and star.
O river, running to the sea! How fresh the breath you fling, As on you speed right merrily From winds that chase and sing!
Minerva’s Essay
“_Men, give more frankness and less flattery_,” So read Minerva from her essay fine. “_Men, give more frankness and less flattery_,” Much emphasis she laid upon this line. “We are no foolish children to be fed On empty words of unearned praise, forsooth, Too long in such poor ways have we been led, Give us no compliment--give us the truth, Think not a woman pines to hear you tell How beautiful her form, how fair her face, Think not she whispers to herself, ‘’Tis well!’ When you proclaim her rich in every grace. You think to please her--Ah, sir, vain your dream,
When next such fulsome praises you may speak, Mark well her eyes, and read their scornful gleam, And note the angry blush, on brow and cheek. Be fair, speak out your thoughts as they may rise, Nor seek to hide them, since the truth is grand All praise unmerited we do despise, If you could read our mind, and understand. Men, give more frankness, and less flattery, Remember, we are neither dull, nor blind, Men, give more frankness, and less flattery, If you would win the trust of womankind.”
Much marvelled I at dear Minerva’s lay, But thought she truly meant each earnest word, And so neglected telling her straightway How much her genius had my bosom stirred; Neglected telling her that if two wings But grew out from her shoulders soft and white, Fair would she be as seraph mild that sings The songs of love in Paradise to-night, Neglected telling her the flowers she wore Drooped with the heat of their own jealousy, And whispered to each other o’er and o’er: “Ah, how much sweeter is this maid than we!” She begged for frankness from all men--from me-- For this her wondrous eloquence was poured. So afterwards when she did question me, I--foolish man--confessed that I was bored. And when she showed her gown of palest blue, Shook for me all its dainty ruffles out, I would not praise it--though I wanted to-- Her red lips straight took on a pretty pout. “Did not we graduates look very nice?” She asked, and patted one rebellious curl.
“Frankness, not flattery,” I murmured twice, “Let me remember it my own dear girl!” “I’ve seen you looking lovelier,” I said, “I like your hair best when it softly flows, Not piled in one big bunch upon your head-- The powder showed quite plainly on your nose.” Who was it said, “O, inconsistency, Thy name is woman?” Surely he was right, I spoke my thoughts, refrained from flattery, Lo, for reward comes this brief note to-night:
“I think to longer be engaged to you Would be a foolish thing, and very wrong.
POST-SCRIPT:
Gray says he dreamed the whole night through Of me, and of my essay wise and strong. If you should call to night, at eight, pray bring My notes--and--and--the photo, and the curl, I will return your presents and your ring, To think, that _you_ should grow into a churl.”