Part 2

You sang soft broken numbers Sad as your soul’s distress, And I loved you no matter how wanton Or scarlet or scanty your dress.

Little Girl

From out the calendar of time Grant me one glorious day. And let me follow singing streams, So cool with tossing spray. And riot in their pebbled beds Where willows bend and swirl Their giddy heads, as once they did When I was, “little girl.”

And let me feel again the clutch One gets down in the throat From long admiring, silent things Faint sounds and clouds afloat. Let afternoon slip languidly, Tree branches bend and twirl Adoringly: as once they did When I was “little girl.”

Give me one riotous unbound day To climb a dizzy hill. Waist deep in laurel, where wood birds Gyrate and mock and trill. Where even timid walkers’ steps Unloose great rocks that hurl, Delightedly, to depths I feared When I was “little girl.”

Grant me one free unbounded day Wherein I may explore, The land where dream folks’ houses shed Moon dazzle from the door. Oh! riotous day detain my steps Clasp me from this mist whirl And let me live the dreams I dreamed When I was “little girl.”

My Old House and the Weather

I grow so very weary Of the city’s crowded street The babbling of voices The restlessness of feet. I often wish my friends would talk Less dexterous and less clever, And let me say a word about My old house and the weather.

I long to stop those restless feet And if I only could, I’d still their babbling tongues awhile With back-home quietude. I long to let them know about Birches that stand together, And the hand that threw the blooms around My old house and the weather.

But as it is I only take Mere twigs of it to town, The lilacs when they’re on the bush And roses tumbling round. But folks forget so hurriedly And talk of fuss and feather, I think they’d best come out and My old house and the weather.

Bluestone River, W. Va.

Sometime in my day dreaming Thru’ my half-lidded eyes, I’m seeing old Virginia And Old Virginia skies. The narrow, crooked roadway, The path by which we came, And then I see the river, Bluestone river, in the rain.

Then there’s the drooping willows Swaying, swirling, side by side. And the hollyhocks keep nodding To each other in the tide. And the mists we love o’ mornings Puts our dropping tears to shame. When we see it clear the river, Bluestone river, in the rain.

And there’s the little homestead Just across the running stream, It beckons from the mountain Like a kind hand in a dream. A soft, mellow light is breaking From each golden window pane, And it shines down on the river, Bluestone river, in the rain.

Sea Hunger

I’ve languished under many moons And loved them all. Ah me! But now my heart is filled too full Of hunger for the sea.

When thinking of the white gulls That ride the creamy foam, I almost hear the brave winds O’er singing seas at home.

And when I think of white mists That rise from shore to shore, In utter weariness I weep But cannot see them more.

And some day when I leave my dreams These tides in which I’ve striven, I’ll lock their memories in my breast And carry them to heaven.

Tree Sounds

The forest closed and folded About me like a tent. The tree tops swayed and toppled Rain riven and wind-rent.

The old harp in the pine trees Struck cords minor and deep. So in the storm tossed forest I was rocked to sleep.

That was long ago, O’ ages, Yet thru these rushing years, The sounds of a wind rent forest Is ever in my ears.

A Wish

They called me girl, gave me the name Of one I’ll never see. I wish they’d given me instead The name of some nice tree.

A tree that rocks with every wind, Fast rooted in the ground, Straining its eager branches up To where God’s looking down.

A neighbor to the grass and flowers. A friend to all the skies, A lovely tree that dares to romp With every bird that flies.

A spruce, an elm, a tamarack; Dear heaven, how can there be A lovelier name, and how I wish They’d given one to me.

Middle Creek, W. Va.

I have a longing for a hill A passion for small streams. And there’s a creek that winds itself Among my muted dreams.

A tumbling stream, you know the kind, With water running clear, Where birds might bathe between its songs And pilgrims hover near.

It twines itself, love-fashion, round A flowering tree, then worms-- And oozes in between the roots, Of sycamores and ferns.

Petals float down and mingle with Ribbons of grass while I Am conscious that I am dreaming, And writing while I sigh.

Endie

I like to visit Endie’s house She’s like a dream herself, She has the books I know and love Upon her reading shelf. And when I go to her we talk About the clouds and wind, And if I drop from clouds to clods Why; Endie doesn’t mind. I like the streams, the singing ones, But Endie likes a fall; And if I disagee with her She doesn’t mind at all.

Endie has a thousand things To plant in one small space; When I find it can’t be done Regret is in her face. She often says O! dare we plant, Narcissus in a row? But she agrees and I agree Where hollyhocks should grow. I only need to mention tea And Endie’s soft eyes shine. And then she talks; her language flows More eloquent than mine. Once ambition burned my breast Endie, too, was fired. But here is where I stop to rest For Endie’s getting tired.

In Our Old Street

We children played in a queer old street That persistently seemed to hide, Itself and us in a kindly way From the great wide world outside.

And how we loved in our childishness God’s work on the sea and land. But death was secretive, dark and deep, And never showed us his hand.

With awe we gazed on his work, sad work And the flutter of ribbons white, Made us all catch hands, hold our breath and sob In our restless dreams at night.

When a baby came to our queer old street So downy and vague and new, We tiptoed out of the soft, dark room, And the mystery grew and grew.

But many things we have learned since then For life has a strange sad way, We left the hills and the queer old street Where we used to shout and play.

One of the things we have learned is this: Tho’ death rides around rough shod, Back of our births and our deaths and our loves Is the all-kind heart of GOD.

Honey

His eyes were wide and large and bright As shining drops of dew, In which two violets had drowned Themselves and made them blue.

His lips were O! so soft to kiss His smile was quaint and funny; Couldn’t think of any name To call him only Honey.

No one ever tho’t that I Was his sister Sue. For my eyes were just as black As his eyes were blue.

And my hair was like a crow His so golden sunny. Father ridicules the name But keeps on saying Honey.

Moon Dazzle

Last night, as tho’ with new washed eyes I looked upon a lake. Something within me sharply stirred An understanding ache.

An ardent willow swayed and dipped The cool depths of lagoon. Unstirred miles of grass and dew Lay lonely to the moon.

It seemed I’d never seen a night Or such a scene before. The moonbeams stretched a splintered path From shore to shadowed shore.

I marveled thus, and wondered how In unveiled hours to come, Could such a pulseless thing like death Make one so eager, dumb.

To Friends

Last night, when I was wearied to my soul, I was slipping out to dreamland very fast. When I tho’t about you, and the things you did, The help you gave, for which I did not ask.

Your unselfishness and kind deeds true, Kept coming up before me like a scroll. I could not count the many things you did, For me, when I was sick, in body and in soul.

My undeserving self grew very, very tired. With all the counting of them, and I slept. But, ’twas just to dream again of all these things, And in my restless sleep, I wept, and wept, and wept.

To a Meadow Lark

And when I saw him stamping over My little patch of shrubs and clover, His steel bright gun held shoulder high I scarce could check, a smothered cry.

Because I knew your nest was low So shuddered when I saw him go. A gunshot and I scarce could see You had flown screaming to a tree.

O little bird with troubled breast, A miracle has saved your nest. I’m sorry you were frightened so, You should not build your nest so low.

Broken Numbers

A mystery puzzled and vexed me, Unsolvable, strange and deep. Perplexed and worn out in spirit It followed me into my sleep. Then with eyes that were heavy with dreaming I drifted from darkness to dawn. For the raindrops scattered my shadows With numbers of broken song.

I thought of the heavy mystery That troubled me yesterday, It seemed I never could solve it Or drive it completely away. And I thought of the thousands of moments When each, to oneself stands alone, Thrown back on oneself for the answer The answer that never comes home.

As I pondered each sad broken number The raindrops made on the pane, The shine came to me, came in bundles, For I heard the song in the rain. Shine is a guest we have often Grief being seldom is great. I have no quarrel with mystery I have no quarrel with fate.

I’m Going Out

I’m going out where breezes blowing round Make trim kept acres look half country and half town. Where March winds tossed and blew the leaves away Into the fences corner yesterday. Oaks that never dropt last summer’s leaves at all Were coaxed at last today to leave them fall. I’m going out to this street’s very end, Where city atmosphere and country spaces blend, And hear the whirring wings of lonely larks, That circle like burnt embers o’er the park.

I’ll have my hair in torrents blowing wild About my pallid features like some child, That had its romping days of childish fun Most strangled e’er they ever had begun. I’d like to walk around a field that’s barr’d From other pleasant places winter scarr’d. Where drifts have filled the corners there I know Is still a faint suggestion of late snow. So when your luncheon hour and mine comes round, I will have gone beyond the edge of town.

Ingleside

The road that goes to Ingleside Can’t be described at all, ’Tis sweet beyond the telling And the trees are paces tall.

Spring o’ year at Ingleside Is pungent sweet of breath. And for its rainfilled, tumbling streams I’m homesick unto death.

Confusing flowers fill the wood Like nodding plumes of flame. The like of which one’s never seen And no one knows the name.

The hills that look on Ingleside Are emerald to the brow. And I would give a thousand dreams If I could see them now.

Friendship

Once on a time there was a road Went winding by my door. And fain I was to travel it In search of golden store.

And O! how oft with heavy heart The weary miles I trod, And many a sorry tale I learned Upon the open road.

Often times I was made glad And oft my heart was sore. For folk who traveled on the road That winded by my door.

Adventure came, aye many a time, And even now I sigh. And sorry am to count the times The false gods caught my eye.

But now I keep a little spot Just off the busy road, And there I patient, wise-eyed wait Those of the heavy load.

And kindly then I draw them in While warm heart talks to heart. And when night darkens I have found We’re sorry for to part.

This happened too once on a time When I was weak and sore. I drew a jewel from the road That winded by my door.

But then I very often find Two roads so different meet, And many a friend I’ve found and kept For whom I did not seek.

This Year

This year’s breezes gently toss A fern uncurling from the moss; Arbutus trailing lengths along; Brown thrush thrilling with his song. The grosbeak sings a song of cheer, “Ain’t” things beautiful this year?

The dandelions are here again Amongst the grass like golden rain. A hawthorn raining petals white, Whilst dripping with the dews of night. A mocker’s notes, round, sweet and clear. “Ain’t” things beautiful this year?

So thankful that old winter’s gone Fond hearts beat a tender song. The meadow lark in circles high, Sings songs of faith against the sky. While in my heart I greatly fear, Things are too beautiful this year.

Spring Walkers

Isn’t there just a hint in the air That spring’s hiding out in the garden somewhere? Remember the place where the violets grew? Let’s all go and see if they’ve been stirring too. That sounded like wings, O! look it’s a bird. How did he know that the mosses had stirred. Before we can really think it is spring He’s here on his faith, and started to sing. Someone’s been here, the leaves have been tossed As if one were looking for things that were lost. And ruthlessly left to the late April snow The pale slender necks of the first buds below. Let’s cover them up, it doesn’t seem fair To leave them like this, see that birch over there? We’ll remember the place and come back again, When the sun is some warmer, and there’s been a rain. Let’s walk thru the wood, and come back this way I dislike to go home, I wish it were May. Here’s a place I adore, this tender dark wood. It’s a source of delight, and if one only could Just come here and visit awhile every day, ’Twould charm every heartache one has quite away. This path has surprises at every bend. This log has been here since I can’t tell you when. We just walk around or climb over this way, ’Twould spoil the whole scene if they took it away. This tree has been tired standing up long ago ’Twas March, the old roughneck, gave it the last blow. It looks like a man-contrived arch o’er a drive, The vines will cling round it and keep it alive. I’m tired. Let’s go back, we’ve come a long way I dislike to go home, I wish it were May.

Winter Woods

Would you like to walk to Elm Court Now that winter’s here? Yes it is a little chilly, But you’ll like it, never fear. I’d like to see that little path, The one you sketched, you know, After last night’s storm it surely Must be rimmed around with snow. The grey grouse slept I’m certain Beneath the patches white, The hills protrude a dazzling crest Into the dawn’s cold light. If attempts were made to climb Up to its softened blue, Every time we stepped up one We’d slip back more than two. But now, we’ll just go thru this woods And this deep snow, my dear, Will make a worth while picture For it’s beautiful this year. Let us plow thru this deep snow drift To that small half frozen stream, We’ll see nicer ferns I’ll wager Than a summer’s ever seen. Ferns in winter? yes there’s plenty. Will you only just look here How frost fashions from plain water Things so beautiful and queer. Wait awhile! here’s beauty, This stream bank’s frozen dirt Boasts an edge as sweet and dainty As a lady’s underskirt. In summer this is lovely But old winter has its charms When these tender little trees stand round With ice clothes on their arms. It’s very quiet, but lonely never, You can push these twigs apart And in the softened stillness Almost feel and hear God’s heart. And one may feel this darkness Like soft velvet one unrolls, Its very quiet is soothing, To a city weary soul. See these bushes! all the edges Have a perfect picot hem, Like women’s restless fingers Had picked up now and then. We must find the pathway back When the sun comes stealing thru, Like old magic, all these wonders Will be dripping from our view. I prefer to keep this picture Just as we have seen it here, This lovely morning, to my fancy Is too beautiful, I fear.

Brother O’ Mine

Do you remember the cardinal’s call, Brother O’ mine? The hills that we climbed, be they ever so tall, With never a fear for a hurt or a fall, Wondering ever if skies did fall, Brother O’ mine.

Many a hill we’ve climbed since then, Brother O’ mine. Been pelted with roses and rinsed with the rain Of our sorrowing teardrops time and again; Despair in our hearts and a clutch of pain, Brother O’ mine.

And there were pebbles that hurt our feet Brother O’ mine. But the dust of the highway seemed velvet sweet Tho’ many a cross and trials we’d meet, With daisies and graves at our very feet, Brother O’ mine.

Father we had in the bygone days, Brother O’ mine. And mother to wipe all our tears away. Tho’ sodden the sky, and shadows be grey God will speak clear of the mist some day, Brother O’ mine.

Dream

The flowers upon my lady’s hat, Kept bobbing so this way then that, Until the Church seemed faint and blurred The morning Psalms I scarcely heard. Unless I see I cannot hear, So, I just admired that flower so near. ’Twas unlike any bloom that blows On trees or waves in garden rows, Where clings the morning glory vine Or beds of phlox or columbine, Like nothing in the drowsy south With love songs oozing from its mouth, In all the languorous, summer noons Or riotous breaths of all perfumes, Like nothing in my garden bed Of flowers washed blue or drenched red; Peculiarly designed it sat And nodded on my lady’s hat. I summoned all my powers to wit But could not find a name for it.

I sought my couch with troubled breast, I could not from my memory wrest The name of that tormenting bloom, Till wearied tossing, then I swooned Into forgetfulness and dreamed Of lands beyond where sunlight streamed, In gardens where an angel talked In soft glad whispers as he walked. And touched each blossoming bud and bell With pride and love ineffable. But one he loved beyond compare; He stooped and kissed the petals rare. With eagerness I did persist To see the flower the angel kissed. And there it grew a thing intact, The flower upon my lady’s hat. It stood a straight slim tossing flame And I had yet to learn its name. With this in mind I tried to talk, But the angel only sped his walk. I could have cried for very shame, Then someone called me by my name. The room was pink with morning light, Because dreams vanish with the night; And things are not what they seem, I called the little flower “dream.”

Shine and Shower

It’s the cross that makes the triumph A glorious thing to share, It’s the sweet behind the bitter Makes the burden light to bear. It’s the shine past all the raining Of the heart-break and the tear, It’s the faith in dim tomorrow’s Clears the mist from yesteryears.

So I’ll take my shine and shower The bitter with the sweet, And I’ll make a friend of sorrow Every time we chance to meet. Give me triumph with disaster And my share of gain and loss And I’ll not be asking angels For a sweeter, gentler cross.

Lines to Death

The harp like strings of destiny Stretched taut awhile, then broke, So life gives o’er the battle To death’s relentless stroke.

What’s wealth with all its glitter When the sands of life are spent? It cannot unfold the curtain Of that solitary tent.

Fame is just a tempting bauble That comes when least we call, And fate stands thus dividing Rain and roses ’mongst us all.

Life is just a few short summers, Breath of roses and a prayer. Then a little tent to sleep in When we grow too tired to care.

The high, the low, the haughty, The humble, too, meet here. And share like common brothers The sorrow and the tear.

But life must have its raining For the master wills it so; And broken harps are mended, After death has struck the blow.

To the New Year

This morning when I saw you Looking into my bedroom window, I thought that I disliked you very much, For all I could see You very much resembled other days Spotless and so wholesome, With all your tinsel bright, But, your beauty touched me not at all. But I decided to put up with you As one would with strange, unwelcome guests. I turned you around and about many, many times, As a child would a new toy. You were a lovely sight, And yet I felt a bit depressed, Till of a sudden I thought I saw you smile. Or was it only fancy? Then I gave you my profoundest thought For a short while. And way down in your remotest depths Great possibilities looked out at me, And I thought of all the things you might do For this restless world. So I fell in love with you, Before you were a half hour old.

Homesickness

The folks whom we visit, but once in a while Those friends who are far, far away, May be thoughtful and generous indeed to a fault And kindness itself every day. Not even the hills with the mist on the top And the sun shooting flames ’cross the loam, Can make me forget, nor still the wild fret In my heart for the place I call home.

The valleys like Eden are misty and deep: They are washed with the dews of the morn. They but serve to depress me and make me a prey To longings both sad and forlorn. The lilt of the trees and the song of the birds Once so cheery have sobered their tone, For my heartstrings are tied, to a little fireside In a place that I love to call home.

To Love

Tho’ I am slow of speech, it matters not, For this I know you feel and understand. Tho’ break I at your nearness, yet I draw apart, With wonder at the touches of your hand.

Your eager eyes, so near my drooping lids Appraise my flushes, and you understand How fain I am to go, yet do draw near, And tremble at the touches of your hands.

Tho’ death should come and seal my eyelids shut, And tho’ I tremble at his cold commands, I could be drawn away e’en from the tomb, methinks If then, dear, you would touch me with your hands.

Your Friend

Tho’ you’re a heathen to the core And cause him untold pain, He knows everything about you But loves you just the same.

You need not always seek him For he’s often seeking you. He has a welcome for the stranger But a warmer heart for you.

He is rather scarce on talking But at listening he is good. You love to be around him But respect his solicitude.