The Project Gutenberg eBook of Brown leaves and other verses
Title: Brown leaves and other verses
Author: Ella Stevens Harris
Release date: September 16, 2023 [eBook #71665]
Language: English
Original publication: Montclair: Altavista, 1912
Credits: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
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.
Nor tongue nor pen may tell;
But other eyes look into ours,
And understand us well.
Of what thou art to me;
But these frail children of my love,
I would bestow on thee.
CONTENTS
BROWN LEAVES
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 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.
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
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.
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,
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!
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.
ABSENCE
The one that’s left is lonesome, dear.
I long to-night for your embrace.
Beats at my darkened window pane.
When one of us must surely go.
Which shall it be? I question, dear.
TO FLORENCE
(On Her Tenth Birthday.)
Do you care for what I say?
I once had a beautiful baby—
But now she has gone away.
And there in a chest I found
Little shirts, little shoes and stockings
And a dainty little gown.
Are the things she used to wear,—
Do you know where has gone my baby,
My baby—with soft, brown hair?
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.
The wonderful things she’d say,
Her winsome smile and her merry laugh—
Now, why did she go away?
But the sunshine lingered there
And wreathed such glory about her brow
As I never have seen elsewhere.
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?
You have banished all my care,—
For you are my beautiful baby
And my child with the sunlit hair.
NATURE’S INFLUENCE
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.)
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.
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.
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.
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,
And the depths of my being are stirred,
Till I feel that the Master is tuning
My voice to the voice of the bird.
From the brooklet’s musical flow
To the wonderful tide of the ocean,
With its ceaseless murmur of woe.
Reckons man of Himself, a part—
And what to nature is budding and bloom,
Symbols love in the human heart.
With its mingled sorrow and strife,
And my lips cry out the thought of my heart,
What a wonderful thing is life!
TO HER DOLLY
And sit upon my knee,
I will smooth your tangled tresses,
For I feel in sympathy.
Has gone away, and so
You must be very lonely,
For you always used to go.
I am sorry it is true,
But since your mamma has grown so tall
She cannot play with you.
She told me so to-day,
And said that you, and all your things,
She was going to put away.
She would come and look at you,
Would take you up, and smooth your hair
And I’m sure that this is true.
Whatever you hear dolls say,
It always loves and forgives us
E’en when we go astray.
In the days that are to be,
Other little pink hands will dress you,
And fondle you tenderly.
Will fold you to her breast,
And softly whisper, “I love you, dear,
I love you the very best.”
MY PRAYER
Out on the troubled sea;
Where billows rage and tempest roars—
How shall I pray to Thee?
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.
ANNIVERSARY ODE
Thoughts Suggested by the Anniversary of the Death of Longfellow.
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.
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.
OUR HEROES
(Written for, and sung at G. A. R. Memorial Celebration.)
Our Father and our God,
Than spring-time flowers with fragrance sweet,
To deck our heroes’ sod!
Proclaims, that all must die,
And dew drops glisten in each bud,
Like tear drops in the eye.
Is meet for you, our braves,
But rarest gifts of God we bring,
And cast them on your graves.
A CALL TO SPRING
E’en while my song I sing
Thou shouldst be with us.
What welcome waiteth thee,
In field and forest.
And hast not power to cast
Off his rude shackles?
Summon thy fairy train,
Charge him to loose thee.
Green grass and op’ning flower
Will spring to greet thee.
Hath left a sunny shore,
That he may cheer thee.
Waiteth impatiently
For thy glad coming.
As on impatient wing
Gaily they flutter.
May burst from feathered throats.
Is there a doubter?
With all its joy and strife,
Come, with renewing.
Till the green grasses wave,
Like victory’s banner.
To the sick chamber—calm
All who are restless.
Till some bright flower shall ope
With its peace message.
Come, and thy store impart
Of joy and beauty.
Hast thou no wish to hear
What they are saying?
Unto such lives impart
Strength to be faithful.
That as the green blades start
From the dry grasses,
New life may rise and bloom,
And that forever,