Rain and roses

BRING me rainbow ribbons
And a band of blue,
Bring me threads of silver
From the moonbeams’ hue.
Bring a pure cloud fleecy,
Snatch a sunbeam bright,
Tints from twilight evenings,
Matchless and just right,
To mate with all her beauty.
These amassed will make the dreams
Tender, pure and holy
Of a girl just turned thirteen.

Bring me rainbow ribbons
From the sunset too
Then a white tho’t from the angels
Who are holding hands with you.
Bring the rosebud’s fragrance
And the apple blossom’s bloom
The hushed voice from the morning
Then leave a little room,
For a thousand transient colors
From a God’s infinite dream
And you’ll have the soul and fancies
Of a girl just turned thirteen.

My Neighbor’s Roses

MY neighbor’s roses always grow
In such a tantalizing row,
Of fragrance and perfume,
A riotous mass of twilight bloom.
And I am tempted oftentimes
When walking where the stray ones climb,
To reach my willing hands out so
And clasp each crimson, flaming glow.
A breeze steals softly thru the day
And brushes them too far away.

Christ! make me kind enough to give
Of roses while my friends yet live.
And if they reach their eager hands,
To where my flowers with clinging bands,
Are nodding, tempting, from the row.
Oh! Christ I pray let breezes blow
A thousand fragrant, tender charms
Into my neighbor’s outstretched arms.
Then keep my burning heart and tho’t,
Tender enough to stay them not.

The Long Twilight

WHEN “Pop” is bald, and my hair is white,
And the stage is set, for a long twilight;
When we are alone in our little den
He with his pipe and I with my pen,
’Twill not be regrets that make us sigh
For we will have things that the world can’t buy.
For we have snatched from the mirth mad throng
A little of love and a deathless song.
A few glad dreams and our tho’ts all white,
The silence of God, in the long twilight.

When “Pop” is bald and my hair is white,
And we’re nearing the end of the long twilight,
’Twill not seem cold in the darksome wood
For we have been friends with solitude.
And often yearned in the shadows cold
For the friendly smiles the gods withold.
Hearts all the braver for the feel of pain,
For a rose grows sweeter every time it rains.

A few glad notes from a comrade’s song
We’ll sing in the night as we go along.
For we carry the blossoms a frost ne’er blights
And we’ll have no morning till we’ve said goodnight.

A Lone Walk

WHEN I had left the city street
And lost the open road,
I breathed contentedly and deep
As one who shifts a load.
I wasn’t caring where I went
Or where I meant to go.
But I was tossing from my path
The brown leaves drifted so.

When I was wondering aimlessly
Just what my quest would bring.
I saw a pink arbutus bloom
And heard a warbler sing.
The sky seemed blue and higher here
Than it was back in town.
And Oh! the wind delighted me,
The way it blew around.

And then I sought the grey glen road.
Went with it thru the wood.
And in its long green isles I walked
And worshipfully stood.
My neighbor questioned from the fence
What I had seen out there?
I said I sought adventure
And I found it everywhere.

A Death Blow

HE said goodbye, you hobbled out,
The Doctor shut the door.
From your face I knew he’d told you
Things we had guessed before.

I saw you slightly tremble
But I reached you ere you fell.
Your fixèd face said many things
More than you cared to tell.

One does not receive death warrants
As one would a courtesy.
After awhile your head went up
And you talked it all out with me.

Brave little woman I knew you
Knew you were never afraid.
Not for yourself, You forbid me—
To speak and my questions you staid.

All I could give was silence.
Your pride forbade me much.
Tho’ I longed to bear your burden
Even to be your crutch.

The Breath of Life

I’D like to lift the threads of life
And weave them on a loom
And make a pattern beautiful,
As any day in June.

I’d put ten thousand violets
And shimmering leaves of green,
Around the edge and over it,
To hide each vulgar seam.

Because, death brushed me with dark wings,
Reluctant passed me by,
I take the threads of life again
And weave and smile and sigh.

But if I had a God-like power
Omnipotence of mind,
To put the tho’t of suffering
And death a league behind.

Life would be violets to me
Much sweeter than a dream.
The pattern on my loom would show
No raw and ghastly seam.

But then methinks it is because
Of what the looms disclose.
The breath of life is sweeter
Than the fragrance of a rose.

A Day in Spring

GO slow, O! day immaculate;
Much slower than the rest.
Master of time, mark every hour
As tho’ thou were not pressed,—
Or hurried. But more leisurely
And gently let them chime.
Oh! morn, take off thy wings of speed
And let this day be mine.

O! day, immaculate and kind,
Make no rude haste or speed.
But loiter in less trodden paths
Walk lightly o’er the mead.
Spring and I are holding hands
On a green hill’s dazzling crest.
Make this day, God, go very slow
More slowly than the rest.

Autumn

I SEE you now, your autumn gown
In wanton fashion hung,
Your crimson scarf half rakishly,
To trifling breezes flung.

I was distressed and sad to think
You did not even care.
But once your harp sang low and sweet
You breathed a solemn prayer.

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.

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