THINKIN' BACK
I've ben thinkin' back, of late,
S'prisin'!—And I'm here to state
I'm suspicious it's a sign
Of
age
, maybe, or decline
Of my faculties,—and yit
I'm not
feelin'
old a bit—
Any more than sixty-four
Ain't no
young
man any more!
Thinkin' back's a thing 'at grows
On a feller, I suppose—
Older 'at he gits, i jack,
More he keeps a-thinkin' back!
Old as old men git to be,
Er as middle-aged as me,
Folks'll find us, eye and mind
Fixed on what we've left behind—
Rehabilitatin'-like
Them old times we used to hike
Out barefooted fer the crick,
'Long 'bout
Aprile first
—to pick
Out some "warmest" place to go
In a-swimmin'—
Ooh! my-oh!
Wonder now we hadn't died!
Grate horseradish on my hide
Jes'
a-thinkin'
how cold then
That-'ere worter must 'a' ben!
Thinkin' back—W'y, goodness me!
I kin call their names and see
Every little tad I played
With, er fought, er was afraid
Of, and so made
him
the best
Friend I had of all the rest!
Thinkin' back, I even hear
Them a-callin', high and clear,
Up the crick-banks, where they seem
Still hid in there—like a dream—
And me still a-pantin' on
The green pathway they have gone!
Still they hide, by bend er ford—
Still they hide—but, thank the Lord,
(Thinkin' back, as I have said),
I hear laughin' on ahead!
NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE
We are not always glad when we smile:
Though we wear a fair face and
are gay,
And the world we
deceive
May not ever believe
We could laugh in a happier
way.—
Yet, down in the deeps of the soul,
Ofttimes, with our faces
aglow,
There's an ache and a
moan
That we know of
alone,
And as only the hopeless may know.
We are not always glad when we smile,—
For the heart, in a tempest of
pain,
May live in the
guise
Of a smile in the
eyes
As a rainbow may live in the
rain;
And the stormiest night of our woe
May hang out a radiant
star
Whose light in the
sky
Of despair is a lie
As black as the thunder-clouds are.
We are not always glad when we smile!—
But the conscience is quick to
record,
All the sorrow and
sin
We are hiding within
Is plain in the sight of the
Lord:
And ever, O ever, till pride
And evasion shall cease to
defile
The sacred recess
Of the soul, we
confess
We are not always glad when we smile.
HIS ROOM
"I'm home again, my dear old Room,
I'm home again, and happy,
too,
As, peering through the brightening gloom,
I find myself alone with
you:
Though brief my stay, nor far
away,
I missed you—missed you
night and day—
As wildly yearned for you as
now.—
Old Room, how are you,
anyhow?
"My easy chair, with open arms,
Awaits me just within the
door;
The littered carpet's woven charms
Have never seemed so bright
before,—
The old rosettes and
mignonettes
And ivy-leaves and
violets,
Look up as pure and fresh of
hue
As though baptized in morning
dew.
"Old Room, to me your homely walls
Fold round me like the arms of
love,
And over all my being falls
A blessing pure as from
above—
Even as a nestling child
caressed
And lulled upon a loving
breast,
With folded eyes, too glad to
weep
And yet too sad for dreams or
sleep.
"You've been so kind to me, old Room—
So patient in your tender
care,
My drooping heart in fullest bloom
Has blossomed for you
unaware;
And who but you had cared to
woo
A heart so dark, and heavy,
too,
As in the past you lifted
mine
From out the shadow to the
shine?
"For I was but a wayward boy
When first you gladly welcomed
me
And taught me work was truer joy
Than rioting
incessantly:
And thus the din that stormed
within
The old guitar and
violin
Has fallen in a fainter
tone
And sweeter, for your sake
alone.
"Though in my absence I have stood
In festal halls a favored
guest,
I missed, in this old quietude,
My worthy work and worthy
rest—
By this I know that long
ago
You loved me first, and told me
so
In art's mute eloquence of
speech
The voice of praise may never
reach.
"For lips and eyes in truth's disguise
Confuse the faces of my
friends,
Till old affection's fondest ties
I find unraveling at the
ends;
But as I turn to you, and
learn
To meet my griefs with less
concern,
Your love seems all I have to
keep
Me smiling lest I needs must
weep.
"Yet I am happy, and would fain
Forget the world and all its
woes;
So set me to my tasks again,
Old Room, and lull me to
repose:
And as we glide adown the
tide
Of dreams, forever side by
side,
I'll hold your hands as lovers
do
Their sweethearts' and talk
love to you."
THE PLAINT HUMAN
Season of snows, and season of flowers,
Seasons of loss and
gain!—
Since grief and joy must alike be ours,
Why do we still
complain?
Ever our failing, from sun to sun,
O my intolerant
brother—
We want just a little too little of one,
And much too much of the
other.
THE QUEST
I am looking for Love. Has he passed this way,
With eyes as blue as the skies of May,
And a face as fair as the summer dawn?—
You answer back, but I wander on,—
For you say: "Oh, yes; but his eyes were gray,
And his face as dim as a rainy day."
Good friends, I query, I search for Love;
His eyes are as blue as the skies above,
And his smile as bright as the midst of May
When the truce-bird pipes: Has he passed this way?
And one says: "Ay; but his face, alack!
Frowned as he passed, and his eyes were black."
O who will tell me of Love? I cry!
His eyes are as blue as the mid-May sky,
And his face as bright as the morning sun;
And you answer and mock me, every one,
That his eyes were dark, and his face was wan,
And he passed you frowning and wandered on.
But stout of heart will I onward fare,
Knowing
my
Love is beyond—somewhere,—
The Love I seek, with the eyes of blue,
And the bright, sweet smile unknown of you;
And on from the hour his trail is found
I shall sing sonnets the whole year round.
THE MULBERRY TREE
It's many's the scenes which is dear to my mind
As I think of my childhood so long left behind;
The home of my birth, with it's old puncheon-floor,
And the bright morning-glories that growed round the door;
The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off
Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft,
Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me,
And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree.
And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake,
I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake,
And the long purple berries that rained on the ground
Whare the pastur' was bald whare we trommpt it around.
And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade,
I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayed
With my little bare feet from my own mother's knee
To foller them off to the mulberry tree.
Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail,
And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail,
And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands,
The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants.
But that rail led to glory, as certin and shore
As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more—
What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me,
With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree!
Then it's who can fergit the old mulberry tree
That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as free
As the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew out
Of the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about?
O, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay,
Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur' to-day,
And, a-pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be,
They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree.
FOR YOU
For you, I could forget the gay
Delirium of
merriment,
And let my laughter die away
In endless silence of
content.
I could forget, for your dear
sake,
The utter emptiness and
ache