Of every loss I ever
knew.—
What could I not forget for
you?
I could forget the just deserts
Of mine own sins, and so
erase
The tear that burns, the smile that hurts,
And all that mars or masks my
face.
For your fair sake I could
forget
The bonds of life that chafe
and fret,
Nor care if death were false or
true.—
What could I not forget for
you?
What could I not forget? Ah me!
One thing, I know, would still
abide
Forever in my memory,
Though all of love were lost
beside—
I yet would feel how first the
wine
Of your sweet lips made fools
of mine
Until they sung, all drunken
through—
"What could I not forget for
you?"
A FEEL IN THE CHRIS'MAS-AIR
They's a kind o'
feel
in the air, to me.
When the Chris'mas-times sets
in.
That's about as much of a mystery
As ever I've run
ag'in!—
Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight
And gineral health, I
swear
They's a
goneness
somers I can't quite state—
A kind o' feel in the
air.
They's a feel in the Chris'mas-air goes right
To the spot where a man
lives at!—
It gives a feller a' appetite—
They ain't no doubt about
that!—
And yit they's
somepin
'—I don't know
what—
That follers me, here and
there,
And ha'nts and worries and spares me not—
A kind o' feel in the
air!
They's a
feel
, as I say, in the air that's jest
As blame-don sad as
sweet!—
In the same ra-sho as I feel the best
And am spryest on my
feet,
They's allus a kind o' sort of a'
ache
That I can't lo-cate
no-where;—
But it comes with
Chris'mas
, and no mistake!—
A kind o' feel in the
air.
Is it the racket the childern raise?—
W'y, no!—God bless
'em!—no!—
Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze—
Like my own wuz, long
ago?—
Is it the bleat o' the whistle and beat
O' the little toy-drum and
blare
O' the horn?—
No! no!
—it is jest the
sweet—
The sad-sweet feel in the
air.
AS CREATED
There's a space for good to bloom in
Every heart of man or
woman,—
And however wild or human,
Or however brimmed with
gall,
Never heart may beat without it;
And the darkest heart to doubt it
Has something good about it
After all.
WHERE-AWAY
O the Lands of Where-Away!
Tell us—tell us—where are they?
Through the darkness and the dawn
We have journeyed on and on—
From the cradle to the cross—
From possession unto loss.—
Seeking still, from day to day,
For the Lands of Where-Away.
When our baby-feet were first
Planted where the daisies burst,
And the greenest grasses grew
In the fields we wandered through,—
On, with childish discontent,
Ever on and on we went,
Hoping still to pass, some day,
O'er the verge of Where-Away.
Roses laid their velvet lips
On our own, with fragrant sips;
But their kisses held us not,
All their sweetness we forgot;—
Though the brambles in our track
Plucked at us to hold us back—
"Just ahead," we used to say,
"Lie the Lands of Where-Away."
Children at the pasture-bars,
Through the dusk, like glimmering stars,
Waved their hands that we should bide
With them over eventide;
Down the dark their voices failed
Falteringly, as they hailed,
And died into yesterday—
Night ahead and—Where-Away?
Twining arms about us thrown—
Warm caresses, all our own,
Can but stay us for a spell—
Love hath little new to tell
To the soul in need supreme,
Aching ever with the dream
Of the endless bliss it may
Find in Lands of Where-Away!
DREAMER, SAY
Dreamer, say, will you dream for me
A wild sweet dream of a foreign
land,
Whose border sips of a foaming sea
With lips of coral and silver
sand;
Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps,
Or lave themselves in the
tearful mist
The great wild wave of the breaker weeps
O'er crags of opal and
amethyst?
Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream
Of tropic shades in the lands
of shine,
Where the lily leans o'er an amber stream
That flows like a rill of
wasted wine,—
Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green,
Parry the shafts of the Indian
sun
Whose splintering vengeance falls between
The reeds below where the
waters run?
Dreamer, say, will you dream of love
That lives in a land of sweet
perfume,
Where the stars drip down from the skies above
In molten spatters of bud and
bloom?
Where never the weary eyes are wet,
And never a sob in the balmy
air,
And only the laugh of the paroquette
Breaks the sleep of the silence
there?
OUR OWN
They walk here with us, hand-in-hand;
We gossip,
knee-by-knee;
They tell us all that they have planned—
Of all their joys to
be,—
And, laughing, leave us: And, to-day,
All desolate we cry
Across wide waves of voiceless graves—
Good-by! Good-by!
Good-by!
THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED
O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy?
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine:
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.
O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, clear little, old trundle-bed!
O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw
The stars through the window, and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept:
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren,
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again,
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.
O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed!
With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread;
Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy-stories my memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head
Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle-bed.
WHO BIDES HIS TIME
Who bides his time, and day by day
Faces defeat full
patiently,
And lifts a mirthful roundelay,
However poor his fortunes
be,—
He will not fail in any qualm
Of poverty—the paltry
clime
It will grow golden in his palm,
Who bides his time.
Who bides his time—he tastes the sweet
Of honey in the saltest
tear;
And though he fares with slowest feet,
Joy runs to meet him, drawing
near;
The birds are heralds of his cause;
And, like a never-ending
rhyme,
The roadsides bloom in his applause,
Who bides his time.
Who bides his time, and fevers not
In the hot race that none
achieves,
Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought
With crimson berries in the
leaves;
And he shall reign a goodly king,
And sway his hand o'er every
clime,
With peace writ on his signet-ring,
Who bides his time.
NATURAL PERVERSITIES
I am not prone to moralize
In scientific doubt
On certain facts that Nature tries
To puzzle us
about,—
For I am no philosopher
Of wise elucidation,
But speak of things as they occur,
From simple
observation.
I notice
little
things—to wit:—
I never missed a
train
Because I didn't
run
for it;
I never knew it rain
That my umbrella wasn't lent,—
Or, when in my
possession,
The sun but wore, to all intent,
A jocular
expression.
I never knew a creditor