The Verse-Book of a Homely Woman

        "I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air,
     but I hit hard and straight at my own body."—1 Cor.
     ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation).

     'T'was breakfast time, and outside in
          the street
     The factory men went by with hurrying
          feet.
     And on the bridge, in dim December light,
     The newsboys shouted of the great prize
          fight.
     Then, as I dished the bacon, and served
          out
     The porridge, all our youngsters gave
          a shout.
     The letter-box had clicked, and through
          the din
     The Picture News was suddenly pushed in.

     John showed the lads the pictures, and
          explained
     Just how the fight took place, and what
          was gained
     By that slim winner. Then, he looked at me
     As I sat, busy, pouring out the tea:
     "Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled.
     She hits the air sometimes, though," and
          John smiled.
     "Yet she fights on." Young Jack, with
          widened eyes
     Said: "Dad, how soon will mother get a
          prize?"

     We laughed. And yet it set me thinking,
          how
     I beat the air, because a neighbour's cow
     Munched at our early cabbages, and ate
     The lettuce up, and tramped my mignon-
          ette!
     And many a time I kicked against the
          pricks
     Because the little dog at number six
     Disturbed my rest. And then, how cross
          I got
     When Jane seemed discontented with her
          lot.
     Until poor John in desperation said
     He wearied of the theme—and went to
          bed!

     And how I vexed myself that day, when he
     Brought people unexpectedly for tea,
     Because the table-cloth was old and
          stained,
     And not a single piece of cake remained.
     And how my poor head ached! Because,
          well there!
     It uses lots of strength to beat the air!

     "I am a boxer!" Here and now I pray
     For grace to hit the self-life every day.
     And when the old annoyance comes once
          more
     And the old temper rises sharp and sore,
     I shall hit hard and straight, O Tender-
          Wise,
     And read approval in Thy loving eyes.

     "In my father's house!" The words
     Bring sweet cadence to my ears.
     Wandering thoughts, like homing birds,
     Fly all swiftly down the years,
     To that wide casement, where I always see
     Bright love-lamps leaning out to welcome
          me.

     Sweet it was, how sweet to go
     To the worn, familiar door.
     No need to stand a while, and wait,
     Outside the well-remembered gate;
     No need to knock;
     The easy lock
     Turned almost of itself, and so
     My spirit was "at home" once more.
     And then, within, how good to find
     The same cool atmosphere of peace,
     Where I, a tired child, might cease
     To grieve, or dread,
     Or toil for bread.
     I could forget
     The dreary fret.
     The strivings after hopes too high,
     I let them every one go by.
     The ills of life, the blows unkind,
     These fearsome things were left behind.

     ENVOY.

       O trembling soul of mine,
       See how God's mercies shine!
       When thou shalt rise,
       And, stripped of earth, shall stand
       Within an Unknown Land;
       Alone, where no familiar thing
       May bring familiar comforting;
       Look up! 'Tis but thy Father's
           House! And, see
       His love-lamps leaning out to welcome
           thee!

     Now from the dust of half-forgotten
          things,
     You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring-
          cleaning,
     And bring to memory dim imaginings
     Of mystic meaning.

     No old-time potter handled you, I ween,
     Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten;
     No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be
          seen,
     Nor Royal Doulton.

     You never stood to grace the princely
          board
     Of monarchs in some Oriental palace.
     Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is
          scored
     As if in malice.

     I hesitate to say it, but your spout
     Is with unhandsome rivets held together—
     Mute witnesses of treatment meted out
     In regions nether.

     O patient sufferer of many bumps!
     I ask it gently—shall the dustbin hold
          you?
     And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage
          stumps,
     At last enfold you?

     It ought. And yet with gentle hands I
          place
     You with my priceless Delft and Dresden
          china,
     For sake of one who loved your homely
          face
     In days diviner.

To a Rebellious
     Daughter

     You call authority "a grievous thing."
     With careless hands you snap the
          leading string,
     And, for a frolic (so it seems to you),
     Put off the old love, and put on the new.

     For "What does Mother know of love?"
          you say.
     "Did her soul ever thrill?
     Did little tendernesses ever creep
     Into her dreams, and over-ride her will?
     Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap
     As my heart leaps to-day?
     I, who am young; who long to try my
          wings!

     How should she understand,
     She, with her calm cool hand?
     She never felt such yearnings? And,
          beside,
     It's clear I can't be tied
     For ever to my mother's apron strings."

     There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear.
     And there are mysteries, not yet made
          clear
     To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book
     Is open, yes; but you may only look
     At its first section. Youth
     Is part, not all, the truth.
     It is impossible that you should see
     The end from the beginning perfectly.

     You answer: "Even so.
     But how can Mother know,
     Who meditates upon the price of bacon?
     On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken,
     And on the laundry's last atrocities?
     She knows her cookery book,
     And how a joint of English meat should
          look.
     But all such things as these
     Make up her life. She dwells in tents,
          but I
     In a vast temple open to the sky."

     Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped
          to learn
     The language written in your infant face.
     For years she walked your pace,
     And none but she interpreted your chatter.
     Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter?
     Or, weary, joined in all your games with
          zest,
     And managed with a minimum of rest?
     Now, is it not your turn
     To bridge the gulf, to span the gap be-
          tween you?
     To-day, before Death's angel over-lean
          you,
     Before your chance is gone?
     This is worth thinking on.

     "Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay,
          dearie, nay.
     Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may
     Come some grey dawning in the by
          and by,
     When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong,
          you'll cry
     Aloud to God, for that despised thing,
     The old dear comfort—Mother's apron
          string.

     Up to the Hall, my lady there'll wear
          her satin gown,
     For little Miss and Master'll be coming
          down from town.
     Oh ay, the childern's coming! The
          CHILDERN did I say?
     Of course, they're man and woman grown,
          this many and many a day.
     But still, my lady's mouth do smile, and
          squire looks fit to sing,
     As Master John and Miss Elaine is coming
          Mothering.

     Then down to Farmer Westacott's, there's
          doings fine and grand,
     Because young Jake is coming home from
          sea, you understand.
     Put into port but yesternight, and when
          he steps ashore,
     'Tis coming home the laddie is, to Somer-
          set once more.
     And so her's baking spicy cakes, and stir-
          ring raisins in,
     To welcome of her only chick, who's
          coming Mothering.

     And what of we? And ain't we got no
          childern for to come?
     Well, yes! There's Sam and Henery,
          and they'll be coming home.
     And Ned is very nigh six foot, and Joe is
          six foot three!
     But childern still to my good man, and
          childern still to me!
     And all the vi'lets seem to know, and all
          the thrushes sing,
     As how our Kate, and Bess and Flo is
          coming Mothering.

     When little Fanny came to town, I
          felt as I could sing!
     She were the sprackest little maid, the
          sharpest, pertest thing.
     Her mother were as proud as punch, and
          as for I—well, there!
     I never see sich gert blue eyes, I never
          see sich hair!
     "If all the weans in Somerset," says I,
          "was standin' here,
     Not one could hold a candle light, 'long-
          side our little dear."

     Now FANNY'S little Fan have come! She's
          clingin' round my knees,
     She's asking me for sups of tea, and bites
          of bread and cheese.
     She's climbing into grandma's bed, she's
          stroking grandma's face.
     She's tore my paper into bits and strawed
          it round the place.
     "If all the weans in all the world," says
          I, "was standin' here,
     Not one could hold a farthin' dip to
          Fanny's little dear!"
     For Fanny's little Fanny—oh, she's took
          the heart of me!
     'Tis childern's childern is the CROWN of
          humble folk like we!

     I've had a naughty day to-day.
        I scrunched a biscuit in my hair,
     And dipped my feeder in the milk,
        And spread my rusk upon a chair.

     When mother put me in my bath,
        I tossed the water all about,
     And popped the soap upon my head,
        And threw the sponge and flannel out.

     I wouldn't let her put my hand
        Inside the arm-hole of my vest;
     I held the sleeve until she said
        I really never SHOULD be dressed.

     And while she made the beds, I found
        Her tidy, and took out the hairs;
     And then I got the water-can
        And tipped it headlong down the stairs.

     I crawled along the kitchen floor,
        And got some coal out of the box,
     And drew black pictures on the walls,
        And wiped my fingers on my socks.

     Oh, this HAS been a naughty day!
        That's why they've put me off to bed.
     "He CAN'T get into mischief there,
        Perhaps we'll have some peace," they
          said.

     They put the net across my cot,
        Or else downstairs again I'd creep.
     But, see, I'll suck the counterpane
        To PULP before I go to sleep!

     Into the world you came, and I was
          dumb,
       Because "God did it," so the wise ones
          said;
     I wonder sometimes "Did you really
          come?"
       And "Are you truly . . . DEAD?"

     Thus you went out—alone and uncaressed;
       O sweet, soft thing, in all your infant
          grace,
     I never held you in my arms, nor pressed
       Warm kisses on your face!

     But, in the Garden of the Undefiled,
       My soul will claim you . . . you, and
          not another;
     I shall hold out my arms, and say "MY
          CHILD!"
     And you will call me "MOTHER!"

     (PSALM CXVI.)

     Because He heard my voice, and
          answered me,
     Because He listened, ah, so patiently,
     In those dark days, when sorrowful, alone,
     I knelt with tears, and prayed Him for a
          stone;
     Because He said me "Nay," and then in-
          stead,
     Oh, wonderful sweet truth! He gave me
          bread,
     Set my heart singing all in sweet accord;
     Because of this, I love—I love the Lord!

     "When He comes!
      My sweetest 'When'!"
                         C. ROSSETTI.

     Thus may it be (I thought) at some
          day's close,
     Some lilac-haunted eve, when every rose
     Breathes forth its incense. May He find
          me there,
     In holy leisure, lifting hands of prayer,
     In some sweet garden place,
     To catch the first dear wonder of His Face!

     Or, in my room above,
     In silent meditation of His love,
       My soul illumined with a rapture rare.
     It would be sweet, if even then, these eyes
     Might glimpse Him coming in the East-
          ern skies,
       And be caught up to meet Him in the
          air.

     But now! Ah, now, the days
     Rush by their hurrying ways!
     No longer know I vague imaginings,
     For every hour has wings.
     Yet my heart watches . . . as I work I
          say,
     All simply, to Him: "Come! And if to-day,
     Then wilt Thou find me thus: just as I
          am—
     Tending my household; stirring goose-
          berry jam;
     Or swiftly rinsing tiny vests and hose,
     With puzzled forehead patching some one's
          clothes;
     Guiding small footsteps, swift to hear, and
          run,
     From early dawn till setting of the sun."

     And whensoe'er He comes, I'll rise and go,
     Yes, all the gladlier that He found me so.

     Quick through the gates of Fairyland
        The South Wind forced his way.
     'Twas his to make the Earth forget
        Her grief of yesterday.
     "'Tis mine," cried he, "to bring her joy!"
        And on his lightsome feet
     In haste he slung the snowdrop bells,
     Pushed past the Fairy sentinels,
        And out with laughter sweet.

     Clear flames of Crocus glimmered on
        The shining way he went.
     He whispered to the trees strange tales
        Of wondrous sweet intent,
     When, suddenly, his witching voice
        With timbre rich and rare,
     Rang through the woodlands till it cleft
     Earth's silent solitudes, and left
        A Dream of Roses there!

     The Master of the Garden said;
     "Who, now the Earth seems cold
          and dead,
     Will by his fearless witnessing
     Hold men's hearts for the tardy spring?"

     "Not yet. I am but half awake,"
     All drowsily the Primrose spake.
     And fast the sleeping Daffodils
     Had folded up their golden frills.

     "Indeed," the frail Anemone
     Said softly, "'tis too cold for me."
     Wood Hyacinths, all deeply set,
     Replied: "No ice has melted yet."

     When suddenly, with smile so bright,
     Up sprang a Winter Aconite,
     And to the Master joyfully
     She cried: "I will the witness be."

     In Somerset they guide the plough
     From early dawn till twilight now.
     The good red earth smells sweeter yet,
     Behind the plough, in Somerset.
     The celandines round last year's mow
     Blaze out . . . and with his old-time vow
     The South Wind woos the Violet,
     In Somerset.

     Then, every brimming dyke and trough
     Is laughing wide with ripples now,
     And oh, 'tis easy to forget
     That wintry winds can sigh and sough,
     When thrushes chant on every bough
     In Somerset!

Song of a Woodland
     Stream

     Silent was I, and so still,
     As day followed day.
     Imprisoned until
     King Frost worked his will.
     Held fast like a vice,
     In his cold hand of ice,
     For fear kept me silent, and lo
     He had wrapped me around and about
          with a mantle of snow.

     But sudden there spake
     One greater than he.
     Then my heart was awake,
     And my spirit ran free.

     At His bidding my bands fell apart, He
          had burst them asunder.
     I can feel the swift wind rushing by me,
          once more the old wonder
     Of quickening sap stirs my pulses—I
          shout in my gladness,
     Forgetting the sadness,
     For the Voice of the Lord fills the air!

     And forth through the hollow I go, where
          in glad April weather,
     The trees of the forest break out into
          singing together.
     And here the frail windflowers will cluster,
          with young ferns uncurling,
     Where broader and deeper my waters go
          eddying, whirling,
     To meet the sweet Spring on her journey
         —His servant to be,
     Whose word set me free!

     Luggage in Advance

     "The Fairies must have come," I
          said,
     "For through the moist leaves, brown and
          dead,
     The Primroses are pushing up,
     And here's a scarlet Fairy-cup.
     They must have come, because I see
     A single Wood Anemone,
     The flower that everybody knows
     The Fairies use to scent their clothes.
     And hark! The South Wind blowing, fills
     The trumpets of the Daffodils.
     They MUST have come!"

                                 Then loud to me
     Sang from a budding cherry tree,
     A cheerful Thrush . . . "I say! I say!
     The Fairy Folk are on their way.
     Look out! Look out! Beneath your feet,
     Are all their treasures: Sweet! Sweet!
          Sweet!
     They could not carry them, you see,
     Those caskets crammed with witchery,
     So ready for the first Spring dance,
     They sent their Luggage in Advance!"

     There I halted. Further down the
          hollow
     Stood the township, where my errand lay.
     Firm my purpose, till a voice cried
          (Follow!
     Come this way—I tell you—come this
          way!)

     Silence, Thrush! You know I think of
          buying
     A Spring-tide hat; my frock is worn and
          old.
     So to the shops I go. What's that you're
          crying?
     (Here! Come here! And gather primrose
          gold.)
     Well, yes. Some day I will; but time is
          going.
     I haste to purchase silks and satins fair.
     I'm all in rags. (The Lady's Smock is
          showing
     Up yonder, in the little coppice there.)

     And wood anemones spread out their
          laces;
     Each celandine has donned a silken gown;
     The violets are lifting shy sweet faces.
     (And there's a chiff-chaff, soft, and slim, and
          brown.)

     But what about my hat? (The bees are
          humming.)
     And my new frock? (The hawthorn's
          budding free!
     Sweet! Oh, so sweet!) Well, have your
          way. I'm coming!
     And who's to blame for that? (Why, me!
          Me! Me!)

     Summer met me in the glade,
        With a host of fair princesses,
     Golden iris, foxgloves staid,
        Sunbeams flecked their gorgeous dresses.
     Roses followed in her train,
        Creamy elder-flowers beset me,
     Singing, down the scented lane,
        Summer met me!

     Summer met me! Harebells rang,
        Honeysuckle clustered near,
     As the royal pageant sang
        Songs enchanting to the ear.
     Rainy days may come apace,
        Nevermore to grieve or fret me,
     Since, in all her radiant grace,
        Summer met me!

     "Owd John's got past his work," said
          they,
     Last week as ever was—"don't pay
     To send by him. He's stoopid, too,
     And brings things what won't never do.
     We'll send by post, he is that slow.
     And that owd hoss of his can't go."

     But 'smornin', well, 'twas fun to see
     The gentlefolks run after we.
     Squire's lady stopped I in the lane,
     "Oh," says she, "goin' to town again?
     You'll not mind calling into Bings
     To fetch my cakes and buns and things?
     I've got a party comin' on,
     And nought to eat . . . so, DO 'ee, John."

     Then, up the street, who should I see,
     But old Mam Bessant hail'n' me.
     And Doctor's wife, and Mrs. Higgs
     Was wantin' vittles for their pigs,
     And would I bring some? (Well, what
          nex'?)
     And Granny Dunn has broke her specs,
     And wants 'em mended up in town,
     So would John call and bring 'em down
     To-night . . . ? and so the tale goes on,
     'Tis, "Sure you will, now DO 'ee, John."

     Well, 'tis a hevil wind that blows
     Nobody any good; it shows
     As owd John haves his uses yet,
     Though now and then he do forget.
     Gee up, owd gal. When strikes is on,
     They're glad of pore owd stoopid John.

The Lad's Love by the
     Gate

     Down in the dear West Country,
          there's a garden where I know
       The Spring is rioting this hour, though
          I am far away—
     Where all the glad flower-faces are old
          loves of long ago,
       And each in its accustomed place is
          blossoming to-day.

     The lilac drops her amethysts upon the
          mossy wall,
       While in her boughs a cheerful thrush
          is calling to his mate.
     Dear breath of mignonette and stocks!
          I love you, know you all.
       And, oh, the fragrant spices from the
          lad's love by the gate!

     Kind wind from the West Country, wet
          wind, but scented so,
       That straight from my dear garden
          you seem but lately come,
     Just tell me of the yellow broom, the
          guelder rose's snow,
       And of the tangled clematis where
          myriad insects hum.

     Oh, is there any heartsease left, or any
          rosemary?
       And in their own green solitudes, say,
          do the lilies wait?
     I knew it! Gentle wind, but once—
          speak low and tenderly—
       How fares it—tell me truly—with the
          lad's love by the gate?

     Across the land came a magic word
       When the earth was bare and
          lonely,
     And I sit and sing of the joyous spring,
       For 'twas I who heard, I only!
     Then dreams came by, of the gladsome
          days,
       Of many a wayside posy;
     For a crocus peeps where the wild rose
          sleeps,
       And the willow wands are rosy!

     Oh! the time to be! When the paths
          are green,
       When the primrose-gold is lying
     'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins
          sway,
       And the dear south wind comes sigh-
          ing.

     My mate and I, we shall build a nest,
       So snug and warm and cosy,
     When the kingcups gleam on the meadow
          stream,
       Where the willow wands are rosy!

     In Dorset Dear they're making hay
     In just the old West Country way.
     With fork and rake and old-time gear
     They make the hay in Dorset Dear.
     From early morn till twilight grey
     They toss and turn and shake the hay.
     And all the countryside is gay
     With roses on the fallen may,
     For 'tis the hay-time of the year
     In Dorset Dear.

     The loaded waggons wend their way
     Across the pasture-lands, and stay
     Beside the hedge where foxgloves peer;
     And ricks that shall be fashioned here
     Will be the sweetest stuff, they say,
     In Dorset Dear!

     There's a rustle in the woodlands,
          and a sighing in the breeze,
     For the Little Folk are busy in the bushes
          and the trees;
     They are packing up their treasures, every
          one with nimble hand,
     Ready for the coming journey back to
          sunny Fairyland.

     They have gathered up the jewels from
          their beds of mossy green,
     With all the dewy diamonds that summer
          morns have seen;
     The silver from the lichen and the
          powdered gold dust, too,
     Where the buttercups have flourished and
          the dandelions grew.

     They packed away the birdies' songs,
          then, lest we should be sad,
     They left the Robin's carol out, to make
          the winter glad;
     They packed the fragrance of the flowers,
          then, lest we should forget,
     Out of the pearly scented box they
          dropped a Violet.

     Then o'er a leafy carpet, by the silent
          woods they came,
     Where the golden bracken lingered and
          the maples were aflame.
     On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'er
          their wings the moonbeams shone,
     Music filtered through the forest—and the
          Little Folk were gone!

     The shopping had been tedious, and
          the rain
     Came pelting down as she turned home
          again.

     The motor-bus swirled past with rush and
          whirr,
     Nought but its fumes of petrol left for
          her.

     The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese
     Malodorously mixed themselves with
          these.

     And all seemed wrong. The world was
          drab and grey
     As the slow minutes wept themselves
          away.

     And then, athwart the noises of the street,
     A violin flung out an Irish air.

     "I'll take you home again, Kathleen."
          Ah, sweet,
     How tender-sweet those lilting phrases
          were!

     They soothed away the weariness, and
          brought
     Such peace to one worn woman, over-
          wrought,

     That she forgot the things which vexed
          her so:
     The too outrageous price of calico,

     The shop-girl's look of pitying insolence
     Because she paused to count the dwindling
          pence.

     The player stopped. But the rapt vision
          stayed.
     That woman faced life's worries unafraid.

     The sugar shortage now had ceased to be
     An insurmountable calamity.

     Her kingdom was not bacon, no, nor
          butter,
     But things more costly still, too rare to
          utter.

     And, over chimney-pots, so bare and tall,
     The sun set gloriously, after all.

     Oh, the garden ways are lonely!
     Winds that bluster, winds that
          shout,
     Battle with the strong laburnum,
     Toss the sad brown leaves about.
     In the gay herbaceous border,
     Now a scene of wild disorder,
     The last dear hollyhock has flamed his
          crimson glory out.

     Yet, upon this night of longing,
     Souls are all abroad, they say.
     Will they come, the dazzling blossoms,
     That were here but yesterday?
     Will the ghosts of radiant roses
     And my sheltered lily-closes
     Hold once more their shattered fragrance
          now November's on her way?

     Wallflowers, surely you'll remember,
     Pinks, recall it, will you not?
     How I loved and watched and tended,
     Made this ground a hallowed spot:
     Pansies, with the soft meek faces,
     Harebells, with a thousand graces:
     Dear dead loves, I wait and listen. Tell
          me, have you quite forgot?

     HUSH! THEY COME! For down the path-
          way
     Steals a fragrance honey-sweet.
     Larkspurs, lilies, stocks, and roses,
     Hasten now my heart to greet.
     Stay, oh, stay! My hands would hold
     you . . .
     But the arms that would enfold you
     Crush the bush of lad's love growing in
          the dusk beside my feet.

     In her last hour of life the tree
     Gave up her glorious memories,
     Wild scent of wood anemone,
     The sapphire blue of April skies.

     With faint but ever-strength'ning flame,
     The dew-drenched hyacinthine spires
     Were lost, as red-gold bracken came,
     With maple bathed in living fires.

     Grey smoke of ancient clematis
     Towards the silver birch inclined,
     And deep in thorny fastnesses
     The coral bryony entwined.

     Then softly through the dusky room
     They strayed, fair ghosts of other days,
     With breath like early cherry bloom,
     With tender eyes and gentle ways.

     They glimmered on the sombre walls,
     They danced upon the oaken floor,
     Till through the loudly silent halls
     Joy reigned majestical once more.

     Up blazed the fire, and, dazzling clear,
     One rapturous Spirit radiant stood.
     'Twas you at last! Yes, YOU, my dear.
     We two were back in Gatcombe Wood!

     GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING. (It
          seems
     The Church is full of bygone dreams.)

     LONG LIVE OUR NOBLE KING. (My own,
     'Tis hard to stand here all alone.)

     GOD SAVE THE KING. (But, sweetheart, you
     Were always brave to dare and do.)

     SEND HIM VICTORIOUS. (For then,
     My darling will come home again!)

     HAPPY AND GLORIOUS ('Twill be
     Like Heaven to him—and what to me?)

     LONG TO REIGN OVER US. (My dear!
     And we'd been wedded one short year!)

     GOD SAVE OUR KING. (And Lord, I pray
     Keep MY King safe this very day.)

     Forgive us, thou—great England's kingly
          King
     That thus do women National Anthems
          sing.