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Title: Stray Pebbles from the Shores of Thought

Author: Elizabeth Porter Gould

Release date: February 21, 2014 [eBook #44973]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Garcia, Charlie Howard, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRAY PEBBLES FROM THE SHORES OF THOUGHT ***
Yours Sincerely, Elizabeth Porter Gould.

STRAY PEBBLES
FROM THE
Shores of Thought

BY

ELIZABETH PORTER GOULD

BOSTON
Press of T. O. Metcalf & Co.
1892

COPYRIGHT 1892
BY
ELIZABETH PORTER GOULD

CONTENTS.

Poems of Nature:
  PAGE
To Walt Whitman 11
To Summer Hours 12
A True Vacation 13
A Question 14
To a Butterfly 16
In a Hammock 18
O rare, sweet summer day 20
An Old Man's Reverie 22
On Jefferson Hill 26
On Sugar Hill 28
At "Fairfield's," Wenham 29
Blossom-time 31
The Primrose 33
Joy, all Joy 35
Among the Pines 37
Conscious or Unconscious 39
Poems of Love:
Love's How and Why 43
Love's Guerdon 44
A Birthday Greeting 45
Three Kisses 48
If I were only sure 50
Absence 52
A Love Song 53
In Her Garden 55
Love's Wish 56
Is there anything purer 58
Longing 60
Young Love's Message 61
A Diary's Secret 63
A Monologue 65
A Priceless Gift 66
The Ocean's Moan 67
Love's Flower 70
Renunciation 71
Love Discrowned 74
A Widow's Heart Cry 76
Together 78
Shadowed Circles 80
Miscellaneous Poems:
A Song of Success 85
The Under World 87
She Knows 88
At Pittsford, Vermont 90
Childhood's Days 92
An Answer 94
Where, What, Whence 96
Heroes 98
A Magdalen's Easter Cry 100
For the Anniversary of Mrs. Browning's Death 103
Robert Browning 105
To Neptune, in behalf of S. C. G. 107
To the Pansies growing on the grave of A. S. D. 109
A Broken Heart 111
My Release 113
The god of music 115
To Wilhelm Gericke 118
For E. T. F.
1.—After the birth of her son 119
2.—Upon the death of her son 121
To C. H. F. 123
An Anniversary Poem 126
A Comfort 128
An Anniversary 129
To Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody 131
At Life's Setting 133
Grandma Waiting 136
Does it Pay 144
Auxilium ab Alto 145
Limitations 147
The Muse of History 148
An Impromptu to G. H. T. 151
To Mrs. Partington 153
Lines for the Seventieth Birthday Anniversary of Walt Whitman 156
Sonnets:
The Known God 161
To Phillips Brooks 163
At the "Porter Manse" 165
Our Lady of the Manse 167
To B. P. Shillaber 169
To Our Mary 171
A Birthday Remembrance 173
Josef Hofmann 175
After the Denial 177
Gethsemane 179
On Lake Memphremagog 181
Luke 23: 24 183
To Members of my Home Club 185
For my little Nephews and Nieces:
Mamma's Lullaby 189
Warren's Song 190
Baby Mildred 192
Rosamond and Mildred 194
'Chilla 196
Childish Fancies 197
What little Bertram did 199
"Dear little Mac" 202
Willard and Florence on Mt. Wachusett 207
A little Brazilian 210
The little doubter 213
Our Kitty's Trick 217
A Message 220

POEMS OF NATURE.

TO WALT WHITMAN.

"I loafe and invite my soul."
 And what do I feel?
 An influx of life from the great central power
 That generates beauty from seedling to flower.
"I loafe and invite my soul."
 And what do I hear?
 Original harmonies piercing the din
 Of measureless tragedy, sorrow, and sin.
"I loafe and invite my soul."
 And what do I see?
 The temple of God in the perfected man
 Revealing the wisdom and end of earth's plan.

August, 1891.

TO SUMMER HOURS.

DAY.

Trip lightly, joyous hours,
 While Day her heart reveals.
 Such wealth from secret bowers
 King Time himself ne'er steals.
 O joy, King Time ne'er steals!

NIGHT.

Breathe gently, tireless hours,
 While Night in beauty sleeps.
 Hold back e'en softest showers,—
 Enough that mortal weeps.
 Ah me, that my heart weeps!

A TRUE VACATION.

IN A HAMMOCK.

"Cradled thus and wind caressed,"
 Under the trees,
 (Oh what ease.)
 Nature full of joyous greeting;
 Dancing, singing, naught secreting,
 Ever glorious thoughts repeating—
 Pause, O Time,
 I'm satisfied!
 Now all life
 Is glorified!

Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass.

A QUESTION.

Is life a farce?
 Tell me, O breeze,
 Bearing the perfume of flowers and trees,
 While gaily decked birds
 Pour forth their gladness in songs beyond words,
 And cloudlets coquette in the fresh summer air
 Rejoicing in everything being so fair—
 Is life a farce?
How can it be, child,
 When Nature at heart
 Is but the great spirit of love and of art
 Eternally saying, "I must God impart."
Is life a farce?
 Tell me, O soul,
 Struggling to act out humanity's whole
 'Midst Error and Wrong,
 And failure in sight of true victory's song;
 With Wisdom and Virtue at times lost to view,
 And love for the many lost in love for the few—
 Is life a farce?
How can it be, child,
 When humanity's heart
 Is but the great spirit of love and of art
 Eternally crying, "I must God impart."

TO A BUTTERFLY.

O butterfly, now prancing
 Through the air,
 So glad to share
 The freedom of new living,
 Come, tell me my heart's seeking.
 Shall I too know
 After earth's throe
 Full freedom of my being?
 Shall I, as you,
 Through law as true,
 Know life of fuller meaning?
O happy creature, dancing,
 Is time too short
 With pleasure fraught
 For you to heed my seeking?
Ah, well, you've left me thinking:
 If here on earth
 A second birth
 Can so transform a being,
 Why may not I
 In worlds on high
 Be changed beyond earth's dreaming?

IN A HAMMOCK.

The rustling leaves above me,
 The breezes sighing round me,
 A network glimpse of bluest sky
 To meet the upturned seeing eye,
 The greenest lawn beneath me,
 Loved flowers and birds to greet me,
 A well-kept house of ancient days
 To tell of human nature's ways,—
 Oh happy, happy hour!
Whence comes all this to bless me,
 The soft wind to caress me,
 The life which does my strength renew
 For purer visions of the true?
 Alas! no one can tell me.
 But, hush! let Nature lead me.
 Let even wisest questions cease
 While I breathe in such life and peace
 This happy, happy hour.

Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass.

O RARE, SWEET SUMMER DAY.

"The day is placid in its going,
 To a lingering motion bound,
 Like a river in its flowing—
 Can there be a softer sound?"
—Wordsworth.
O rare, sweet summer day,
 Could'st thou not longer stay?
 The soothing, whispering wind's caress
 Was bliss to weary brain,
 The songs of birds had power to bless
 As in fair childhood's reign.
The tinted clouds were free from showers,
 The sky was wondrous clear,
 The precious incense of rare flowers
 Made sweet the atmosphere;
 The shimmering haze of mid-day hour
 Was balm to restlessness,
 While thought of silent hidden power
 Was strength for helplessness—
 O rare, sweet summer day,
 Could'st thou not longer stay?

Porter Manse.

AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE.

Blow breezes, fresh breezes, on Love's swiftest wing,
 And bear her the message my heart dares to sing.
 Pause not on the highways where gathers earth's dust,
 Nor in the fair heavens, though cloudlets say must.
 But blow through the valleys where flowers await
 To give of their essence ere yielding to fate;
 Or blow on the hill tops where atmospheres lie
 Imbued with the health which no money can buy.
 But fail not, O breezes, on Love's swiftest wing
 To bear her the message my heart dares to sing.
The breezes, thus ladened, sped on in their flight,
 As, cradled in hammock, I sang in delight,
 On that blest summer day in the years long ago,
 When life was all sunshine and youth all aglow.
 The sweets of the valleys, the breath of the hills
 Were gathered—the best that our loved earth distills—
 As, obedient still to my wish, on they flew
 To the home of my darling they now so well knew.

******
Alas for the breezes, alas for my heart,
 Alas for my message, so full of love's art!
 If only the breezes had followed their will,
 And loitered among the pure cloudlets so still,
 They'd have met a fair soul from the earth just set free
 In search of their help for its message to me;
 The message my darling, with last fleeting breath,
 In vain tried to utter, o'ertaken by death.
The breezes, fresh breezes, have blown on since then,
 With messages laden again and again.
 As for me, I send none. I wait only their will
 To bring me that message my lone heart to fill.
 They'll find it some day in a light zephyr chase,
 For nothing is lost in pure love's boundless space.

ON JEFFERSON HILL.

(BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL RANGE.)

The sovereign mountains bask in sunset rays,
 The valleys rest in peace;
 The lingering clouds melt into twilight haze,
 The birds their warbling cease;
 The villagers' hour of welcome sleep is near,
 The cattle wander home,
 While wrapped in summer-scented atmosphere,
 Calm evening comes to roam
 With gentle pace
 Through star-lit space,
 Till moon-kissed Night holds all in her embrace,
 And Morning waits to show her dawn-flushed face.

ON SUGAR HILL.

TO F. B. F.

The lovely valleys nestling in the arms
 Of glorious mountain peaks;
 The purple tint of sunset hour, and charms
 The evening hour bespeaks;
 The monarch peak kissed by the rising sun,
 While clouds keep guard below;
 Grand, restful views, with foliage autumn-won,
 And Northern lights rare glow,—
 Will e'er recall,
 In memory's hall,
 The happy days when on fair "Look-Off's" height,
 Sweet friendship cast her hues of golden light.

Hotel Look-Off, September, 1891.

AT FAIRFIELDSA, WENHAM.

June, 1890.

Buttercups and daisies,
 Clover red and white,
 Ferns and crown-topped grasses
 Waving with delight,
 Dainty locust-blossoms,
 All that glad June yields,
 Welcome me with gladness
 To dearly-loved "Fairfields."
 But where's my happy collie dog,
 My Rosa?
The orioles sing greeting,
 The butterflies come near,
 The hens cease not their cackling,
 The horses neigh "I'm here,"
 The cows nod "I have missed you,"
 The pigs' eyes even shine,
 And from the red-house hearth-stone
 Comes pet cat Valentine.
 But where's my happy collie dog,
 My Rosa?
I miss her joyful greeting,
 Her handsome, high-bred face,
 Her vigorous, playful action
 In many a fair field chase.
 Not even lively Sancho
 Can fill for me her place.
O Rosa, happy Rosa,
 Gone where the good dogs go,
 Dost find such fields as "Fairfields,"
 More love than we could show?

A "Fairfields" is but another name for "Porter Manse."

BLOSSOM-TIME.

Blossoms floating through the air,
 Bearing perfumes rich and rare,
 Free from trouble, toil, and care.
 Would I were a blossom!
Robins singing in the trees,
 Feeling every velvet breeze,
 Free from knowledge that bereaves.
 Would I were a robin!
Violets peaceful in the vale,
 Telling each its happy tale,
 Free from worldly noise and sale.
 Would I were a violet!
Blessed day of needed wealth,
 Full of Nature's perfect health,
 Fill me with thy power.
Then like blossoms I shall be,
 Wafting only purity,
 Or like robins, singing free
 'Midst the deepening mystery,
 Or like violets, caring naught
 Only to reflect God's thought."

Porter Manse.

THE PRIMROSE.

Who tells you, sweet primrose, 'tis time to wake up
 After dreaming all day?
 Who changes so quickly your sombre green dress
 To the yellow one gay,
 And makes you the pet of the twilight's caress,
 And of poet's sweet lay?
 Who does, primrose, pray?
The primrose, secure on his emerald throne,
 Looked up quickly to say,
 "A dear lovely fairy glides down from his throne
 In the sun's golden ray,
 And with a sweet kiss opens wide all our eyes,
 Saying, 'Now is your day.'
 And lo! when he's gone we are filled with surprise
 At our wondrous array,
 So fresh and so gay.
 Do tell us the name of this fairy, I pray,
 Who gives of his beauty, and then hies away
 Without thanks, without pay.
 Does he linger your way?"

JOY, ALL JOY.

Lying on the new-mown hay, in a sightly field,
 On a summer day,
 With no care to weigh,
 Or a bitter thought to stay all that sense might yield—
 What a joy to have alway!
Sky as blue as blue can be, perfect green all round,
 Birdlings on the wing
 Ere they pause to sing
 On the top of bush or tree, or on sweet hay-mound—
 Restful joy in everything!
Butterflies just come to light, proud of freedom's hour,
 Cows in pastures near,
 Wondering why I'm here,
 Chipmunks now and then in sight, bees in clover-flower—
 Added joy when these appear!
Happy children far and near climbing loads of hay,
 Running here and there.
 Farmer's work to share,
 Skipping, shouting loud and clear, full of daring play—
 Children's joy! Joy everywhere!

AMONG THE PINES.

Far up in air the pines are murmuring
 Love songs sweet and low,
 With a rhythmic flow,
 Worthy of the glad sun's glow.
The airy clouds are o'er them bending,
 Captured by the sound
 Of such pleasure found
 In a playful daily round.
The birds pause in their flight to listen,
 Wondering all the while
 How the trees can smile
 Rooted so to earthly guile.
The hush of summer noon enwraps them
 Perfumed from below
 By the flowers that show
 They, too, murmuring love songs know.
All nature finds a joy in loving—
 Oh, that I could hear
 Love songs once so dear
 Death has hushed forever here!

Intervale Woods, North Conway.

CONSCIOUS OR UNCONSCIOUS?

The earthquake's shock, the thunder's roar,
 The lightning's vivid chain,
 The ocean's strength, the deluge's pour,
 The wildest hurricane,
Are moods that Nature loves to show
 To man who boasts his birth
 From conscious force she could not know
 Because denied soul-worth.
But is it true she does not share
 A knowledge in God's plan?
 Must not she His own secret bear
 To so touch soul of man?
Those who deny this see not clear
 Into the heart of things;
 For how could otherwise God here
 Reveal His wanderings?

POEMS OF LOVE.

LOVE'S HOW AND WHY.