The Project Gutenberg eBook of Brown leaves and other verses, by Ella Stevens Harris.

The chariot of the dawn rolls in
And, far above all care,
As freely as the gladsome lark
My thought finds upper air.

My thought finds upper air with thee:
O fear thou not, I pray,
That such rare visions of the soul
Unfit us for the way,

Our feet must journey. ’Tis not so:
For look thou—as we soar
Is there not glory in the vale
We never saw before?

Yet was there glory in the vale
And you and I were there—
The same blue sky was over head,
The same fond, brooding care

Was over us: yet we were blind
Till Love, like him of old,
Laid on our eyes his healing hand,
And lo, we now behold

Life as it is. Yet more and more,
As time shall roll away,
I trow new glories will unfold,
We dream not of to-day.

My thought finds upper air, my love,
And thou art with me there—
The glory of the mountain heights
We’ll carry everywhere.

Like beams of light to darkness,
Is fancy, to the real;
Lifting the down-cast spirit
Unto its high ideal.

Dreamers are all about us,
On mountain or by sea,
And had we no such visions,
Less bright this world would be.

The aged man is dreaming
Of merry boyhood days;
Of favorite haunts, and schoolmates,
And of their wonted plays.

His life was then all sunshine,
He roamed about at will;
And years passed on as smoothly,
As glides a laughing rill.

But time has brought her burdens
Of mingled pain and care;
They’ve bent his manly figure,
And silvered o’er his hair.

Stately is now his bearing,
He breathes a freer air;
Then call him not from dreamland,
For he is happy there.

He now beholds the Heavenly,
The dear ones gone before;
No more are they divided,
But with him, as of yore.

O, may such glorious visions
Oft to his spirit come;
For, surely, they are gateways
Unto that “Heavenly Home.”

The future to the youthful
Diffuses brightest beams;
All wants and wishes granted,
In golden future dreams.

O, many fairy castles
The youthful fancy rears!
But when the air dissolves them,
Oft come the bitter tears.

Still, chide them not for building,
Burdens will lighter seem;
And life, with all its shadows,
Be brighter for the dream.

Of what the infant dreameth,
The wisest ne’er may know;
Yet, they must be in dreamland,
When the dimples come and go.

Over a faded blossom,
Or shining curl, we dream,
Till absent forms, through memory,
E’en almost present seem.

Yes, dreams are fraught with blessings,
In love and mercy given;
And oft are golden stairways,
Which draw us nearer heaven.

As at sea the eager voyager
Thoughtfully from shore to shore,
Waves farewell to scenes behind him,
Welcomes scenes that rise before;
So I stand upon Time’s ocean,
And, as from my outer view
Fades the old year’s face in glory,
Dawns the new in roseate hue.

Dear old year, forever loyal,
Listen to my thought of thee,
All thou hast been, all thou now art
Wilt thou be in memory.
Summing up my gain and losses,
Do I find my gain is more,
Wider vision, richer friendships
Have been added to my store.

Some, who walked with me, have vanished;
Yet at memory’s holy shrine
Do we meet in sweet communion;
Theirs am I, and they are mine.
For their influence on my journey
Life is sweeter, lighter care,
As the violet’s bloom is brighter
When the dewdrop sparkles there.

Dear Old Year—Lo! thou art vanished,
And here, standing in thy place,
Is the New Year, full of promise,
With the self-same care-free face
Thou did’st wear, when first I knew thee.
Welcome New Year! Hear my vow:
I will trust in all thy future,
And will do thy bidding, now.

As ye enter with the new year,
Young or old, be brave at heart—
Life hath need of faithful service,
And each soul must bear its part;
Sweeter than a nation’s praises
For high deeds of valor done
Is the simple joy of duty,
Is the peace from victory won.

Brave Columbus! Did the Builder
Show to you his wondrous plan,
And inspire in you the courage
To reveal it unto man?

History shows no braver hero,
Living, or beneath the sod—
Shows no greater self-denial,
Shows no deeper faith in God.

We never can recall a day;
When it is past, it rolls away
Into the lap of time.

We might as well attempt to sow
Our seed amid the falling snow,
And hope for fruitage rare,

As, life’s bright spring of action o’er,
Amid the present’s din and roar
Strive to reclaim the past.

Though we should call, with sobs of pain,
For the old year to come again,
In vain would be our cry.

Full many a fault we would correct,
And many a scrawl we would reject,
Were we to write anew.

But, while we wish the year’s return,
While for the past our spirits yearn,
A cheerful voice exclaims:

“He who would reach sublimest height
Must toil by day, and pray by night,
And struggle with the tide—

Now is the time to carve your fate!
Time never lags, though man be late—
Lost days will ne’er return.”

While my darling child is sleeping
In her little bed,
Mother’s earnest prayer is heaping
Blessings on her head.

First she prays that God will teach her,
How to worthy be
Of so sweet a child to love her;
Then, to clearly see,

Duties of her noble calling—
That, as days go by,
She may help that soul develop
All that’s pure and high.

“Make my little darling happy,”
Fondly mother prays;
Happy as the birds and blossoms
Through the summer days.

May God keep her sweet and loving,
Strong to battle sin,
And, as now she trust in mother,
May she trust in Him!

How slowly you creep on—tick faster, clock!
One that I love is nigh; when he is come
You may cease ticking—little will I care
For measurement of time! Then I’ll not peer
Into your face and question, “what’s the hour?”
If you withhold the telling, less my blame,
For in that world of love, where soul meets soul,
Time is not measured by the pendulum’s swing,
But by quick pulse-beats. One that I love is nigh;
What mean those words? Upon the silent air
They fall, and strike upon my listening ear
In echoing tones. “One that I love is nigh!”
How strange that world of love, and yet, how fair;
To once have lived there is to catch a glint
Of the Eternal Brightness.

Naught can separate
Two souls that love. If I could fetters forge
To bind his heart to mine, by such slight threads
As spiders spin, I would not do it. Love
Is loftiest in his flight when free of wing.

O, is not love,
In its eternal might, the power that binds
All worlds together?

O lovely rosebud, thou art more to me
Than what men call thee; for a mystery
As fathomless as ocean in thy breast
Is folded with each petal, I, in quest
Of knowledge, do most reverently
Approach thy presence-chamber. Thou shalt be
My teacher: I am weary grown of books
And speech of men. Lo! something in thy looks
Inspires new courage. O reveal to me
The secret of thy being! I may see
Thy beauty, scent thy sweetness; yet thou art
E’en more than these, for thou dost play a part
In life’s grand mystr’y. O is’t given thee,
The power to solve, what is denied to me?
Did’st see, or only feel, that Hand of might
That touched thee at the Spring-dawn, or was light
Denied thee then? Rare gift of light—to me,
Sublimest type of immortality.

At thy first flush of crimson I was nigh
To watch thy coming—what no human eye
Might hope to witness. And lo, silently,
As stars find birth thou didst appear to me
In form perfection, in thy charm of dress
Passing all wonder in thy loveliness.
Still thou art silent to my listening ear,
But deep within my consciousness, I hear
“Lo! beauty, love and truth, are one with Him
Who beams in radiance, hides in shadows dim.”
What though thy birthplace be the humble sod,
Thy life and mine are, surely, one with God!

Shine out, Sun, in all your splendor,
On this dreary Autumn day—
With your warm lips, kiss the cold earth—
One I love is on the way
To my waiting arms—O kiss it
Till the very air shall be
Tempered to the breath of Heaven.
I would have my loved one see,
That the heart of all things pulseth,
As in perfect unison,
Just as we have felt our hearts beat
When the twain seemed heart of one.
Night will drop her sable mantle,
E’er my loved-one comes, I know;
Send out little stars to greet him,
’Fuse them with a wond’rous glow.
One is coming, O my Father,
In the love of whom I see
Thee, the source of all true loving,
And through whom I come to Thee—
Come to Thee with deep thanksgiving,
For Thy more than wond’rous care;
O’er the precious seed we planted
In the genial springtime fair—
“Many seeds fall short of issue.”
Yes, my Father, this I know;
But we’ve somehow felt and trusted,
With our seed, it were not so.
We are longing for the fruitage,
Hopefully, we trust and pray,
Pray with deepest sense of hunger;
Father, turn us not away!
“Can’st not trust a little longer?”
Yes, my Father, long and late—
Till the snow falls on the green-sward
We can trust, and we can wait.

O, beautiful blue-fringed gentian bloom,
Woulds’t know why I care for you?
You were plucked for me by a friendly hand
From the hillside where you grew.

How could you come up from the brown earth
And be such a gorgeous thing?
Did mother nature color your gown,
When she tinted the blue bird’s wing?

Or did the rain drops into your buds,
Bring down the blue of the sky?
Yea, He who painted the rain-bow’s stripes,
E’en the waysides, beautify.

A dearer spot is your woodland home,
Where the pine trees lull to rest;
Where the sweet Spring-blossoms come again,
And the song-birds love to nest.

To drop your seed, in the soft brown earth
With your kindred little flower,
Was that your dream ere you were plucked
To wither in an hour?

“Glad am I to be the messenger
Of tender thoughts,” you say,
“And to cheer the sick and sorrowing ones
Is my dearest wish, alway.”

Then tenderly, little blossom of blue,
I’ll fold you away with care,
You came, a messenger of love,
And found me in dispair.

You brought the sunshine and summer shower,
The bird song and hum of the bee,
The noisy stream and the silent lake,
And the balsam from the tree.
* * * * * * *
And now all seems good, for all seems God,
I, too, have touched the hem
Of the seamless robe of his great love,
For lo! I am well again.