 | Ballads and Lyrics by Katharine Tynan |  |
vii
APOLOGIA.
Here in my book there will be found
No gleanings from a foreign ground:
The quiet thoughts of one whose feet
Have scarcely left her green retreat;
A little dew, a little scent,
A little measure of content,
A robin's song, perchance to stir
Some heart-untravelled traveller.
No gleanings from a foreign ground:
The quiet thoughts of one whose feet
Have scarcely left her green retreat;
A little dew, a little scent,
A little measure of content,
A robin's song, perchance to stir
Some heart-untravelled traveller.
A low horizon hems me in,
Low hills with fields of gold between,
Woods that are waving, veiled with grey,
A little river far away,
Birds on the boughs, and on the sward
Daisies that dancing praise the Lord.
Low hills with fields of gold between,
Woods that are waving, veiled with grey,
A little river far away,
Birds on the boughs, and on the sward
Daisies that dancing praise the Lord.
viii
Outside my window I can see
The bent boughs of an apple-tree,
Where little fruits turn rosier;
And every evening of the year
I watch the golden sunsets die
Yonder in the wide Western sky.
The bent boughs of an apple-tree,
Where little fruits turn rosier;
And every evening of the year
I watch the golden sunsets die
Yonder in the wide Western sky.
The doves are crooning wild and soft,
Where elm and beech stand up aloft,
Houses of birds that build and fly.
The wind is the birds' lullaby,
Rocking small cradles to and fro,
As a fond mother's foot might go
Where elm and beech stand up aloft,
Houses of birds that build and fly.
The wind is the birds' lullaby,
Rocking small cradles to and fro,
As a fond mother's foot might go
And in my garden, all in white,
The Mary-lilies take the light,
And southern-wood and lavender
Welcome the bee, in golden fur
A splendid lover, and on high
Hovers the spangled butterfly,
Where roses, old and sweet, dream on,
Fading to rich oblivion.
The Mary-lilies take the light,
And southern-wood and lavender
Welcome the bee, in golden fur
A splendid lover, and on high
Hovers the spangled butterfly,
Where roses, old and sweet, dream on,
Fading to rich oblivion.
And in my thatch the birds will build,
And still for me the sunshine gild
The world, though it be Winter day.
The rain will seem upon the spray
But showers of jewels, and the rime
Pale splendours raise in Winter time.
And still for me the sunshine gild
The world, though it be Winter day.
The rain will seem upon the spray
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Pale splendours raise in Winter time.
So in my book there will be found
No gleanings from a foreign ground.
If such you seek, go buy, go buy
Of some more travelled folk than I.
Kind Master Critic, say not, please,
How that her world so narrow is,
Since here she warns expectant eyes
That homely is her merchandise!
No gleanings from a foreign ground.
If such you seek, go buy, go buy
Of some more travelled folk than I.
Kind Master Critic, say not, please,
How that her world so narrow is,
Since here she warns expectant eyes
That homely is her merchandise!
| Ballads and Lyrics by Katharine Tynan | |