The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

December, 18—

Now I know why he sits so late and alone in his room,
And why there comes over his face that shadow I took for gloom,
Which falls like a sudden haze all over the summer sky,
And makes him look stony and cold, with a dream-like fixèd eye,
Seeing not what we see, for the outer vision is dim,
As he looks on a world unseen, and hears it singing to him.
Often it filled me with fear, for I thought he was wroth with me;
But he is not angry at all—only trying, he says, to see
Thoughts that are hard to get at, and hardly worth getting when done;
But the fool's habit of dreaming he learnt when living alone;
I must not fancy he sulks; he was only a bit of a poet,
Dram-drinking verses in secret, and hoping that no one would know it.
So then he brought me some poems, writ for our marriage-day,
“Orange-blossoms” he calls them, “A wreath for a wedding gay.”
I do not know that I care for poems—though hymns are sweet—
I do not want to be talked of, or sung some day in the street,
And at the time I was plagued with these horrible tradesmen's books,
And maybe my words were dry, and listless also my looks.
They are nice enough verses, I fancy —but oh those dreadful bills!
And he just laughs at my trouble, and calls it the care that kills—
A faithless terror of bakers and butchers and Philistines,
Unworthy a true believer in orthodox, sound divines.
Well, they are pretty verses, and so I will write them here—
But how can he pen such trifles with that shadow of debt so near?

ORANGE BLOSSOMS

BUDDING

It was the gloaming of the day,
And first pale glimmer of the moon,
The fishing-boats were in the bay,
And to and fro they seemed to sway,
Rhythmic, to a mystic tune,
In the pale glimmer of the moon.

We sat us on a thymy bank,
Where sea-pink and the wild-rose grew,
And blue campanulas were rank,
And wild geranium blossoms drank

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Red sunsets that enriched their hue,
And pansies twinkled, gold and blue.

And fronting us the broad sea-sand
Spread, ribbed and freckled, to the spray
Crisp-curving to the curving land,
And plashing on the pebbly strand;
Beyond, the vague, vast waters lay
Lazily heaving in the bay.

Three children played along the beach
With laughter, as the small waves broke;
I heard their laughter and their speech
Rippling along the sandy beach,
Though fear and trouble in me woke
Like the waves surging as they broke.

I told my love, and for a space
She gazed out far away from me.
O throbbing heart, how still the place!
Was that a smile that lit her face?
Or but the moon drawn from the sea
To kiss the lips that can bless me?

I told the love you knew before;
You said, I did not need to tell,
And that you would not answer more,
For that I also knew before
The secret of your heart so well
It did not need that you should tell.

BLOOMING

O bleak November morning chill,
When trees are bare, and haws are ripe!
Hopping upon my window sill
I heard the cheery redbreast pipe;
And through the crackling twigs there ran
A twitter of birds since day began.

With great frost-ferns the panes were white,
The fields were white with dust-like snow,
The trees, all crystalled overnight,
In white robes made a ghostly show,
And where the fountain used to drip
The ice had clutched it in its grip.

Chanticleer at barn-door crew,
Geese were gobbling 'mong the stubble,
My dog in circles round me flew,
Barking loud at its shadow-double,
And ploughed the crisp frost with his nose
Right where the cluttering partridge rose.

Crowding close, the dainty sheep
Nibbled by the bridled brook,
The hare pricked up her ears to leap
Behind the ricks to a quiet nook,
Knee-deep in straw the black ox lowed,
His every breath like a steaming cloud.

Jenny, looking tossed and tumbled,
Stept out with her milking-pails;
Yawning Robin crept and grumbled,
Blowing on his finger-nails,
Tingling fingers, purple-tipped,
Sharply by the frost-wind nipped.

But I laughed at ice and snow,
Shouting to the shrill north wind;
She is mine, I said, and no
Winter in the world I find;
Love, my life is filled with thee,
And all is summer now with me.

BURSTING

O pathway through the meadow green,
And thou, grey stile, beneath the thorn,
And murmurous river softly borne
In dimpling ripplets hardly seen,

Sweet path by happy footsteps worn,
If all our visions linger there,
The poet now shall find thine air,
More fancy-full than early morn.

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We wandered in a dreamland fair,
Beside the huge, coiled willow trees,
Discoursing of a life to please
The Man who took our grief and care.

Not ours the dull, ignoble ease
Of cushioned seats, or routs and balls,
Brain-dulling dinners, civil calls,
And poor respectabilities;

Not ours to care for marble halls;
A modest home, and frugal fare,
With love for cobwebbed wines and rare,
And peace for pictures on the walls—

For more than these we would not care:
But generous culture should be ours,
And pious use of all our powers,
And knowledge, as the primal pair

Knew all the beasts and birds and flowers;
And with our best we'd serve the Best,
And in His goodness find our rest,
Untroubled through the years and hours.