A Child of the People And Other Poems. By James Chapman Woods |
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 | A Child of the People |  |
145
SONNETS.
147
WAITING.
What mellowing maid shall Time make wife to me?
I do not think we know each other yet,
Or, may-be, on one pavement once we met,
Touched, passed; I thought not of the bond to be.
Stirred in her soul strange prescience,—This is he
Whose hand on mine the marriage-ring shall set?
Did she look back, feeling the sudden fret
O' the soul upon its walls of mystery?
I do not think we know each other yet,
Or, may-be, on one pavement once we met,
Touched, passed; I thought not of the bond to be.
Stirred in her soul strange prescience,—This is he
Whose hand on mine the marriage-ring shall set?
Did she look back, feeling the sudden fret
O' the soul upon its walls of mystery?
O destined bride I dream of half the day,
Do you dream of the destined bridegroom too?
Then our dreams meet in dreamland's dawnless grey,
And straight grow one as here our hearts shall do.
Whirl swiftly, Time, her single hours away,
For I shall soon be over-old to woo!
Do you dream of the destined bridegroom too?
Then our dreams meet in dreamland's dawnless grey,
And straight grow one as here our hearts shall do.
Whirl swiftly, Time, her single hours away,
For I shall soon be over-old to woo!
148
TWENTY-ONE.
I.
O little sister, not so long ago
The Bible names were giants in your path,
Terrible as to Israel he of Gath,
Whom yet you, pigmy, learned to overthrow.
Hardly you reach my shoulder now, tiptoe.
That trustful, wondering look which a child hath
In limpid eyes unvexed of the world's scathe,
Says plain as words, “I am a child's, you know!”
The Bible names were giants in your path,
Terrible as to Israel he of Gath,
Whom yet you, pigmy, learned to overthrow.
Hardly you reach my shoulder now, tiptoe.
That trustful, wondering look which a child hath
In limpid eyes unvexed of the world's scathe,
Says plain as words, “I am a child's, you know!”
Why, only now the dolls began to grieve,
Imprisoned where, before, the puzzles stood.
I vow I think you stole there yester-eve
To bribe them with caresses to be good:
Yet, for all this, you try to make believe
That vou to-day are crowned with womanhood!
Imprisoned where, before, the puzzles stood.
I vow I think you stole there yester-eve
To bribe them with caresses to be good:
Yet, for all this, you try to make believe
That vou to-day are crowned with womanhood!
149
II.
Ah me, what woes were yours, what tears you shed!
Still by sick dolls for ever would you sit;
The cat, quick-tempered Tom, would scratch and spit,
Because my sweet must take it still to bed.
Once real sorrow, may-be, when o'erhead
Voices were ever low and lights long lit:
The room where, with a coffin crowding it,
They showed the child a mother lying dead.
Still by sick dolls for ever would you sit;
The cat, quick-tempered Tom, would scratch and spit,
Because my sweet must take it still to bed.
Once real sorrow, may-be, when o'erhead
Voices were ever low and lights long lit:
The room where, with a coffin crowding it,
They showed the child a mother lying dead.
But you have grown and left these griefs behind
With Youth, who will not let his burdens last.
Since you will be a woman, you will find
That troubles never more will fade so fast.
O world who hath given her memories fair and kind,
Deal with her Future lightly as with her Past!
With Youth, who will not let his burdens last.
Since you will be a woman, you will find
That troubles never more will fade so fast.
O world who hath given her memories fair and kind,
Deal with her Future lightly as with her Past!
150
III.
A woman! and you laugh with stately glee,
And I laugh with you, such a jest it is
To think you have become too old to kiss,
And with unstudied words no longer free.
A woman! you have nothing more to be:
Men may be statesmen, schoolmen, that or this,
Each greater by the honour that is his;
But “woman” is a woman's one degree.
And I laugh with you, such a jest it is
To think you have become too old to kiss,
And with unstudied words no longer free.
A woman! you have nothing more to be:
Men may be statesmen, schoolmen, that or this,
Each greater by the honour that is his;
But “woman” is a woman's one degree.
Nay though, not quite! Look upward, little one!
Why should your eyes such thoughts untold retain?
Yes, in your head I guess what fancies run,
Already of a higher title fain:—
You would be wife before the days be done,
And see your daughters dress the dolls again.
Why should your eyes such thoughts untold retain?
Yes, in your head I guess what fancies run,
Already of a higher title fain:—
You would be wife before the days be done,
And see your daughters dress the dolls again.
151
IV.
What thoughts shall maidens have on days like these?
God knows that mine are always sad enough!
To think my joys are of such subtle stuft
As, shrivelling somehow, fades to memories:
To think what burdens bring men to the knees,
And hold them there in flinty ways and rough;
How choose the work there is such surfeit of,
To help the worn-out world unto some peace?
God knows that mine are always sad enough!
To think my joys are of such subtle stuft
As, shrivelling somehow, fades to memories:
To think what burdens bring men to the knees,
And hold them there in flinty ways and rough;
How choose the work there is such surfeit of,
To help the worn-out world unto some peace?
But do not chide; you need no sermon fear:
With no grave words your birthday shall be vexed.
And yet, my maid, if you will deign to hear,
Take with your life begun this saw for text:—
Only the work is noble which is near,
And after, that is noble which is next.
With no grave words your birthday shall be vexed.
And yet, my maid, if you will deign to hear,
Take with your life begun this saw for text:—
Only the work is noble which is near,
And after, that is noble which is next.
152
V.
Stand silent, with meek hands against the side,—
Nay, do not pout,—and hear your fortune told.
Deem me a Gipsy woman brown and bold,
Whose nimble wit more than you think has spied,—
Hoards a week's whispers ere her craft be plied,
And needs not that her hand be crossed with gold.
Oh, she tells fortunes rarely, and hath sold
Philtres ere now to win a wished-for bride!
Nay, do not pout,—and hear your fortune told.
Deem me a Gipsy woman brown and bold,
Whose nimble wit more than you think has spied,—
Hoards a week's whispers ere her craft be plied,
And needs not that her hand be crossed with gold.
Oh, she tells fortunes rarely, and hath sold
Philtres ere now to win a wished-for bride!
“You have a hundred lovers; one is true,
And in the house of life your stars have met.
Ah, he would cross all stormiest seas for you,
And sends these songs to pay a birthday debt.”
White witch, begone! She reads her fortune through!—
Does the world guess you're not my sister yet?
And in the house of life your stars have met.
Ah, he would cross all stormiest seas for you,
And sends these songs to pay a birthday debt.”
White witch, begone! She reads her fortune through!—
Does the world guess you're not my sister yet?
153
VI.
New sister of all women, none of mine,
Who would be more to you than brothers may,
Let this best birthday be your bridal day
Of heart and troth, whereto our lips shall sign.
What, ere the Gipsy came, did you divine?
Ah, little witch, to guess long months away
That, of my soul, Love had some word to say
Which you would hear of! Well your eyes might shine!
Who would be more to you than brothers may,
Let this best birthday be your bridal day
Of heart and troth, whereto our lips shall sign.
What, ere the Gipsy came, did you divine?
Ah, little witch, to guess long months away
That, of my soul, Love had some word to say
Which you would hear of! Well your eyes might shine!
And now in turn you shall my fortune tell.
Sweet love, whose head such myriad fancies share,
You know the divination of the well,
And how the loved face at a lover's prayer
Shines upward? In mine eyes essay the spell,
For I must love the face that mirrors there!
Sweet love, whose head such myriad fancies share,
You know the divination of the well,
And how the loved face at a lover's prayer
Shines upward? In mine eyes essay the spell,
For I must love the face that mirrors there!
154
TWENTY-TWO.
I.
A year ago I sent six songs to you:
Six heart-beats there you heard who read them well;—
Six long vibrations of a birthday bell,
Which, ere they passed, in marriage music drew
Strange echoes out of heaven, till all the blue
Throbbed to the echoing strain that rose and fell,
And every wind had the same tale to tell,
Or so it seemed, and every leaflet knew.
Six heart-beats there you heard who read them well;—
Six long vibrations of a birthday bell,
Which, ere they passed, in marriage music drew
Strange echoes out of heaven, till all the blue
Throbbed to the echoing strain that rose and fell,
And every wind had the same tale to tell,
Or so it seemed, and every leaflet knew.
Then to your heart such sense of terror crept
As Eve had, who for joy of her new life,
Danced 'mid the flowers upon her youngest morn,
When out of the blind bower where he slept
The man, awakening, heard, and called her “Wife,”
And love and dread into her world were born.
As Eve had, who for joy of her new life,
Danced 'mid the flowers upon her youngest morn,
When out of the blind bower where he slept
The man, awakening, heard, and called her “Wife,”
And love and dread into her world were born.
155
II.
The knell of your last maiden year to-day
Rings in mine ears, like some strange voice that thrills
The frost-time of the iron-hearted hills,
With the first threat of Spring not far away.
Now flame the clearer dawns across the grey,
And the dull east with golden glory fills,
And my heart leaps, as leap the loosened rills,
With pulses of thawed wells and nearing May.
Rings in mine ears, like some strange voice that thrills
The frost-time of the iron-hearted hills,
With the first threat of Spring not far away.
Now flame the clearer dawns across the grey,
And the dull east with golden glory fills,
And my heart leaps, as leap the loosened rills,
With pulses of thawed wells and nearing May.
Lo, you white years, to whom she hath given such grace,
Whom her fair life threads like a perfect tune,
I pray you say “Good-morrow,” and be gone,
For now your golden brethren near apace,
And, while in heaven dwindles the harvest moon,
Your perfect maid her wedding wreath hath on!
Whom her fair life threads like a perfect tune,
I pray you say “Good-morrow,” and be gone,
For now your golden brethren near apace,
And, while in heaven dwindles the harvest moon,
Your perfect maid her wedding wreath hath on!
156
III.
I cannot send you birthday songs this year;
My heart outstrips the days of ripening grain,
Wherein your years complete their loss and gain,
And yearns in dreams the harvest shout to hear
A long moon later, when the fields are clear,
And the last corn-sheaf tops the rumbling wain;
My marriage hymn blends with their harvest-strain,
And in my life love's harvest-time is near.
My heart outstrips the days of ripening grain,
Wherein your years complete their loss and gain,
And yearns in dreams the harvest shout to hear
A long moon later, when the fields are clear,
And the last corn-sheaf tops the rumbling wain;
My marriage hymn blends with their harvest-strain,
And in my life love's harvest-time is near.
Straying to-night across such golden fields,
Fast-ripening now, sick with expectancy,
My heart sheds songs to hail your birthday morn,
But of its own fierce dye are all it yields.
When we go reaping, do not start to see
So many seeming poppies 'mid the corn.
Fast-ripening now, sick with expectancy,
My heart sheds songs to hail your birthday morn,
But of its own fierce dye are all it yields.
When we go reaping, do not start to see
So many seeming poppies 'mid the corn.
157
IV.
It must be strange to her, my heart conceives,—
A maiden in her little sphere of love,
Round whom, like stars, brothers and sisters move
Through the hushed still of settled Summer eves,—
When one, still scarcely known, predestined, weaves
A wily net to snare the nestling dove,
Or lures her forth through the rough world to rove.
Yet for his look her girlhood's home she leaves;—
A maiden in her little sphere of love,
Round whom, like stars, brothers and sisters move
Through the hushed still of settled Summer eves,—
When one, still scarcely known, predestined, weaves
A wily net to snare the nestling dove,
Or lures her forth through the rough world to rove.
Yet for his look her girlhood's home she leaves;—
Leaves to a mist of tears in longing eyes,
While only she can smile and seem content,
Who loseth all, but winneth him she would;
For now her face fastens on fairer skies,
And shadowy orbits in the distance bent,
Where soon fresh stars may ring her womanhood.
While only she can smile and seem content,
Who loseth all, but winneth him she would;
For now her face fastens on fairer skies,
And shadowy orbits in the distance bent,
Where soon fresh stars may ring her womanhood.
158
V.
You come to live with strangers; those you know,
Old friends, dear kinsfolk, soon will seem no more
Than phantoms of some fleeting fairy shore
You touched on once in dreams, that gleam and go.
Not long their looks shall keep the after-glow,
Nor long ev'n I shall tarry as before,
And no new life can the changed world restore,
For this is life—a tide without a flow.
Old friends, dear kinsfolk, soon will seem no more
Than phantoms of some fleeting fairy shore
You touched on once in dreams, that gleam and go.
Not long their looks shall keep the after-glow,
Nor long ev'n I shall tarry as before,
And no new life can the changed world restore,
For this is life—a tide without a flow.
What, shall I change? Ay, love, and more than all;
My face will wear more wrinkled than the sea,
My hair be wintered ere your youth be done,
My fruit-tree wither ere your blossom fall,
But, at my heart, yours hath such hold of me,
That, in Love's eyes, we still shall count for one.
My face will wear more wrinkled than the sea,
My hair be wintered ere your youth be done,
My fruit-tree wither ere your blossom fall,
But, at my heart, yours hath such hold of me,
That, in Love's eyes, we still shall count for one.
159
VI.
Yet this will grow your very home ere long,
Rich with the rounds of joys that never cease,
As year by year Love's harvest-crops increase;
And, as our roots in the strange soil grow strong,
Old friends and new around our hearths shall throng,
And twilight chambers teem with memories;
Last, gold-haired, happy children climb your knees,
And croon to mother in their baby-song.
Rich with the rounds of joys that never cease,
As year by year Love's harvest-crops increase;
And, as our roots in the strange soil grow strong,
Old friends and new around our hearths shall throng,
And twilight chambers teem with memories;
Last, gold-haired, happy children climb your knees,
And croon to mother in their baby-song.
And I, whose home waits for its queen to be,
Who sing the birth-song of your crowning year,
Who sing the love-song of the life to come,—
I who shall live beside your heart and see,
Lest my heart burst with gladness or Death hear,
Shall laugh to see you happy, and be dumb.
Who sing the birth-song of your crowning year,
Who sing the love-song of the life to come,—
I who shall live beside your heart and see,
Lest my heart burst with gladness or Death hear,
Shall laugh to see you happy, and be dumb.
160
FAITHLESSNESS.
(Two Phases.)
I.
Now branch the roads; your hand, long held in mine,
Sadly, yet sharply here is drawn away,
As one whose wiser heart constrains to stay,
Whose fate impels across the border line,
Thither, where mellow marriage-tapers shine,
And gathering guests chafe at the hour's delay.
Break hands and go; heed not my thoughts to-day;
Do not yon maids for thee that garland twine?
Sadly, yet sharply here is drawn away,
As one whose wiser heart constrains to stay,
Whose fate impels across the border line,
Thither, where mellow marriage-tapers shine,
And gathering guests chafe at the hour's delay.
Break hands and go; heed not my thoughts to-day;
Do not yon maids for thee that garland twine?
How rich we are! We share the worlds anew;
Take earth and heaven; leave me at least the hells.
How poor we are! You have thoughts to cling to you;
I, thoughts to madden, and your last farewells,
And a blind song my brain beats cadenceto,—
Would I hear first her death or wedding bells?
Take earth and heaven; leave me at least the hells.
How poor we are! You have thoughts to cling to you;
I, thoughts to madden, and your last farewells,
And a blind song my brain beats cadenceto,—
Would I hear first her death or wedding bells?
161
II.
Sweet Spring were this, if half its dreams came true.
One timid tender blossom found most fair,
Twin born with dreams, I tend with subtlest care
Far out of sight,—an orange-blossom too,—
Till, in my maiden's eyes a strange soft dew
Sometime makes bold my heart to hers to unbare,
And hers unfolds a sister-blossom there.
Not yet she guesses: First I tell it you!
One timid tender blossom found most fair,
Twin born with dreams, I tend with subtlest care
Far out of sight,—an orange-blossom too,—
Till, in my maiden's eyes a strange soft dew
Sometime makes bold my heart to hers to unbare,
And hers unfolds a sister-blossom there.
Not yet she guesses: First I tell it you!
But ah! I have small faith in flowers of May,
Nor think vows bind the bloom with one breath strown;
For still, in poets' hearts, it is the way
For many a love to wither ere 'tis grown;
And still my heart, that woos this maid to-day,
Finds, oft, to-morrow waiting with its own.
Nor think vows bind the bloom with one breath strown;
For still, in poets' hearts, it is the way
For many a love to wither ere 'tis grown;
And still my heart, that woos this maid to-day,
Finds, oft, to-morrow waiting with its own.
162
CUCKOO.
This year I have not heard the cuckoo call,
For Winter's offspring, when their father fell,
Rose ruthless at the ringing of his knell,
And hounded Spring with many a shrieking squall
And rime and rheum through garden, grove, and dell;
Pinched every bursting blossom on the wall,
Shut back each hyacinth-heart into its bell,
And whelmed the buds with birthday funeral.
For Winter's offspring, when their father fell,
Rose ruthless at the ringing of his knell,
And hounded Spring with many a shrieking squall
And rime and rheum through garden, grove, and dell;
Pinched every bursting blossom on the wall,
Shut back each hyacinth-heart into its bell,
And whelmed the buds with birthday funeral.
Come, Cuckoo, make a spring-time of thine own!
Thy wistful woodnote shall unthrall the year,
Wake the wan doves since May is maiden-grown,
Strew golden lily-buds about the weir,
And star its green bank beds with eyes of blue:
Cuckoo, our Spring and Summer wait for you!
Thy wistful woodnote shall unthrall the year,
Wake the wan doves since May is maiden-grown,
Strew golden lily-buds about the weir,
And star its green bank beds with eyes of blue:
Cuckoo, our Spring and Summer wait for you!
163
HOLIDAYS.
Hear ye, whose lives along the ridge of toil
Crawl through a dull monotony of days;
Who, with your factories' smoke and forges' blaze,
Clatter and clang, and endless whirl and broil,
Stamp blistering footprints in the virgin soil,
And dull each sense long ere the life decays:—
The drudge works better for his hour of grace;
Ye snap at last, who tighten still the coil.
Crawl through a dull monotony of days;
Who, with your factories' smoke and forges' blaze,
Clatter and clang, and endless whirl and broil,
Stamp blistering footprints in the virgin soil,
And dull each sense long ere the life decays:—
The drudge works better for his hour of grace;
Ye snap at last, who tighten still the coil.
And Nature dwells in reach of narrowest means,
And woos her weariest children to her rest.
Track to their heads the streams that work your mills:
Will ye grow mockeries of your own machines,
While the kind mother hath a woodland nest
In every cleft and wrinkle of your hills?
And woos her weariest children to her rest.
Track to their heads the streams that work your mills:
Will ye grow mockeries of your own machines,
While the kind mother hath a woodland nest
In every cleft and wrinkle of your hills?
164
QUI PALMAM MERUIT.
Take hence the golden scroll of deeds sublime;
This is no roll of heroes: private hate
Sped oft the thrust that freed a fettered State.
Anon, the strangling needs that cursed the time
Anointed cowards or ennobled crime.
For Fame's sake half the martyrs sought their fate.
How many stumbled on the thing called great,
Or deemed the deed predestined from the prime?
This is no roll of heroes: private hate
Sped oft the thrust that freed a fettered State.
Anon, the strangling needs that cursed the time
Anointed cowards or ennobled crime.
For Fame's sake half the martyrs sought their fate.
How many stumbled on the thing called great,
Or deemed the deed predestined from the prime?
Be his the palm who sees the need arise,
And, since none other will, for others' gain
Sets hands unto the task, because it lies
Within the compass of his heart and brain.
Writ in the mighty roll of winds and skies,
About his head Heaven's wreaths shall fall like rain!
And, since none other will, for others' gain
Sets hands unto the task, because it lies
Within the compass of his heart and brain.
Writ in the mighty roll of winds and skies,
About his head Heaven's wreaths shall fall like rain!
165
CODRUS.
January, 1877.
“Let not the king of Athens' life be shed,”
Spake Delphi to the Dorians. So their raid
Poised on Ilissus until dawn, afraid
Of harm to Codrus. Some the horses led
To water. Came a clown;—“This river-bed
Ye shall not foul!”—died on a Dorian blade.
Next morn Athenians came, glad mourners made;
“Yield us the body of our king,” they said.
Spake Delphi to the Dorians. So their raid
Poised on Ilissus until dawn, afraid
Of harm to Codrus. Some the horses led
To water. Came a clown;—“This river-bed
Ye shall not foul!”—died on a Dorian blade.
Next morn Athenians came, glad mourners made;
“Yield us the body of our king,” they said.
His monument,—in Athens no more kings,
Lest the name tarnish. Strange heroic breed!
Well may your age have half a fable grown,
For now the tide o' the world all counter swings,
And we may see, anon, a million bleed
To prop a palsied despot's tottering throne.
Lest the name tarnish. Strange heroic breed!
Well may your age have half a fable grown,
For now the tide o' the world all counter swings,
And we may see, anon, a million bleed
To prop a palsied despot's tottering throne.
166
THE SOUL STITHY.
My soul, asleep between its body-throes,
Was watching curiously a furnace glare,
And breastless arms that wrought laborious there,—
Power without plan, wherefrom no purpose grows,—
Welding white metal on a forge with blows,
Whence streamed the singing sparks like flaming hair,
Which whirling gusts ever abroad would bear:
And still the stithy hammers fell and rose.
Was watching curiously a furnace glare,
And breastless arms that wrought laborious there,—
Power without plan, wherefrom no purpose grows,—
Welding white metal on a forge with blows,
Whence streamed the singing sparks like flaming hair,
Which whirling gusts ever abroad would bear:
And still the stithy hammers fell and rose.
And then I knew those sparks were souls of men,
And watched them driven like starlets down the wind.
A myriad died and left no trace to tell;
An hour like will-o'-the-wisps some lit the fen;
Now one would leave a trail of fire behind:
And still the stithy-hammers rose and fell.
And watched them driven like starlets down the wind.
A myriad died and left no trace to tell;
An hour like will-o'-the-wisps some lit the fen;
Now one would leave a trail of fire behind:
And still the stithy-hammers rose and fell.
167
A SPOT IN THE SUN.
The four walls of God's banquet-chamber bright,
Built of a myriad ranks of wide-spread wings,
Glowing as with the glory of full-pulsed springs,
When smitten with the sunbeam of His sight,
And overhead, the silent roofless height,
Rang now with sevenfold shawms and trumpetings,
For that high seven of heavy-sworded kings,
Who bare last eve the brunt of vanward fight.
Built of a myriad ranks of wide-spread wings,
Glowing as with the glory of full-pulsed springs,
When smitten with the sunbeam of His sight,
And overhead, the silent roofless height,
Rang now with sevenfold shawms and trumpetings,
For that high seven of heavy-sworded kings,
Who bare last eve the brunt of vanward fight.
But, ere the thunder rolled into the chasm
Of soundless space, a trailing shape o'erhead
Froze that proud pæan of victorious breath.
God, in that hour fell first on Thee the spasm
That stays with us, seeing, unbidden shed
Upon Thy festal day the shadow of Death!
Of soundless space, a trailing shape o'erhead
Froze that proud pæan of victorious breath.
God, in that hour fell first on Thee the spasm
That stays with us, seeing, unbidden shed
Upon Thy festal day the shadow of Death!
168
THE WORLD'S DEATH-NIGHT.
I think a stormless night-time shall ensue
Unto the world, yearning for hours of calm.
Not these the end,—nor sudden-closing palm
Of a God's hand beneath the skies we knew,
Nor fall from a fierce heaven of fiery dew
In place of the sweet dewfall, the world's balm,
Nor swell of elemental triumph-psalm
Round the long-buffeted bulk, rent through and through.
Unto the world, yearning for hours of calm.
Not these the end,—nor sudden-closing palm
Of a God's hand beneath the skies we knew,
Nor fall from a fierce heaven of fiery dew
In place of the sweet dewfall, the world's balm,
Nor swell of elemental triumph-psalm
Round the long-buffeted bulk, rent through and through.
But in the even of its endless night,
With shoreless floods of moonlight on its breast,
And baths of healing mist about its scars,
An instant sums its circling years of flight,
And the tired earth hangs crystalled into rest,
Girdled with gracious watchings of the stars.
With shoreless floods of moonlight on its breast,
And baths of healing mist about its scars,
An instant sums its circling years of flight,
And the tired earth hangs crystalled into rest,
Girdled with gracious watchings of the stars.
169
CHRISTMAS.
The round world hangs 'mid Christmas stars her sphere;
She counts their choirs; no loss nor change they show;
But round our hearths old friends, perplexed and slow,
Gaze each on each, grown foreign in a year.
Then one will wonder, “Why are all not here?
Of old they did not honour Christmas so.”
One tells him: “They are dead; did you not know?”
Nor asks of others lest like news he hear.
She counts their choirs; no loss nor change they show;
But round our hearths old friends, perplexed and slow,
Gaze each on each, grown foreign in a year.
Then one will wonder, “Why are all not here?
Of old they did not honour Christmas so.”
One tells him: “They are dead; did you not know?”
Nor asks of others lest like news he hear.
Yet to keep merry Christmas we are willed.
This year, as last, all blue the lights shall burn,
And 'mid the fun snap-dragon fires be spilled,
And steaming punch-bowls subtle fragrance spurn,
Though ever empty chairs divide the filled,
And solemn phantoms pledge the guests in turn.
This year, as last, all blue the lights shall burn,
And 'mid the fun snap-dragon fires be spilled,
And steaming punch-bowls subtle fragrance spurn,
Though ever empty chairs divide the filled,
And solemn phantoms pledge the guests in turn.
170
OUR OLD SELVES.
Another birthday! How the years have flown!
I found you first scarce weaned from childly ways,
Reining a frolic soul to statelier grace
Of speech and carriage. Now, full woman grown,
Governed of Reason, set on the soul's throne,
You have no hint for me of the old days.
Remembering them, I stand in still amaze
To see you, nun-like, proud to sit alone.
I found you first scarce weaned from childly ways,
Reining a frolic soul to statelier grace
Of speech and carriage. Now, full woman grown,
Governed of Reason, set on the soul's throne,
You have no hint for me of the old days.
Remembering them, I stand in still amaze
To see you, nun-like, proud to sit alone.
I, too, as one who knows not in his glass
The face that wore no wrinkles formerly,
Start, strangely changed to other than I was,
And hardly guess what ghost waves hands to me.
Life's issues, coiling closer as years pass,
Crowd its beginnings out of memory.
The face that wore no wrinkles formerly,
Start, strangely changed to other than I was,
And hardly guess what ghost waves hands to me.
Life's issues, coiling closer as years pass,
Crowd its beginnings out of memory.
171
ANT-HILLS.
To-day, when I had dreamed of loneliness,
Round me uncounted presences I feel.
Turn but a stone, and unroofed streets reveal
A people, multifold with life's excess,
Dowered with various instincts, arts, address,
Yet linked in labour for the common weal.
I think the crowded ant-hill must conceal
An equal life to mine in all these less.
Round me uncounted presences I feel.
Turn but a stone, and unroofed streets reveal
A people, multifold with life's excess,
Dowered with various instincts, arts, address,
Yet linked in labour for the common weal.
I think the crowded ant-hill must conceal
An equal life to mine in all these less.
To some lone angel puzzling out our life
Perchance ev'n we a perfect unit grow,
His peer, to break the silence of his road;
And of His worlds, embroiled in seething strife,
God's eye doth catch the rhythmic pause and flow,
Yet marks each pigmy, busy with his load.
Perchance ev'n we a perfect unit grow,
His peer, to break the silence of his road;
And of His worlds, embroiled in seething strife,
God's eye doth catch the rhythmic pause and flow,
Yet marks each pigmy, busy with his load.
172
A CAIRN.
I, singer, ere I grow unmusical,
Sing now the last lay I have heart to sing;
Glad for my life of love-time that was Spring,
Of labour that is Summer-tide and Fall;
Nor much adread of death, earned rest of all,
Save of the death of no remembering:
I crown my cairn, each stone a song, and bring
All of my life I love for burial.
Sing now the last lay I have heart to sing;
Glad for my life of love-time that was Spring,
Of labour that is Summer-tide and Fall;
Nor much adread of death, earned rest of all,
Save of the death of no remembering:
I crown my cairn, each stone a song, and bring
All of my life I love for burial.
What relics for the men, my after-peers,
Who search my cairn to make the spoil their own?
Ghosts of their dreams, the fragrance of their tears,
Twins of the thoughts each fancied his alone;
The passions, pains, desires of their dead years;
The stamp of a man's heart on every stone.
Who search my cairn to make the spoil their own?
Ghosts of their dreams, the fragrance of their tears,
Twins of the thoughts each fancied his alone;
The passions, pains, desires of their dead years;
The stamp of a man's heart on every stone.
| A Child of the People | |