A Child of the People And Other Poems. By James Chapman Woods |
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| TWENTY-TWO. |
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 | A Child of the People |  |
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.
| A Child of the People | |