Edwardian and Georgian Canadian Poets
Twelve Poems
29th Jun 2016Posted in: Edwardian and Georgian Canadian Poets 0

Of this edition of Twelve Poems, by Esme Isles-Brown, two hundred and fifty copies have been printed. This Chap-book is a product of The Ryerson Press, Toronto, Canada.

Copies of this Chap-book may be secured from The Ryerson Press, Toronto.

The Ryerson Press
Canada
1927
[unnumbered page]

Twelve Poems
By Esme Isles-Brown

HONEYSUCKLE

Trailing o’er yon ivied arch,
   With your clinging, eager reach;
“There are worlds yet to explore”
   Seems the homily you preach.

Yet while you exploring go,
   ’Tis not on selfish quest — 
You have spread a banquet where
   Bird or bee is welcome guest.

Butterflies sip daintily
   Of your scented, sweet repast,
Happy with delights that be — 
   They care not for sweets that last.

Comes the droning bumblebee,
   Drinks deep of thy honeyed hoard,
Not for him the dainty sip —
   He would dine like Saxon lord.

But in ev’ning’s perfumed hush,
   Comes an Ancient, worldly-wise,
Well he knows for him are stored,
   Of thy banquet’s best supplies. [page 1]

Comes he with attendant hum,
   Wearing rubies at his throat;
Comes with satin-sheen of vest —
   Olive green his velvet coat.

Versed is he in ancient lore,
   And your banquet ne’er hath missed,
Drinks with joy of connoisseur,
   From thy cup of amethyst.

MY WEE BIT LADDIE

There's a wee bit laddie
In his cradle sleepin’,
There’s a wee bit laddie
To be loo’d and kissed;
   To be cared and tendit
   And frae fear defendit,
And my he’rt he’s haudin
   In his wee bit fist.

There’s a wee bit laddie
In his high-chair reignin’;
There’s a wee bit laddie;
King o’ he’rts he’s wearin’,
   Croon o’ gold he’s wearin’,
   But he’s little carin’,
For this wee bit laddie
   Scorneth royalty.

There’s a wee bit laddie
Fu’ o’ fun an’ frolic;
There’s a wee bit laddie
Aff for schule the day,
   Soon he’ll feel that sages 
   Ha’ been fules for ages,
And the world’s awaitin’
   What he has to say.

There’s a wee bit laddie
Grown to manhood, gladly
Facin’ life, an’ eager
For his chance to win —
   But he’s still my laddie —
   Just my wee bit laddie —
And my he’rt gaes ever
   Through the world wi’ him. [page 2]

MARCH

When the world in rags and tatters from his long trek o’er the plain,
Sets his foot upon the trail that leads into the hills again —
Then he shifts his pack and leaves it ’neath the willows by the rill,
For he hears the blackbird whistle—and the wind upon the hill.

All his tatters are forsaken—left beneath the willows too,
For the pack he long has carried held a change of raiment new.
The tune he hums so blithely breaks in little runs and trills—
For there’s gold in sun-warmed corners—and the wind is on the hills.

The blackbird whistles from the hedge, the crow caws from the tree,
And glad his heart breaks forth in song that sets his spirit free —
For joy that knows no boundary—no soul too mean to thrill—
Calls from each sun-warmed corner to the wind upon the hill.

LONGING

Oft aches my heart with longing,
   A longing I cannot express—
An ache that pains like tears unshed
   Or wrongs without redress.

A rose that fell too soon perhaps,
   A little bird that died:
A sigh that all unbidden swelled
   Yet would not be denied.

The refrain of a song at twilight,
   As mist creeps up the hill;
The whisper of dawn winds early
   When all the world is still.

A field of wind-blown spaces,
   Where goldenrod blows wide:
A lone cliff washed by breakers,
   The lap of the outflowing tide.

These fill my breast with a longing—
   A longing I cannot explain—
For something I’ve lost somewhere—somehow—
   Nor ever shall find it again. [page 3]

IRISH LOVE SONG

Grey clouds may veil the blue,
   Rains drench the clover—
But in the eyes of you
   Lovely lights hover.

From lute and harp the strings
   Unkind may sever—
But in the voice of you
   Song lingers ever.

Unleashed by storms the deep
   Wreckage dark up-throws—
But in the heart of you
   Pearls fair repose.

Temple and minaret
   Soon shall Time decay—
But at thy shrine Love’s flame
   Burneth—and for aye.

THE HIDDEN SPRING

Why criticize the thought of any man,
   Or with conceit of wisdom fix its worth
To backward trace its origin a span
   Would lead us often far beyond his birth.

’Tis tributary, doubtless, of a source
   Submerged for decades; by Time’s rock a-seam,
Drained and diverted from the parent course,
   And deeply held—like to an undreamed dream.

Then heated by the weight of countless Time,
   Ore-freighted through the creviced rock of years,
Swift-pleading like an unexpected shrine,
   Where nothing was before—a spring appears.

And who shall gauge its value—who shall say
   Less of the wayside spring where Need may sup,
Than, borne from thence a long and devious way,
   ’Twere served at last to kings in golden cup? [page 4]

MUSIC

A beautiful world was created
   In the ages of long ago,
By a Master of every science
   And all the arts that we know

With alchemy formed He the mountains,
   With majesty clothed them replete,
Then unrolled the rivers about them
   Like ribbons entwining their feet.

The oceans He called from their limbo,
   And cradled them deep in the sand,
And over the valleys and hillsides
   Spread forests with generous hand.

He painted it all with the colors
   That only a Master could blend,
Yet deep in His chalice lay treasures
   Awaiting His wisdom to send.

The Master then stayed from His labors
   And looked from the place where He stood;
He saw that the world he had fashioned
   Was beautiful as it was good.

But all of its beauty was soundless, 
   Though perfect in form was the whole;
So God from His chalice took MUSIC
   And gave it to the world for its soul.

ORCHESTRATION

When Diva Day bows low “Adieu”
Across
The footlights
Ere dusk enters with her stars,
That gleam like beads of dew
On beds of moss—
There comes a moment’s stay between the bars
Of earth’s grand choral symphony—
Where evening clings;
God then holds low
His baton in the West,
Until day’s orchestra with muted strings
Glides into night’s credo
Finale—Rest. [page 5]

THE POET

He walks apart, and reads from out a book
Of ancient vellum, held with hasps of gold;
The symbolled Sanskrit writ therein, to him
A language of all time, and new as old.
The language of the stars, in terms of lights
Interpreting the mysteries of night;
The tongues of day in songs attuned new
By each fresh dawn, each morn’s transparent dew.
The sea to him a chapter grand—sublime,
Read o’er and o’er unwearied—fresh as brine
And old as ages, yielding more and more
The while he studies, store on boundless store
Of knowledge, joy and fancy, wrought in one— 
To be but finished and again begun.
A mighty friendship all the world contains
And known to him by strange and secret names:
No need to tell him where to look for joy—
Joy called him comrade when but still a boy:
And from each flower, each leaf, each tuft of grass,
Hands stretch in welcome wheresoe’er he pass.
All Nature is to him an active verb—
The literature of Gods, unspoiled, superb.
He knows not loneliness and fears it not—
A golden glory mellows all his thought.

GOD’S MOTIF

The sky is grey, and mistily
   The rain comes sifting down;
In dwingling heaps soiled snow persists—
   Earth wears a sulky frown.
Drops hang from branch-tips, where dead leaves
   Like hopes forlorn still cling
And wave wet flags of dull despair
   To long departed Spring.

Brown bracken droops with sodden weight
   Of plumes that waved breast-high,
When queenly Mother Earth held court
   In her grandeur last July.
The rose she wore upon her breast
   On that same festal day
Has been distilled to fairies’ breath—
   And by them borne away. [page 6]

And stems that bore the bravest blooms
   Now sway across the pane—
Lank skeletons with arms outstretched,
   That seek for love in vain.
Whilst berries white and ghastly
   On bushes bare and tall,
Despised of birds, forlornly
   As ghosts’ tears, mutely fall.

Oh, where’s the hope of April,
   And where, the song of May?
Have they flown forever from us
   Through those weeping skies of grey?
Lo! Back they come to music
   That rejuvenates the world —
For the motif God has chosen
   Is a snowdrop—just unfurled.

SNOW WORSHIP

White world! When early dawn finds thee
   Fresh robed, serene,
Awaiting calmly, like unwritten page,
   Unmarred and clean,
What impress man shall leave thereon
   Of ill or worth,
My soul seems then up-caught and held
   ’Twixt heaven and earth,
With awe and wonder, breath abating,
   At Beauty’s birth!

And from this altitude of soul-suspension
   And fair perspective,
Thoughts swarm and swirl and surge
   In mood reflective.

Yon trellised arch, like brow of bride, white-wreathed,
   Its load supporting,
Hath intercepted in their light-winged flight
   Flakes swift cavorting
Earthward. And e’en so doth Fate divert
   Our plans ambitious,
And, for a season, gives us heart-fret sore
   And hatreds vicious. [page 7]

Yet could we rend the veil so thinly woven
   That mists our destiny,
What seemed a fate unkind, with sting and smart,
   But yesterday,
To-day would seem a guardian hand protecting
   What dear we hold,
And e’er fulfilling God’s own plan outlined
   In thread of gold.

Yon bush with slender branches interlacing
   And brown-leaf happed,
Snow-weighted now bows low like vestal maiden
   In worship wrapped;
And everywhere God’s sheet of white is thrown
   Like Mercy hiding
With cloak of Charity where man has erred—
   The scars abiding.

Thus, as the world bows low as at the chancel
   Of God’s cathedral white,
Yon tall, up-reaching, white-robed, priestly cedar
   Beseeches light;
While from white mounds of homes,—like monks meek kneeling
   At matin prayer,—
Grey smoke from chimney incense-burners
   Spirals the air.

MY COMPANION

A presence walks beside me
Day by day,
And oft with me holds converse,
Often smiles,
Yet sometimes, furtive, wipes a tear away, —
But deals not in pretense no e’er beguiles.

Sometimes I think to flatter him—
He’s gone!
I’ll live this one day free of him—
He’s there.
He’s ever with me when I’m most alone,
And meekly bows whene’er I kneel in prayer.

I asked, one day, his name—
He turned away
To where a beggar asked an alms
Of bread;
First gave the crust I’d shared with him that day,
Then:  “I’m Your Better Self,” he humbly said. [page 8]
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