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Eager Footsteps
by Anne Elizabeth Wilson
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Eager Footsteps
by Anne Elizabeth Wilson
Published at Toronto
by The Musson Book Company Ltd.
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Copyright, Canada, 1924
By The Musson Book Company Ltd., Toronto
Printed in Canada
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TO
MY FATHER, ROBERT BURNS WILSON
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Acknowledgements are made to Poetry, The Stratford Monthly, The Canadian Magazine, Everywoman’s World, and The Quill, in whose pages these poems first appeared. [unnumbered page]
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Contents
PAGE |
|
EAGER FOOTSTEPS |
13 |
THE SWEET LADY |
15 |
GRISETTE |
16 |
THE FORTUNATES |
17 |
MISSED |
18 |
FOUR WALLS |
19 |
THE BEGGAR HEART |
20 |
THE GIFT |
21 |
A SORRY THING |
22 |
IN A MUSEUM (To the Mummy of a Sacred Cat) |
25 |
STARLINGS |
29 |
TO A LIFE MASK OF KEATS |
33 |
GOD TO TIRED WINGS |
35 |
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FOLLY |
36 |
CHANGED (To a Place by the Sea) |
37 |
RECOMPENSE |
40 |
MEMORY |
41 |
SLEEP |
42 |
TWO CHILDREN |
44 |
TEARS |
45 |
THE SENTRY ANGEL |
47 |
Little Songs
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Eager Footsteps
(To Jane)
I CHARGE you now, about your thoughts of me When soon or late, I lose the wish for this mortality And humour fate By giving up my breath. Dear friends, believe me I shall have no hate For that most whimsical of angels, Death. It was by blessing, (so remember this) That eager footsteps brought And shall have sent me hence. They led me early into ways of bliss, And what with loss and what with recompense They taught me all the wonder of the quest. (Oh they were sandaled with rare exigence!) They shall not be dismayed at finding rest. And so if you should ever wish to make A little epitaph or say [page 13] A word or two of memory for my sake, Have it, I pray, That I should venture sweet. “This one,” write down, and I Shall thank you in some way, “This one had eager feet.” [page 14]
The Sweet Lady.
SHE is so gay— Such sweetness falls away From her! Her words are simple as a little wind That sings all day. Such lazy kindliness she spreads about, As thoughtless as her hands that twine And turn their pink palms in and out. Such loving weariness has she Of giving sweetness forth unthinkingly, That she is almost sad—still smiling sad, Tired with her all-unknowing ministry. [page 15]
Grisette
TO you I bring the little things I have, Such as they be; And yet, to you, the littlest I can give Is all of me! I stay with you to do the little things I can— For I can sing, Or tilt a cup of water on your flower-sill Or mend, or send a samovar awhispering— Such little things I bring. [page 16]
The Fortunates
(By the Passerby)
WELL, anyway, they have a house, And maybe flower beds behind. They might keep rabbits or a goat— They shouldn’t mind! And they have windows curtained up That twinkle like mirth-lighted eyes. They have an old vase on the porch— They’re rather wise. I see they have a violin, And foot-worn rugs and earthenware. They have a baby too—well then— They shouldn’t care! [page 17]
Missed
THE mother-arms are born, not made; The mother-flame burns bright unfed, And there’s a sweet place hollowed out Somewhere, for every little head. The mother-tears are lived, not shed When little heads go otherwhere, And little heads who miss that place Can never know what waited there. [page 18]
Four Walls
FOUR walls that close me in— And you, belov’d, without! They are most bleak and empty then, And I am sick with doubt If they are gay enough for you With my poor garlands hung about. Four walls—and you within! Ah love, they make a place Of gold and incense And the light upon your face Warms me like a living sun And fills my humbleness with grace. [page 19]
The Beggar Heart
GIVE me your hand—no more—the warmth inside; Give me, I ask it, nay I know no pride— The love that’s left when you Have spent the greater part. I have a beggar heart. Lay your head here—it is enough if you would rest. Your weariness is still to me more blest Than others’ eagerness. Rest unafraid, there is no art In such a beggar heart. Turn your eyes past—no more—the dream that lies Beneath their lids could be my paradise. Give me the dream; you take the rest. Life’s scorning has no smart For such a beggar heart. [page 20]
The Gift
ONE gift I had when I was born Into this world of sorrow. I’ve always had enough of it And never had to borrow. I’ve even had my share of it If I should die to-morrow. Though I came in gray November I got Happiness some way. My birthstone was a topaz And Thanksgiving was my day. I’ve never had to ask a soul For gladness great or small. There always were a thousand laughters At my beck and call. I’ve never had to worry About happiness at all. [page 21]
A Sorry Thing
SOME hearts there are that beat and beat As even day by day, As feet that walk a well-known street And cannot lose their way. But other hearts (and we must weep To watch them as they go) Have sundry heavy thoughts to keep. These hearts are always slow. Then many hearts, because they are Born truants from the start, Must skip a beat and wander far Seeking some other heart. And is it not a sorry thing That the even hearts can’t know What a song it is the wild hearts sing Or what mem’ries cheer the slow? [page 22]
Fur and Feather
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In a Museum
(To the mummy of a sacred Egyptian cat 1000 years or so B.C.)
SO there you lie, You one-time sleep and debonair! Your lissome body’s like a knotty stick Under the muddy swaddlings there, And all the mystery of three thousand years Upon your whiskers and your hair. A little brindled where the ears slant back And still contemptuous where the old grin breaks; Still ivory fanged beneath the ancient crack Of that last smile, you are as scornful as the crowd That gaze on you like some nick-back, As of the votaries who did you homage In the time of Egypt’s worshipping— Before they put you—in that sack. Oh, thwarted necromancy, death-lost mystic touch! [page 25] Could not your old black prophets warn you how The centuries would find you smirking thus, Your head above the wrappings like a toy That tops a Christmas sock—as now? At least, be comforted. I understand. I know the soft paws’ tread on giving grass— I know the agony that was in you the nights The moon went spinning up the sky in Africa; The rounded wails that mellowed in your throat Before you turned the tapis of that oval mouth And let them pass. There was the rushes’ smell, along the damp Of little waters where you picked your way. There were the ghosts of mice that haunted you, Because you were a psychic and they knew Their opportunities, by night if not day. But there were living mice, God wot! What of the time you slaughtered six And all to lay them at Hystasia’s feet Because you were not hungry and the day was hot? Villain, I know! But you were little once. You had blue eyes that were all pleadingness [page 26] And pins on every foot. You were the dunce Of all that spindly brood because your tail was over-long And trembled when you balanced it. Or am I wrong? Were you the one who first stalked sand-fleas In the temple yard, and had meat bits Before the others left off milk—to make you strong? And sing! They thought the thunder in your chest Was sacred satisfaction. So it was! A pampered Tom Cat’s at his best When food and gentle somnolence console And there is sleepy rumbling in his breast. They had some more insight in those days— They understood the stark necessity Of harmless battle, little ways Of loosening the energy within; The unmalicious hiss, the wholesome harmony Of growl on growl; the lays Of springtime that awake the heart. They were all sympathetic of your gaze That saw fresh phantoms in each slantwise sunbeam’s path. [page 27] They knew the nervous kicking craze Which seizes cats with water on their feet; They kept the temples dry; they sang your praise. And now, the fate to whom all dignities Are naught, has brought you this! But there is one to sing old praises yet. I pay my tribute to the prideful turn Of your slim face, moustaches bristling still The humour and the grimness set. I do my homage to your blade-sharp arrogance That neither life nor death Nor mould, nor time’s long chance, unwhet. [page 28]
Starlings
TWIGS in winter casings still, Snow, and stinging fall of sleet, But “hey you!” comes that blessed shrill Of starlings, down the street. Shouldering the huddled sparrows Off the fence-rails for a seat, “Hey you!” personal and earnest, Passerby they greet. May, and blossom petals drift On air with springtime sweet— “Hey you!” and their voices lift A hail from leaves’ retreat. Shy, yet proud of something hidden Where the curtained branches meet— “Hey you!” and the world is bidden In to share the treat. Summer late and autumn burning, Meadows, brook-runs dry with heat— “Hey you!” starlings challenge gravely, Teetering on dusty feet. [page 29] Still the sheen of gleaming feather, Still that cry with cheer replete, “Hey you!” (speaking of the weather) “Hey you!” they repeat. . . . . Sturdy hearts, in my September Will you call me so again? Valiant hearts, will you remember, Swinging on the branches then? [page 30]
Other Poems
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To a Life Mask of Keats
(The Day the Mould Was Made)
PAIN’S withering kiss had not been pressed Upon your singing mouth that day, Nor anguish silenced in your breast The glad heart’s lay. With scent of the hedges’ bitter bloom And a misted blow from sea The English air was sweet to breathe And laughter free. So with earth’s music in your throat And the winds of youth for breath, Love’s hand preserved this replica Of you, forgetting death, [page 33] Yet where the faint smile’s loveliness Makes beauty in your face; Where whimsy turns a question And yearning leaves a trace, Three griefs oppress the eyelids And little shadows lie; Where lip and little shadows meet Three piteous sorrows cry— The loneliness of life unloved, The agony of songs unwrote, The waste that youth’s sweet voice must die Still calling its eternal note. [page 34]
God to Tired Wings
HERE is a furry hemlock Leading up the sky. Nestle here, fallen wing; Thou hast not strength to fly. And here’s a drowsy willow With clear water by. Turn hither, broken wing; Rest here, lest thou die. Here is home, lost wing. Hear the branches sigh. Fallen, broken, lost wing, Lie soft, it is I. [page 35]
Folly
SOMETIMES, belov’d, I sit apart In the full silence of my little room, Waiting on that blest emptiness of heart That comes of solitude and quiet gloom. And then your face, Half grave and whimsical, Makes mockery of my hiding-place. Ah love, what hushed serene of mine, What stillness or withdrawal is a mystery? I sit with folded hands, unknowingly Dreaming of you—and you—and you— I, that thought to be alone in my austerity! [page 36]
Changed
(To a Place by the Sea)
THEY say you’re changed, My misty-brown, my water-free But what could change the sweet of you When still there is—the sea? What of the dunes flushed at the morning, Breasting the loving waves’ embrace, And spray, gust-wafted, still adorning Their bent heads in bridal lace? And can the evening be less radiant Where ocean joins stream along the river? (Chalice-filled and glassy deep it went In days I knew, over the sands aquiver.) What of the silver flats at noon Fresh with the brine-bath of tides; The soft heart-agonizing tune The gull makes as he rides? [page 37] Or can the rain, that liquid lute, Whose strings were ever plucked by sail and tree Have lost its cadence or grown mute? What change is there for me? * * * * They say you’re changed My forest-bound, my meadow-wide, But what could harm the best of you While still the brave pines bide? Bracing the water-winds and singing They still must chant their triumph high, Ragged and beautiful, glad-upspringing From the shadows to the sky. And if the bridge is gone where brook-ferns were I still believe that I should find it when I came at night and heard the stir Of little frogs among the stems again. Yes, I should find it, wet and rooty-smelling, Curtained with beech leaves, smooth with moss, And I should feel the freshets swelling Under me as I cross. [page 38] I’d fill my hands with orchid grass And the little bridge would carry me Over the old enchanted pass, Unchanging and unchanged eternally. [page 39]
Recompense
YOU are growing old, my lithe and gay, But age with you is different and rare; Gray—yes, but like the mist that veils an autumn moon Stretched across the black trees’ gaunt array. Your light, now opalescent and more gently bright Makes beautiful the wintry night. Why do you long for the bronze hue of youth Or the nosiness of its display? Let us be comforted in this sweet quietness where There is nothing loved before But that our having loved so long can make more fair. [page 40]
Memory
I SAW you standing so, upon the shore, With the light of heaven on your hair And all eternity ablowing on your face. What was the memory that strove, and tore My heart? Was it you still standing there, Or someone old with many lives? What space What ghostly sting of tears long-wept before, What laughter did I sense? A snare Of myriad weaving circled our embrace— Do you recall the distant soar Or our remembering? We were in gardens where We knew old wonderings once more, Far out of mind with time, In some old well-loved place. [page 41]
Sleep
THE breath of sleep is on you, blessed face, Caressing and most comforting. The moon rays shadowings have made a lace About your head—a faery fashioning. The wind has left the candles standing stark And blown a reed dance ‘round your bed. Your lashes have upmeshed the dreamy dark Leaving your cheeks ungarmented. (The soft wee moths are quiet on the wall; The little beetles have forgot to sing; The hour-complaining chime clock in the hall Has hushed its muffled sorrowing.) And now come I, atiptoe down the gloom To fresh my lips upon your brow, To drink the fragrance, soul-sweet through the room Of your own fragile bloom. To marvel how The dappled starshine yet can hide Beside your breast—so moveless still— [page 42] Ah, how the perfume of your hair Must chide those flowers on the sill! (This is my gift, beloved, like the rest Of all the Night has brought you, far too slight, Yet rich with endless tenderness—the best One clay-wrought heart may give—a kiss (Good-night.) [page 43]
Two Children
OH little singing-hearted, I wonder long at you, Your airiness, your fairness And the cruel things you do. Your face is young with eagerness But age is in your eyes— The age of woman’s wantonness And the sorrow for her lies. Oh little silent-lipped and sad, You are my own to me— Your head down bent, your upward look At the starry things you see. Your face is soft with visioning But still there brood the years Of woman’s long remembering And the touch of ancient tears. [page 44]
Tears
(Tears are the glowers of the heart that blossom in the eyes.)
“DEW,” some call them; “jewels” glistening— They do not know. No; tears are flowers, seed and bloom. I had a tear that seeded in my heart All childhood. I remember The odd hurt of its slow growing— Perhaps the heart grew with it, there’s no knowing. Of such mystic things. I remember how the sun And all warm sweetness stirred its roots, And sometimes when I looked On naked fields or tired grass—again On empty water runs or unkept graves It grew, in pain. Then, not so long ago, its stem grew high; Its blossom reached my eyes and light. [page 45] That time when I was left alone With only it for comforting Aye, comforting—for through it shone Great prismed gleams That made me know my old sight dim. Its root is in my heart which still Must nurture it—for him. [page 46]
The Sentry Angel
(Who Is a Nightwatchman)
ANGEL with the sleepy face Leaning up agsinst the dawn, Put your six-starred girdle off, Wrap your wooly kirtle on. Drop your star-belt in its place In the blue-box of the lake. Shake the sky-rheum from your hair, The day’s awake. Turn your misty feathers out. Stretch your stiff wings in the sun, Cast those weary sandals off, Your watch is done. Throw your wind-harp on a willow; Trees have gentle finfers too. Lay your tired head on this pillow That the hills have made for you. [page 47]
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