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DREAMS IN YOUR HEART
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DREAMS IN YOUR
HEART
EDNA JACQUES
AUTHOR OF
“My Kitchen Window,” “Drifting Soil” and
“Wide Horizons”
Copyright, Canada, 1937,
by
THOMAS ALLEN
Printed and Bound in Canada
Press of the Hunter–Rose Co., Ltd., Toronto
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LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO MY
DEAR FRIEND,
NELLIE L. McCLUNG
“I’ll take my friends the way they come
The wear and tear of battles fought,
The blessed vision of the stars.
I want my friends to be of earth,
Just made of common human clay
The kind that you can love and use
That’s not too good for every day.”
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CONTENTS
DREAMS IN YOUR HEART
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I Am Poetry
I am the Poetry of earth, the thoughts Of wise and gentle folk,—the writing down Of dreams and hopes and all that laughter is, The failure of a thousand lives—the crown Of thorns upon a brow, the giving up Of pleasured ease, to drink Toil’s weary cup. I am the sunlight on a lonely hill Where no one ever comes...the poverty Of earth, rude hovels in the shivering night, All these dark things are gathered up in me And made to shine, as light reflected far Glows through the crystal radiance of a star. I am the songs of earth...the lullaby The dirge...the mourner’s hymn...the battle song The Voice of David singing to his flock, All these good things are mine, for dreams belong Only to us who gather with our hands The strength and majesty of quiet lands. [page 3]
A Lovely World
It’s such a lovely world today, With beast and bird and creeping things, A caterpillar’s glossy fur, The glint of little shining wings. I often wonder how God though Of all the wondrous things He wrought. A beetle’s back...a spider’s legs Letting his silken ladder down. A fawn’s sweet face, his shiny nose, A marmot striped in tan and brown. Red breasted robins on the lawn, The smell of lumber newly sawn. The warm unmoving air of fall A clutch of brown eggs in a nest A child’s glad body clean and fair Her being filled with life’s sweet zest, How could Time drag or moments pall Knowing the wonder of it all. [page 4]
It Must Be Spring
It must be spring, for David has a kite Although the wind is cold and nothing growing, But this gay harbinger is in the sky And far above the house–tops gayly blowing. David is such a little boy, and lives Just two doors up the street, and always trying Some new device to floats upon the air An aeroplane...a kite...a white flag flying. There must be some deep instinct in his heart Some ’prisoned thing that seeks the sky’s vast freedom. (God knows the lonely trails his feet will follow, The countries where his little kite will lead him.) Perhaps some day he’ll chart a hundred airways, Write on the sky his name in letter glowing. But just today he is a little boy Sailing his kite the way the wind is blowing. [page 5]
Resurrection
The light has come again to eyes That once were bleak and bare, You know that wounded beaten look Unhappy people wear, As if their souls were dead within And Life not worth the cost, (She used to grope amid the days A tired spirit, lost.) But now some hidden source of light Pours through the smothering dark Her very being seems alive As if some vital spark Glowed at the center of herself To heal and bless and give The Fire of eternal peace That taught her how to live. And from her presence seems to come A clean reviving flow Of happiness and perfect health As radiant as snow. A well of everlasting joy A purity and grace As if a light within her soul Was shining on her face. [page 6]
Speech
Of all creation, Man was given speech, The dumb beasts never knew the gift of words, And yet the very stones in pastures preach, And there are sermons in the song of birds. There is no voice in all the growing things No utterance in the quiet strength of trees, But I have heard the message that they bring And listened to the melody in these. There is no language in the sober ground No cadence in the wind and yet I know The very air is filled with rushing sound, And there is poetry in falling snow. There is no eloquence in the wide plain And yet the very silence is a song, There are no lilting words to falling rain And yet it beats a tattoo like a gong. For only until Man was given speech, The beasts are dumb...the flowers have no voice, Yet hills and valleys shout their loving praise And all the places of the earth rejoice. [page 7]
To An Abandoned Farmhouse
It stands forlorn, abandoned to the wind, Weeds choke the stable yard as if they sought To hide the little paths that once were there, To cover any work that Man had wrought And bring the land once more beneath the sway Of sun and slanting rain...and the wind’s way. What dream lie shattered in that sagging barn What visions he beheld there with his team, Resting at headlands in the pulsing noon He leaned against the plow and let his dream Hold sway, and saw beyond the prairie rim A bright new kingdom opening out for him. Perchance he saw with eyes grown shining clear The home that was to be, the heartsome sight Of little children running down the lane To greet the father coming home at night. Fields golden unto harvest, spring’s release A home where Love might safely dwell...and peace. And now the old house leans against the wind With broken windows sagging beam and sill A piece of whiffletree hangs on the barn, A few old willow trees against a hill Make lonely music as they gently sway Playing a requiem to a happier day. [page 8]
Faith
A woman planting a shrivelled seed, A child with a painted toy, The warm sap bound in the root of a weed And the first clean love of a boy. A fisherman casting his nets in the sea, A sail–boat breasting the tide. A bird’s long flight from the sunny South ’Ere winter is set aside. A farmer cleaning his wheat for seed, The song of the meadow lark, Potatoes deep in a cellar bin Sprouting there in the dark. A mother leaving the latch–string out Through years of sun and rain Knowing somehow in her mother heart Her boy will come home again. The faith of a leper healed his wounds, Faith made the blind to see. And the same clean faith in a sapling small Wrought the miracle of a tree. [page 9]
My Neighbour’s Clothes–Line
There are sheets and pillow cases And a dozen towels or so, And little dresses blowing out Like flowers in a row. A table–cloth...a baby’s shawl A quilt hung out to air, And looking at her line I see A hundred stories there. I know she loves her beds to be As fresh as April skies, The dresses for her little girl Are blue, to match her eyes. The table–cloth has little sprigs Of daisies ’broidered on As if she plucked the tiny ones That grew about the lawn. Her aprons are so bright and gay, I know she loves to cook, She makes a game of everything Like people in a book. And so her clothes–line is to me A kind of study chart, That tells me all the lovely things She dreams within her heart. [page 10]
Red
Red is a challenge flung before the eye A gay flag flying in the summer sky, A gypsy’s colour warm and rich and strong. Only the gallant folk to RED belong, Courage and gayety are theirs, and mirth They are the chosen people of the earth. Red are the poppies in a woman’s hair The scarlet slippers royal children wear, A crimson coat, a fruited cherry tree, Red sails above the blueness of the sea, A fire bedded down until it glows With all the flaming colours of a rose. Red is the loveliest colour of the seven (I wonder if they’ll have much red in heaven) Red carpets in the aisles...bright curtains drawn And Christmas trees with scarlet candles on. I know the streets are fair, but Oh I pray There will be crimson roses Heaven’s way. [page 11]
The Opera Singer
She sings—and Oh how lovely is her face There seems a radiance all about the place She poises like a bird to strike a note, (Flaunting the laces of her petticoat) Steps out with dainty feet and saucy curls Making a curtsey as she gayly whirls. She sings...and all the world about her seems Filled with the silver radiance of dreams She lends enchantment to the poor and old Gilds every moment with her voice of gold. Swinging in rhythm to the music’s beat Like pulses singing in her happy feet. She sings...and listening hearts are lifted up To drink the ecstasy from Joy’s sweet cup, Visions and dreams once more are part of them They stoop in faith to touch Life’s shining hem, Oh Lord we thank Thee for her voice that brings to lonely hearts the peace of perfect things. [page 12]
How Have You Grown?
How have you grown this year? Your soul I mean, How many inches would your measure show If someone stood you up against the door, (Did no one ever say that hearts must grow) Or if they would shrivel up and die like weeds Unless you watered them with loving deeds. How have you grown this year? And has there been No quiet growth of tap and seeking root, No eager reaching out of branch or vine Or rich fulfillment of the perfect fruit? Old wood grows bitter if the sap is dry And if the heart is bad the old trees die. How have you grown? In tenderness and love To those who stumble in a narrow place Have you lent kindly ears to want and woe Walked ever with a shining inner grace Joined heart and feeling in an holy troth To mark the inches in your spirit’s growth. [page 13]
My Daughter’s Growing Up
My daughter’s growing up, and now She’s educating me. I smile a bit behind her back She works so seriously To sort of bring me up to date, But I’m afraid she started late. According to this new regime I’ll have to change my ways, (I’m too old-fashioned as I am To suit these modern days.) I must go in for fads and frills Be on the look–out for new thrills. And I just laugh, remembering The way I used to be, I thought she should act seventeen When she was only three. I wanted her to be just so, As many mothers do, you know. But now the tables have been turned And I must toe the line Live up to all these new demands To suit this girl of mine. (But underneath it all, I’ll be The very same old–fashioned ME). [page 14]
Knitting
She purls and plains and slips a stitch, Without a hinderance or hitch As placidly she slowly rocks Knitting a pair of little socks, Her shadow swinging to and fro In rhythm with the radio. She counts her stitches half aloud And joins the laughter of a crowd Of people half way ’round the world, The tiny stocking plain and purled Grows slowly into shape and size Right there before my wondering eyes. How lovely thus that we can share The shining highways of the air, Feel the warm reaching out of hands Of kindly folk in other lands, The cadence of a voice that sings Of peace and love and happy things. Oh may this listening unite Us all across the world tonight, Knitting us closer to each other Bring us nearer one another. The strands invisible yet there Linking the Highways of the Air. [page 15]
Oak Trees
Oak trees, how stately do they grow, Like old dowagers in a row, They have a pride too, I declare You’d almost think they were aware, Of their importance, if you please Their prestige in the world of trees. Whene’er I see a spreading oak I think of common sturdy folk Of an old room with a beamed ceiling And corner cupboards just revealing, Blue plates and platters standing up And the pale half–moon of a cup. I think of ships ghost white with foam Headed down the long seas for home, Their oaken beams and creaking sides Straining against the wind and tides, Clean breasted as a bird in flight Cleaving the frosty air of night. I think of Druid priests of old Of all the ancient stories told Of knights in armour, ladies fair Of little cottages...clean air, Where oak trees spread their branches wide And grow in majesty and pride. [page 16]
Picnics
To picnic on a sun–warmed beach Is to bring heaven within reach, For eating has a special savor With wind and sunshine for a flavor, And tea brewed strong and piping hot, Is heaven in an earthen pot. A clean white beach that circles wide Glistening and salty from the tide, Sea–gulls above the white cliffs calling And o’er us golden sunlight falling. (A sandwich in one hand, and tea Balance with fear upon your knee). A white sail skimming o’er the blue A fisherman whose only crew Is an old dog...how still he waits To watch his master fix the baits, (Riding the seas in sun and fog A man companioned by a dog.) So at a picnic we can taste The tang of all the tumbling waste Of seas, the magic of the air, Mothers and children everywhere, All paradise within your reach Eating your supper at the beach. [page 17]
An Attic
An attic on a rainy day Is such a treasure trove, I swear You’ll find a hundred household gods Covered with dust and cobwebs there. Old relics of a by–gone age A dusty picture of the Queen, A set of books that someone left, A wedding suit of Dad’s...turned green. A dozen broken bits of toys A petticoat with yellowed lace, A rocking–horse without a tail, Some everlastings in a vase. Pictures of people long since dead, In wide old–fashioned frames of gilt. A cradle with one rocker gone Covered with an old patch–work quilt. Not worth a cent, I know, and yet I love to browse on rainy days Among old treasures of the past, Walk for a while down Memory’s ways. The raindrops patter on the roof, Like tiny music of the spheres While I in dreamy retrospect Walk in the paths of by–gone years. [page 18]
The Mother
She is so tender to this crippled one This little firstling of her tiny flock, Who bears in his small body ragged scars Of some pre–natal suffering or shock, And so she mothers him with tender care Gives him a special mention in her prayer. His face is wistful with an older look The look that suffering makes in human eyes, He lives in such a different world and has A childish understanding old and wise, As if he drank from some deep hidden spring And could be hurt no more by anything. Yet when I look at other little ones Prodded and pushed through life by fear and hate, I turn again to his dear, happy face Knowing that his is much the kinder fate. (For God knew this and made his twisted limb A refuge in a bitter world for him.) [page 19]
An Everyday Hero
I used to think a hero was A sort of shining knight Who always drew a golden sword To battle for the right. Had a fine horse with trappings gay And rode to battle far way. But now I know the little man Who lives next door to me, Who works so hard to earn his bread And keep his family. Has courage just as true and fine As any prince of royal line. I doubt me if he ever heard Of knights in armour grand. He only asks a little job And a small piece of land, Where he can grow a bit of stuff Fresh vegetables and fruit enough. And so instead of shining swords He’ll take a hoe and spade To dig around the garden patch Of the little home he’s made. And when the flowers come with spring Is happier than any king. [page 20]
To A Little Boy On A Beach
What majesty of sun–filled space,
What peace within this small lagoon
The salty wind against his face.
His playmates just a mongrel dog,
A ragged end of cedar log.
And yet on this rude ship he rides
In fancy all the seven seas,
His red cheeks freshened by the sun
His body cooled by every breeze.
The smooth–ribbed sand a carpet spread,
The sky a canopy o’er head.
Life may hold evil days for him
Hardship and suffering be his lot,
But he will keep against his heart
The fragrance of this lovely spot.
A sweet oasis green and fair
Sacred and healing as a prayer. [page 21]
They’re Just Like Us
They’re just like us, all blood is one The savage loves his tiny son With just the same warm rush of pride, The Indian cherishes his bride, A heathen leads his little band To shelter in some distant land. Into the hearts of all these folk God, the eternal Father spoke, And gave to everyone His grace The shining image of His face, The simple code of right and wrong A love of eventide and song. The savor of good food, the feel Of warm enjoyment in a meal, A love of home though bare and crude, A mother with her tiny brood Getting them settled for the night In the safe glow of firelight. If we could only realize All blood is one before God’s eyes The children of His loving heart, Though dwelling all the world apart. How could a world make war on these Whom Christ had blessed upon His knees. [page 22]
Small Things
O may I dip my pen in kindly ink And write of lovely things I saw today, Farm buildings in a little friendly clump; A farmer bringing home a load of hay. I saw an old dog dozing by the barn One eye half open, sort of keeping guard To see that all was well about the place No stranger mouching ’round his special yard. I saw a mother hen with anxious care Settle her lively brood beneath her wings Scoop out a little bed beside the stack And talk to them in drowsy murmurings. I saw three children coming home from school Gay laughter on their lips and on their faces The healthy tan of wind and prairie suns The shining wholesomeness of country places. All these plain things I saw with eyes grown misty At the dear loveliness of common days, The cricket’s tiny song above the stubble The friendly happiness of country ways. [page 23]
The Coronation
There will be pageantry and wealth and power Love of their country...pride of ancient birth, Old London throbbing to her mighty hour, Where meet the kings and princes of the earth. The scarlet of a flag, the flash of swords The stately passing of her mighty lords. There will be humble folk in quiet dress Lining the streets to see the King go by, The lilt of music in the sunny air, A thousand crimson banners in the sky, Gay laughter...little children tenderly Lifted above the crowd so they can see. And under all the pageantry and pride The sturdy heart of England true and great Beats out its quiet round of destiny, And far beneath the power of Church and State The little common working fellow stands And holds the Might of England in his hands. [page 24]
Her Way
(My Mother)
She couldn’t put in words,
That her small yard became somehow
A sanctuary for birds.
She’d sweep the walk in winter time
And put out meat and bread
It warmed her heart with joy to see
These tiny people fed.
It was her way of spreading love
That children came to know
A welcome waited for them there
Whenever they might go.
A cookie jar, a doughnut crock
On the low pantry shelves
Where very hungry little folk
Could go and help themselves.
It was her way of saying things
When words were hard to find
To voice the tenderness that filled
Her loving heart and mind.
For deeds speak louder after all
I wish that more would start
And take this way of showing folks
The love within their hearts. [page 25]
The Writer
To struggle on though wearied unto death To hold you dream as sacred as your breath, To cleave unto your goal through storm and strife To make this shining thing your very life, More than all else the world can offer you Keeping the faith, to your own gift be true. For one swift breathless moment to attain A foothold on some higher, cleaner plane Then turn you back to the dull universe And put your shining vision into verse, That others watching though they may not reach May see their dreams reflected in your speech. To plod through darkness seeking for a light, To toil long house in the dead of night, Seeking a word...a sentence or a phrase And then all suddenly it seems to blaze, Like a swift meteor for a moment caught Lighting the tangles fibre of your thought. So must he toil who serves the fickle Muse Putting his strength and talents into use, Making a web of beauty sheer and fine Dear earthly things but touched with the divine, A song of people dull and commonplace Touched into radiance by special grace. [page 26]
My Body A Servant
Small hands that serve me with such willing grace You type and sew and do a hundred things Draw music from white keys, make tiny frocks, The magic in your fingers often brings Me richest blessing—yet I never praise Just take for granted all your willing ways. Feet that I drive with such relentless force, On stony pavements, all your freedom bound In hard hot leather shoes with stilted heels, (Do you remember then the cool, clean ground The feel of dew–wet grass, the furrows touch Warm pasture fields and little sloughs and such?) Heart, lungs and stalwart back and thinking brain Such cheerful servants at my spirit’s call Life’s warm blood throbbing through the quiet veins, I marvel at the wonder of it all, And thank you, hands and feet so willingly, For the warm temple that you keep for ME. [page 27]
The Little Cobbler
The little cobbler where I go Preached me a sermon just on shoes Holding one up against the light He showed me just how folks abuse Their feet by buying shoes too tight It seems that no one gets them right. This one wears heels too high, now look She tilts along and all her weight Comes on her toes (poor suffering things) And this one has a sideways gait Because her feet are flat and wide And they just burst out at the side. Now this one wears a number five (She really ought to wear a seven) But style is style and so her feet Sigh for some lovely cobbler’s heaven Where shoes are made to really fit. No wonder people love to sit. And I’m no better than the rest I must have shoes like other folk, And so I mince along the street Like an old wheel without a spoke, But when I sit, if I am able, I kick mine off beneath the table. [page 28]
Not For Me
Not for me the lonely ways Bush or wide unpeopled plain Dappled meadows of the sea Waving miles of growing grain. I must have the sight and sound Of my neighbors close around. I have lived so very long In the silent, lonely places Now I want companionship And the sight of friendly faces. As the years creep up on me I like human company. Frontiers call the young and brave, Far horizons cast a spell On the strong and valiant hearted, But I much prefer to dwell In a little town, where lights Twinkle in the street o’nights. [page 29]
A Loving Heart
There are no boundaries for a loving heart, East, West, North, South, wherever you may go You will find gracious women, patient men (The precious leaven in a world of woe) Whose lovely deeds are fragrant as a flower Helping some traveller through a lonely hour. For I have seen a Chinese gard’ner stoop To free a struggling pair of tangled wings, I’ve watched a hard old face grow soft and fair Just looking at a caged bird as it sings, Wondering perhaps if one day he might raise His ’prisoned heart in such a song of praise. A loving heart sees everything with love (What spectacles to sit astride your nose) Hard faces shining in a gentle light And sharp mean features colored like a rose. Would that we all this beauty might behold And see through grime and dust the gleam of gold. [page 30]
Sparrows
Brown coated sparrows strung along the wires They look for all the world like hooded friars The lawn a begging bowl for rice and bread Where these small pilgrims clamour to be fed. They ask of Nature only this brown dress, (Their souls I know are clothes in loveliness) Like other poor and lowly of the earth The rich and gaudy count them of small worth. They are such friendly little folk, they chose So many things of ours for their own use, Small bits of string and yarn, a colored thread To weave into a little swaying bed. They build their mansions close to man’s abode Protecting eaves, trees nearest to the road, How we would miss the little humble things If no brown sparrows told us it was spring. [page 31]
To An Old Chinaman
A pagan in his heart they say Ne’er thinks of God the Christian way I doubt me if he ever heard A sermon on the Holy Word. He doesn’t know salvation’s plan This little yellow laundry man. And yet this son of heathen birth Is honest to a farthing’s worth, Hard working, thrifty, full of fun Would lend a hand to anyone, He has a cheerful happy grin That sort of takes the whole world in. He stands on his old sandled feet Where he can look along the street, And irons shirts the whole day long Humming a little Chinese song. And every time I pass the place He has a flower in a vase. Upon the window sill it stands Set there by careful, loving hands, A little altar shining there, A pagan heart, but I declare God in His wisdom gave a rose To speak the language that he knows. [page 32]
The Prisoner
He had loved open fields...the taste of spring (The wine of morning in the cup of night) The scud of clouds...the music of the wind, A field of golden stooks was his delight. Behind the grey–walled place so grim and bare Through the wide chinks between the prison bars, His eyes are homesick for the sight of land Yet looking up he only sees the stars. I wonder if his pulses stir and beat When April warms the fields he used to plow When high winds keen and call above the wheat Where meadow–larks and quail are nesting now. Does memory wound him like a sabre thrust To think of open roads that lure and call, Of sunrise on a lonely prairie farm Of early snow and hunting in the fall. Oh may he hear behind his prison walls The crunch of wagon wheels...a swinging trace And give him dreams—Oh God—of summer mornings The open road and wind against his face. [page 33]
These Are The Things
These are the things I hold of precious worth, Dearer than all the minted gold of earth, The slow clean rising of the sap in spring October’s glad and gracious winnowing. The stippled meadows in the drowsy non, The far–off lonely crying of a loon. The cadence of a voice, the sound of words, The mystery behind the flight of birds, Leisure to think without a sense of strain, To let the winds of peace blow through your brain Until the worn–out tired cells revive And every nerve is flowing and alive. These are the things that count...a window high Where you can feel the nearness of the sky Leisure to dream, to pause in Life’s mad rush Drink at the well of Silence, feel the hush Behind the little noises of the earth, These are the things I hold of precious worth. [page 34]
Young Girls Hiking
Oh, may the day be bright for them, the road A ladder reaching up to meet the sky, Oh, make their hearts aware of lovely things Their ears unstopped to hear the curlew’s cry. Oh, let them sense the beauty of the day, (They are too young to truly realize The wide, sweet world, the blue and gentle dusk Laid out like tapestry before their eyes). Oh, keep them young, renew their strength until They mount like eagles to the rising sun. Open their hearts to joy and let them feel The quivering tides of life that throb and run. Oh, may they store safe in their spirit’s vault Some of the shining wonder they have known And ring their lovely day about with stars To shine above them when they walk alone. [page 35]
Tied To A Job
His office window looks toward the sea And all day long he hears the break of waves, The seethe of water when the tides come in Filling the little crevices and caves, He adds up columns but the figures seem To dance before the mirror of his dream. He watches ships come in, with eyes aglow Unload their yawning holds of rice and tea, He sees them batten down the hatch again And follows then as they put out to sea, And dreams of Singapore, of France and Spain, Then sighs and turns back to his work again. How is it then that sailors dream of home Of quiet gardens fringed with ancient trees, And little quiet men chained to a desk On white–winged galleons ride the seven seas, To slake their thirst for Life and mystery And dream of countries they will never see. [page 36]
An Old Barn
And old barn leans against a wooden fence Sagging beneath its own unsteady weight, It has a lonely look as if it mourned Was sorry for itself, the bitter fate That left it shrinking in the autumn night, Like an old face that hides it grief from sight. The empty mangers yawn, the floors are bare A thousand cobwebs hang from sill and beam, A piece of harness on a wooden peg, (How proudly once it decked a prancing team). In the grey twilight ghostly shadows fall Across the staunchions of an empty stall. If it could speak, what tales it might unfold Of the warm happy life it once had known, The little new–born things...the cloistered dark, The fragrance of alfalfa newly mown, The shadowy loft where children love to play At hide and seek the whole long summer day. And now it leans against a wooden fence Like an old man who leans against a cane Its windows leer like old discouraged eyes Into the dreary darkness of a lane. A kindly tree leans over it and tries To hide its sorrow from unfriendly eyes. [page 37]
Old Farmer’s Talk
Old farmers meeting at the corner store, Talk of their crops, of happenings close at hand, Of lambing–time and spring and clover fields, The need of rain upon the seeded land. There is a quietness about their toil, The peace of rain–sweet meadows in their talk, The strength of fields is in their quiet hands, The patience of the little homing flock. Forth from the good clean earth they bring their food, Fruit of their labor, symbols of their toil, Theirs is the blessedness of work well done, The glowing healthy kinship of the soil. And when they meet they talk of common things The rising sap, the sound of birds in flight, They carry all the world in their strong hands, And lay them down to quiet sleep at night. [page 38]
Moving Into A New House
Into this little house, may I not being The seeds of discord, or of anything That would deface the quiet charm it wears, The wide, deep fireplace, the easy chairs, The windows have a quaint old–fashioned look, Like tiny casements patterned from a book. Into this little house, let me bring song, Laughter and happiness to it belong, The walls were fashioned for delight, I know, The whole house has a home–like, rosy glow, Like an old lamp that sheds its cheerful light Into the friendly darkness of the night. Into this little house, Oh Lord, I pray, Thou wilt be guest of ours, for every day —Being alone—we’ll feel the need of Thee, Oh may the oil of gladness burn for me, Make it a home in every kindly sense, A small world bounded by our tiny fence. [page 39]
Another Day
Another day to live for good or ill; Another day with empty hours to fill With the rich coin of happiness and joy, To take the minted gold of Love’s alloy And use it in a wise and tender way For every one who needs its help today. To fill the hours with gratitude, to take Old, threadbare, mean, discouraged rooms, and make Them shine with gladness, like an aureole, To give the empty house a living soul, That all who come may feel its quiet grace, Like the soft glow of an old, lovely face. To go companioned like a shining knight, To hold the thought above me like a light That here is all the scope I’ll ever need, (A fire to tend...a little mouth to feed). What more has Life to offer, tell me, pray, Than the full splendor of a woman’s day. [page 40]
O Farmer
O Farmer tell me how the rose, Its own full time and season knows. And how a swallow on the wing Keeps its eternal tryst with spring, And travelling in some star hung height Knows the same garden to alight. Or how a bulb on a dark shelf Will feel within its tiny self The stirring of Life’s vital spark, And reach out fingers in the dark To find the warmth and light it needs, The substance upon which it feeds. And would you answer, if you please, How weather–beaten, twisted trees Could send out flowers, frail as lace To glorify my shabby place. Their waxy blossoms glow and sway Like lanterns on a holiday. Ah no, you could not answer me, It is not given man to see Beyond this narrow, earth–hung veil, I only know Love shall prevail And, somewhere in eternal bliss I shall find answer to all this. [page 41]
Companionship
There is companionship in many things A lovely room with flowers on the sill, The sight of clouds adrift against the sky. Old twisted trees against a windy hill. No one need ever dwell with loneliness Who sees the break of waves upon a beach, Or walk forlorn while there are blind to lead Or little backward children you could teach. How often is a lonely meal made sweet, By using dishes that your mother had, An old chair seems to fold you in its arms And hold again the quiet touch of Dad. Or we may walk companioned by the great, The wealth of ages is at our command, The beautiful and lovely of the earth Have left their shining foot–prints in the sand There is companionship in walls and floors, Healing in the old bark of weathered trees, For I shall never walk forlorn again Or live in lonely rooms...while I have these. [page 42]
Field and Fen
God bless the little life of field and fen That goes its ordered way apart from men, The instinct of a bird for homing flight, Frail nicotine that only blooms at night. The soft plush of a caterpillar’s coat, The scarlet wonder of a robin’s throat, A small ant struggling with its clumsy load In the hot dust of any country road. A cricket sings with all his little might His ageless harvest song...the linnet’s flight Is patterned on the sky, a moment there Suspended like a cross upon the air. A poppy forms its tiny cup for seeds, Frost paints a little wayside mat of weeds Into a gaudy carpet rich and gay Where some poor wandering soul might kneel to pray. Such little things...and yet how we would miss The tiny presence of dear things like this, The drift of smoke, the scent of apple trees, And every day is rich because of these. [page 43]
Colors In Nature
There are no sober colors in the brush that Nature wields, she clothes in gayest red and orange the borders of the fields, she gilds the lily with her brush dipped in the richest cream, and splashes bits of gayest rose along this winding stream.
She tints the bleeding hearts that droop the reddist shade of all, she tones the lichens down to gray against the garden wall. She even paints the sober moss a sort of vivid green, then puts a layer of lavender like frosting in between.
She tosses purple asters there to mix with golden rod, she lays a rug of silver grass upon the patient sod, she flings a shawl of crimson sky, above the lonely plain, then veils her handiwork with clouds of slanting silver rain. [page 44]
A–Venturing
Oh, I would go a–venturing Along the road to God–knows–where, I’d be a dusky gypsy bride With purple asters in my hair. I’d ride with Happiness and Joy, The sun would make a rug of gold, I’d dance at night upon the green With jewels in my hand to hold. Oh, I would go a–venturing I’d sail upon the Seven Seas, I’d fling my songs against the stars, And mix my laughter with the breeze. I’d round the Horn where sheeted ghosts Of wandering sailors ride the waves, I’d learn the secrets of the Deep, Hidden in rock–bound ocean caves. Oh, I would go a–venturing The world’s wide highways up and down, But some day I would turn me home To little houses of the town. A cosy fire, warm and red, A table laid with shining ware, Clean covers on a silken bed And Love to hold and keep me there. [page 45]
His First Girl
He has a girl! ’Tis I—his mother—speaks. Young love that only walks amid the peaks Of happiness, nor dreams that there could be Aught for his love but this dear ecstacy, This radiance of earth...this sudden shine Of stars and hilltops...this dear bread and wine. Oh, may this girl of his...his first dear love Be clean and worthy as the stars above, (He is so young for worship) let her know That she will set the way his feet will go, That as she is, so will all women be, She is his star...his goal...his destiny. Oh, keep him fine and clean, my clear–eyed lad This shining knight, this young Sir Galahad, Who faces Life and all that it must hold, Oh may his faith shine forth like minted gold, And keep them both...this girl and this dear boy, Gentle and kind and filled with youth’s clean joy. [page 46]
Clouds
Clouds are so many different things, Grey pyramids...an angel’s wings, White galleons setting out to sea, Their wide sails dipped in mystery. And sometimes in the midnight blue, A lattice–work where stars shine through. And sometimes, battlements and towers Hang in the quiet sky for hours, A temple built of rosy mist With walls of fairest amethyst. (And once a cloud all shining white Received Him from their wondering sight). So when the clouds are low for me, I look above their grey, and see The sunshine on the other side Knowing that all good things abide, For out of clouds in patterns laid Are Life’s most splendid sunsets made. [page 47]
The Upper Room
We have an upper room and from its height, The stars seems closer, somehow, in the night, Into my bedroom window oft they peep Making dear silver shadows while I sleep. The rain has music, too, that seems to ease The weary heart and brings me quiet peace. Into my sunny room the neighbours bring Their knotty problems for unravelling, And here we spread them out like tangles skeins And sometimes a dear troubled spirit gains A clearer grasp of life, a wider view, Sees at a glance the wisest thing to do. And little children bring their tiny care; A doll that lost an eye, a teddy bear Who needs a stitch or two...and maybe they Have grown a wee bit tired of their play, And like to rest in this clean atmosphere, Renew their little souls with gladness here. So in my upper room all set apart, There is a balm and healing for the heart, For helping others I can often see A wider doorway opening for me, For trouble shared and lifted often brings A blessed understanding on its wings. [page 48]
In Hospital
On a white bed I learned to pray For things I had not counted much, I grew to love the white of sheets, A little nurse’s quiet touch. How pain can make the hours long How suffering tends to make us strong. On a white bed where I could think My mind went back across the years Picking out milestones I had passed (A little grave–stone wet with tears) The place where I had conquered Sin The hill I almost failed to win. On a white bed I came to know The sounding brass of earthly things How little our ambition seems When Death draws close on hovering wings, How paltry our possessions then, How small the ruling–rods of men. On a white bed I learned how strong The tides of life can draw and pull Old tired bodies back to earth, (How kind is God...how merciful). I learned new values as I lay Where I had time to think...and pray. [page 49]
War
I have no son to bear his mother’s name Beneath the glowing colors of his shield, No gay, warm–hearted lad to spill his breath On any battlefield. I have no son to sear his boyish heart In the red flame of any war–torn sky, No Isaac for a sacrifice (no lamb) No dear young lad to die. But I have these...a neighbour boy whose eyes Are filled with visions he may never see The sound of guns that spoke another war Still echoing in me. I have the salt of other women’s tears Here on my face and eye I cannot meet, Old soldiers limping by (white canes that grope) Along this quiet street. My sister has two sons...my brother one, My friend has three—and when the news is heard They sit and stare at ridges in the floor, And never say a word. [page 50]
Give Thanks
For apple–sauce and tear and buttered bread, For piled–up hard–wood in the kitchen shed, The taste of plums...the rings of growth in trees, Small kindly deeds that no one ever sees. An old ship wallering home against the tide, A rocky broken cliff where sea–gulls hide, A light–house blinking through the fog and rain, Old trees that meet above a quiet lane. For crimson things...a warm, new winter coat, A flag’s gay challende and a robin’s throat, Poppies and hollyhocks, the red of briar, The last small flickering embers of a fire. The warmth of human love sustained and sweet, The ties of home...this little shabby street (Where Christ might walk) for here the lilies bloom To spill their fragrance in my quiet room. [page 51]
The Little Children
The little children of our street Are all so small and clean and sweet, There’s Shirley Ann and Betty May And how they laugh and shout and play, They skip and skate and ride their bikes You never saw such little tykes. And Betty says her doll can talk, (Betty is sweeping off the walk) With an old broom too big to hold) For Betty’s only five years old. Her eyes are brown as autumn leaves, Her hair the color of new sheaves. And Coleen used to be so small But now she’s growing thin and tall, You’d hardly think that just last year Her wee brown head just came to here. She had a kitten and a swing, And had a birthday in the spring. Rex is a dog, but every day He joins the children at their play, And has the greatest fun of all He jumps the fence to get the ball, And never cries or makes a fuss, Just plays and loves to be with us. [page 52] I’m getting big—I’m ten years old And grandma often starts to scold And says I should be taught to sew, But mother laughs, and then I go Upstairs to bed...and then...and then... First thing I know...it’s day again. [page 53]
So Long
So long as day shall follow night—so long As there are stars and wind and even song, And old sweet mother rocking by the fire, (And still sweet April nights and young desire,) So long as these are here serene, complete, So will the core of life be sound and sweet. So long as children love to play and run And little kindly deeds are thought and done So long as tired feet come home at night And there is fresh cooked food and firelight, And gentle hands and shoulder wide and strong, There will be strength to bear the world along. So long as rainbows flaunt their colors seven, Above the darkness of a storm–swept heaven, So long as seeds, dark–prisoned in the land, Shall burst their tiny cells and grow and stand A shining miracle above the sod, So long as these are here...there will be God. [page 54]
Cheerful Folk
I like cheerful folk around, Happy lips that brim with song Never fill your ears with woe, Never burden you with wrong, They will have them, never doubt That they will not talk about. In our common daily round, I like folks who seem to find Something clean and good to say, Something good in human kind. There is woe enough to spare, Poverty walks everywhere. I like folks who make you feel That the goal is worth the strife. Folks who bear the brunt of toil Make a happy game of life. Greet the morning with a song, Help to push the world along. There are thousands just like this, Folks who face the day with smiles, Always there when things go wrong, (Helping lame dogs over stiles). Earth’s sweet leaven running free, Sweetening life for you and me. [page 55]
Sermons In Stones
A sermon in a stone, they say, Ah, yes, I know, a hundred prayers Ascend from little altars green, They preach His gospel unawares, Who plant a flower or a tree That people going by may see. The birds wake slowly, one by one, Facing the dawn they gladly raise Their tiny voices to the sun, A quivering madrigal of praise. The tall spikes of the golden rod Proclaim the dwelling–place of God. White candles on a chestnut tree Like tapers lit before a shrine, The sky’s blue ceiling lifted up (And people asking for a sign) When every russet woods aflame Sing hallelujahs to His name. [page 56]
The Old Grandmother
Her home was such a tiny place And yet she kept it clean and fair, She had a knack of fixing things, A little cushion for a chair, A braided mat...a crocheted rug, That made her kitchen warm and snug. And through the open door, you caught A glimpse into her bedroom clean, Starched pillow shams, a patchwork quilt, A dresser painted apple green. A motto framed above the bed (God Bless our Home) was what it said. Ah, dear old–fashioned folk, I know You’ve long since gone to your reward, Perhaps you make small mats and things In some white mansion of the Lord. I think that even heaven could stand Gay things that women make by hand. [page 57]
Prayer For The Blind
God give him sight that we know nothing of, Some inner vision shining through his gloom, His poor old sightless eyes so dull and still As he stands gently working at a broom. The straws get twisted, and he cannot see Just feels the ends and stomps then on his knee. How patient are the faces of the blind, Like an old parchment of wrinkled silk, Blue–veined as marble on a temple floor, His fine old curling hair as white as milk, He walks with little groping steps and feels The white sides of the dishes at his meals. I wonder if this broken, tired man Was once a little boy with eager feet, Running as lightly as an April wind Along the dappled sunlight of a street. (Oh, grant him now the sense in nerve and limb Of that bright life that once was part of him). Give to his sunken eyes the shining light Of apple trees in bloom against the sky, The peace of quiet pools, the flash of wings, The glitter of bright swords as men go by, Oh, may he walk in faith and truly find The blessed hope and patience of the blind. [page 58]
A Modern Martha
This modern Martha serves with willing hands Small frosted cakes and fragrant cups of tea, And once when trouble knocked upon my door, She was the very first to come to me. She has no special gift of anything, No voice to sing immortal songs or lays And yet there’s music in her happy face, Her lovely presence is a song of praise. Her house has shining walls and tidy shelves, A quaint, old–fashioned look about the rooms As if the warp and woof of sunny hours Was woven into days on happy looms. She has the hand of Martha, strong and fine, And yet the heart of Mary makes her see Where there is need, and so her tender hands Reach out to serve in loving ministry. [page 59]
The Immigrant
She has a peasant’s hands, warm vital hands That know the feel of sod...the touch of rain Strong as a man’s, yet tender to the young, She stooks the wide, sweet fields of ripened grain, Pitting her clean, good strength against the soil, Laughs as she moves about her daily toil. Something about her body makes me know That somehow she is kin to this brown earth, For in her is the patience of the sod, The motherhood of all things glad for birth. The peace of evening...dawn’s attendant glow The purity of morning stars...and snow. A peasant in a wide, old, gathered, pleated skirt, A ’kerchief tied three–cornered on her head, Transplanted from a far–off alien land She goes about her task earning bread, And brings to this new land a wisdom fraught With peace,—the waiting centuries have taught. [page 60]
To A Young Girl
She’ll never set the world afire She’ll never rise to fame, Nor climb the ladder of success, Or write in gold her name. But, oh, she’s sweet to live with In a common sort of way, She makes an air of happiness To shine through every day. Her heart is pure as hawthorn buds, She’s clean in soul and mind, She has a gentle way with her And, oh, her face is kind. She finds a hundred ways to show The loving heart she bears, A bit of heaven shining through The very clothes she wears. She’s just a common sort of girl With eyes and chin and nose, Yet, in the firelight, sometimes, Her face is like a rose. The world is somehow kinder Since she came to live with me, And she has shown me just how sweet A MODERN girl can be. [page 61]
Shirley
How lovely Shirley’s eyes must be For in a garden she can see Fairies and elves in silken dresses, A jack–in–the–pulpit, too, who blesses His lovely congregation gay, Gathered upon this summer day. The canterbury bells ring out Bidding the butterflies and bees To worship in this temple holy, And so they come, the meek and lowly, And Shirley vows she sees them there Bending their tiny knees in prayer. Oh, give me for a little space, A child’s small heart of shining grace That I may see the white–robed daisies Bowing their heads and singing praises To the Most High...for Shirley knows The loving habits of the rose. [page 62]
Stars
She got a golden star today In her new spelling book, “There on the margin it shines All gold! Oh, mother, look! And on the black–board, too, there’s one Against the name of ‘Joyce’,” And there was rapture in her eyes And wonder in her voice. For grown–ups, too, in Life’s hard school There is a Book, I’m told, Where names are written down like this And some have stars of gold. How lovely it will be, at last, Beyond all praise or blame, If in the Book a star is set To shine against your name. [page 63]
Spring Indeed
To be a part of spring...the throb and stir Of sap and budding oak...a bird’s clear praise A white–washed apple tree...a pasture lot Where sweet–breathed cattle graze. A vacant lot whose grass is daisy starred Where little girls in clean print dresses play, Making long chains to hang about their necks The long sweet summer day. A hatch of chickens, yellow as the sun, A new calf trying out his wobbly legs, And there above the porch, secure and warm, A nest of robin’s eggs. I had forgotten how the blossoms fall, The shining wonder of a chestnut tree, Until you came with glory in your eyes And gave it back to me. Ah, Spring! the Bride of Earth in raiment fair Holding her lamp above the greening wheat, She walks triumphant down the scented ways With magic in her feet. [page 64]
The Horns Of Elfland
They say that if our ears were sharp enough We could hear grasses growing, and the sound Of tiny trumpets when the bluebells sway Above the warm, clean fragrance of the ground, That even snow–drops have a song to sing To swell the hallelujahs of the spring. And so, if I had tender ears, I’d learn Why crocuses have little furry stems, And why petunias have such gay attire Like little party frocks with scalloped hems, And how a mother robin knows her mate And is content to brood and love...and wait. So I will listen with my heart, instead Of these dull ears, and maybe I shall catch The first faint stirring in the chrysalis Of some wee Life about my garden patch. Or hear the rapture of the wind’s caress Ringing a silver bell for happiness. [page 65]
A Vacant Lot
A vacant lot has many things Beyond our slow imaginings, How could a common mortal see Parrots and monkeys in a tree. Or pirates’ gold long buried there In that low place that looks so bare. How could a grown–up ever sense The magic country of Pretense Or see a band of Indians hide Just over on the other side, With tomahawks and scalps and bows (The things that every youngster knows). How could we dream that fairy–land Was waiting there so close to hand, That ever rugged rock and tree Was steeped and dipped in mystery, Along the little paths they made Winding about this lovely glade. Ah, Grown–up world, do children know A wisdom greater than we teach, A clearer faith, a deeper love, A finer creed that we can preach. Because a vacant lot has shown Me wonders I had never known. [page 66]
In A Garden
Here among the budding flowers I have known such happy hours, Learned new lessons every day, Looked at things a different way. Values change when you are set In a patch of mignonette. Looking in a pansy’s face I have found sweeter grace. In the still heart of a rose All the peace that Nature knows. From a clump of marigold Something for my heart to hold. I have learned that fret and fuss Spoils the very best in us, Eats away the vine and leaf Kills the roots of our belief, Makes us hard and full of strife Spoils the very best in life. In this little patch of ground There is something clean and sound, Every spade of soil you turn There is something new to learn. Here amid the sun and rain I have found myself again. [page 67]
She Planted Trees
She didn’t do much that a person could see, This little old lady who lived down the street, But she planted a tree at the side of the house, And a row of red tulips so prim and so neat. She set out some rose bushes close to the walk, Some pansies and asters and cuttings of stock. She tended her flowers with patience untold, She watered them faithfully, day after day, She coaxed them along like a mother, I vow, They answered her care in their own lovely way. The roses leaned over the gate, full and sweet, The stocks sent their perfume in waves down the street. She didn’t do much that a person could see, But the whole street was better because of her toil. A little old woman as thin as a wasp, But she cherished this life in the sun and the soil, And made of her garden a place set apart Reflecting the peace in her own quiet heart. [page 68]
In A Sudden Cold Snap
God keep the little feathered things tonight. Where do they hide when storms like these come down? I saw them yesterday, so gay and bright, Flitting about the doorways of the town, And two went by like lovers, close to me, Surveying for a nest, from tree to tree. I put out scraps of meat and scatter crumbs, And call from every door and window ledge Looking for them, and yet no robin comes Flying across the tangles holly hedge, Is there some secret place where birds can go, When they are caught like this in sudden snow? April would mourn and hide her face in shame And May would droop beneath her hawthorn red, Spring would be sorrowful, if no birds came To sing above the glory she had spread. (Oh, Father, keep them safe through wind and storm, hide them beneath Thy cloak and keep them warm). [page 69]
The Spoken Word
Let’s talk of lovely things...for I have heard That there is power in the spoken word, Power to heal and bless, a well of joy (And also power to shatter and destroy). A word has wings, they say, to bear it far Beyond the farthest radius of a star. Let’s talk of lovely things...the good and fair The tender things about us everywhere, For words are freighted with such force and might, They go swift as an arrow in its flight. No sword as sharp as words to pierce the heart, No evil like a sentence’s poisoned dart. Let’s talk of lovely things...hold fast to these The peace of summer fields, the strength of trees, Clean–hearted women...men of quiet worth, Think on them all, the worthy things of earth, Speak of them gladly, let your voice be heard Only in passing on the kindly word. [page 70]
Spring Cleaning
Spring cleaning? Yes, we’ve chased the cobwebs out, Flung wide the doors and put the dust to rout, Got into little corners with a pin, Hunted the places where dirt had been. Up–rooted rugs, cleaned carpets on the stair, Even the attic came in for its share. And now the house is shining, walls and floors, Even the door–knobs glisten on the doors, The rooms are sweet with a new–painted look You’d never dream the little time it took To make it clean within, where Love might stay And rest at the sweet even of the day. If hands can work such miracles, oh, take The hidden chambers of my heart and make Them clean and fair, that secret blot or stain Cleanse them in the bright flood of April rain. Oh, make my heart a doorway, shining bright, That I may appear spotless in Thy sight. [page 71]
The Stay–At–Homes
The stay–at–homes all envy me My little travels to and fro. They look at me with wistful eyes And only wish that they could go To meet new people, see new things, Wear pretty dresses, read a book, Stay at a nice hotel, and eat Good meals they didn’t have to cook. Oh, little stay–at–home, I know It all sounds lovely in a poem, But you have Life’s most precious thing, The shelter of a kindly home. The dear security of love, A marriage blest and sanctified, A child to run with eager feet A husband walking by your side. So let us each be glad, my dear, You, for your common daily round, And I, for little roads that lead My always over lonely ground. This be your lot...and this be mine, A cottage at the edge of town, A white road leading where it will Over the whole world up and down. [page 72]
Birds Nest Building
How is it then you carry all day long, Small bits of twig and ragged ends of string, A bit of colored wool, a tiny thread, To weave into your lovely fashioning. A thousand trips a day, I do believe, Building your nest against the sheltering eave. And then you sing, perched on a broken twig, A sweet doxology of simple praise, Then dart away in silver–mounted wings, To dip and swoop through pools of purple haze. One last swift flight before you settle down Crouched in your little bed of sober brown. Oh, tiny Prophet of the spring–to–be, Who taught you all the wisdom of your ways? Dates on the calendar...the route of flight, The rules of music in your measured phrase. Tell me, I pray—for I would follow, too, And learn the gift of happiness from you. [page 73]
Everyday Miracles
A tiny bridge above the stream, And in this lonely place A ragged edge of sunset caught Against the water’s face, Staining to red its crimson depths, A miracle divine, For here before me once again Is water turned to wine. I walked with Spring about the fields, And in a sunny spot I found a little grey cocoon, With silken meshes caught, But when I stopped to look within, I knelt and held my breath, The tiny sepulchre was bare, For Life had conquered Death. How is it, then, that I should ask A plainer speech than these Birds going North in April, And the sight of greening trees. The pearly mist of hawthorn buds, Hot sunlight on the sea Answers my hungry heart and makes A worshipper of me. [page 74]
The Birthday Party
I think it is a lovely thing To have a birthday in the spring, And Coleen, just across the way, Is nine years old this April day. Her mother must be happy, too, For, oh, the skies are warm and blue And there are pink tipped daisies on The tiny borders of their lawn. She has a birthday party, too. There are little girls in pink and blue, But Coleen’s dress is white, with frills, And every minute has new thrills, For every child brought her a gift, There’s more than she can even lift. The birthday cake is pink and green With layers of jelly in between, And nine pink candles in a row, Balloons and lollypops...and, Oh, I think it is a lovely thing To have a birthday in the spring. [page 75]
My Soul Delights
My soul delights in lovely things, The sight of beauty often brings A stab of joy to my heart’s core. Wet pebbles glistening on the shore, Cool stippled sunlight on the sea Answers some hungry need in me. My heart is comforted and healed Of little woes, when in a field White daisies raise their lovely faces To shine above these common places. Or ragged larkspur, faintly blue, Nods by the garden fence to you. My spirit kneels before the shrine Of pink and purple columbine, Of trellised roses, heliotrope Climbing the garden’s gentle slope. A monument to Love it stands, a temple fair, not made with hands. [page 76]
Clover
A field of clover is a heartsome thing To see, the pale green showing in the spring, Like carpets spread upon the sober ground. The coming of new wings...the sound Of new Life breaking forth in tree and hedge, Nature renews again her age–old pledge. A field of clover coming into bloom, The heady fragrance of her purple plume A challenge, and a promise lifted up Where bees drink nectar from an holy cup, Lords of the field who ask no richer brew Than these sweet blossoms wet with morning dew. I love a farm–house, fashioned low and wide, With drooping eaves and cosy rooms inside, Built on a knoll, with sloping fields around, (Farr off a mountain rises dimly crowned Against the sky, as if a Master hand Had drawn a back–ground for this lovely land). And all about the farmstead, little fields Give graciously their rich and varied yields, Clover and rye and the rich gold of wheat, Fruit of the growing trees, earth’s bread and meat. The bounty of a hand whose loving reach Transcends the little boundaries of speech. [page 77]
Lessons From The Prairie
From this immensity of earth and sky Teach me, I pray, new rules to measure by. From the vast cavalcade of summer days Teach me—Oh, Life—the peace of lonely ways. From the deep well of silence, let me draw The strength and wisdom of Thy perfect law. From hurried days of heat and driving toil, Teach me the blessed patience of the soil. From all our human ways of fear and strife, Teach me the timeless harmony of Life. [page 78]
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