The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 70

"Ah," you explain, "she did not know-- This babe of four-- Just what it signifies to go."

Do you know more?

Kenton Foster Murray [18--

TIRED MOTHERS

A little elbow leans upon your knee, Your tired knee that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.

Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing overmuch,-- You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day,-- We are so dull and thankless; and too slow To catch the suns.h.i.+ne till it slips away.

And now it seems surpa.s.sing strange to me That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good.

And if some night when you sit down to rest, You miss this elbow from your tired knee,-- This restless, curling head from off your breast-- This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; If the white feet into, their grave had tripped, I could not blame you for your heartache then!

I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown.

If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,-- If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear its patter in my house once more,--

If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in G.o.d's world could say She was more blissfully content than I.

But ah! the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a s.h.i.+ning head; My singing birdling from its nest has flown, The little boy I used to kiss is dead.

May Riley Smith [1842-1927]

MY DAUGHTER LOUISE

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, My seat on the sand and her seat on my knees, We watch the bright billows, do I and my daughter, My sweet little daughter Louise.

We wonder what city the pathway of glory, That broadens away to the limitless west, Leads up to--she minds her of some pretty story And says: "To the city that mortals love best."

Then I say: "It must lead to the far away city, The beautiful City of Rest."

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, Stand two in the shadow of whispering trees, And one loves my daughter, my beautiful daughter, My womanly daughter Louise.

She steps to the boat with a touch of his fingers, And out on the diamonded pathway they move; The shallop is lost in the distance, it lingers, It waits, but I know that its coming will prove That it went to the walls of the wonderful city, The magical City of Love.

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, I wait for her coming from over the seas; I wait but to welcome the dust of my daughter, To weep for my daughter Louise.

The path, as of old, reaching out in its splendor, Gleams bright, like a way that an angel has trod; I kiss the cold burden its billows surrender, Sweet clay to lie under the pitiful sod: But she rests, at the end of the path, in the city Whose "builder and maker is G.o.d."

Homer Greene [1853-

"I AM LONELY"

From "The Spanish Gypsy"

The world is great: the birds all fly from me, The stars are golden fruit upon a tree All out of reach: my little sister went, And I am lonely.

The world is great: I tried to mount the hill Above the pines, where the light lies so still, But it rose higher: little Lisa went And I am lonely.

The world is great: the wind comes rus.h.i.+ng by.

I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry And hurt my heart: my little sister went, And I am lonely.

The world is great: the people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday: how fast they walk!

I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went, And I am lonely.

George Eliot [1819-1880]

SONNETS From "Mimma Bella"

I Have dark Egyptians stolen Thee away, Oh Baby, Baby, in whose cot we peer As down some empty gulf that opens sheer And fathomless, illumined by no ray?

And wilt thou come, on some far distant day, With unknown face, and say, "Behold! I'm here, The child you lost;" while we in sudden fear, Dumb with great doubt, shall find no word to say?

One darker than dark gipsy holds thee fast; One whose strong fingers none has forced apart Since first they closed on things that were too fair; Nor shall we see thee other than thou wast, But such as thou art printed in the heart, In changeless baby loveliness still there.

II Two springs she saw--two radiant Tuscan springs, What time the wild red tulips are aflame In the new wheat, and wreaths of young vine frame The daffodils that every light breeze swings; And the anemones that April brings Make purple pools, as if Adonis came Just there to die; and Florence scrolls her name In every blossom Primavera flings.

Now, when the scented iris, straight and tall, Shall hedge the garden gravel once again With pale blue flags, at May's exulting call, And when the amber roses, wet with rain, Shall tapestry the old gray villa wall, We, left alone, shall seek one bud in vain.

IV Oh, rosy as the lining of a sh.e.l.l Were the wee hands that now are white as snows; And like pink coral, with their elfin toes, The feet that on life's brambles never fell.

And with its tiny smile, adorable The mouth that never knew life's bitter sloes; And like the incurved petal of a rose The little ear, now deaf in Death's strong spell.

Now, while the seasons in their order roll, And sun and rain pour down from G.o.d's great dome, And deathless stars s.h.i.+ne nightly overhead, Near other children, with her little doll, She waits the wizard that will never come To wake the sleep-struck playground of the dead.

VI Oh, bless the law that veils the Future's face; For who could smile into a baby's eyes, Or bear the beauty of the evening skies, If he could see what cometh on apace?

The ticking of the death-watch would replace The baby's prattle, for the over-wise; The breeze's murmur would become the cries Of stormy petrels where the breakers race.

We live as moves the walker in his sleep, Who walks because he sees not the abyss His feet are skirting as he goes his way: If we could see the morrow from the steep Of our security, the soul would miss Its footing, and fall headlong from to-day.

VIII One day, I mind me, now that she is dead, When nothing warned us of the dark decree, I crooned, to lull her, in a minor key, Such fancies as first came into my head.

I crooned them low, beside her little bed; And the refrain was somehow "Come with me, And we will wander by the purple sea;"

I crooned it, and--G.o.d help me!--felt no dread.

O Purple Sea, beyond the stress of storms, Where never ripple breaks upon the sh.o.r.e Of Death's pale Isles of Twilight as they dream, Give back, give back, O Sea of Nevermore, The frailest of the unsubstantial forms That leave the sh.o.r.es that are for those that seem!

XX What essences from Idumean palm, What ambergris, what sacerdotal wine, What Arab myrrh, what spikenard, would be thine, If I could swathe thy memory in such balm!

Oh, for wrecked gold, from depths for ever calm, To fas.h.i.+on for thy name a fretted shrine; Oh, for strange gems, still locked in virgin mine, To stud the pyx, where thought would bring sweet psalm!

I have but this small rosary of rhyme,-- No rubies but heart's drops, no pearls but tears, To lay upon the altar of thy name, O Mimma Bella;--on the shrine that Time Makes ever holier for the soul, while years Obliterate the rolls of human fame.

Eugene Lee-Hamilton [1845-1907]

ROSE-MARIE OF THE ANGELS

Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy feet as willing-light Run through Paradise, I wonder, As they run the blue skies under, Willing feet, so airy-light?