Anthology of Massachusetts Poets Part 8

For when a woman came outdoors, Or slyly peeped instead, He turned away, took off his hat, And scratched his head.

I watched him from my garden-wall Perhaps an hour or more, For something in his att.i.tude, The clothes he wore,

Awoke the dimmest memories Of when I was a boy And knew the story of a man Named Reuben Roy.

It seems that Reuben went to sea The night his wife decried The fence he built before their house And up the side.

He wanted it but she did not, Because it hid from view The spot in which her mignonette And tulips grew.

n.o.body saw his face again, But each year, unawares, He sent a sum for taxes due-- And fence repairs.

My curiosity aroused,

I sauntered forth to see Whether this individual Were really he.

"Who are you looking for?" I asked His eyes, like two bright pence, Sparkled at mine; and then he said: "A fence."

"Somebody burned it Hallowe'en, When people were in bed; Before the judge could prosecute, The culprit fled."

Well, Reuben only touched his hat And mumbled, "Thank you, Sir,"

And asked me whereabouts to find A carpenter.

HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS

COUNTRY ROAD

I CAN'T forget a gaunt grey barn Like a face without an eye That kept recurring by field and tarn Under a Cape Cod sky.

I can't forget a woman's hand, Roughened and scarred by toil That beckoned clear-eyed children tanned By sun and wind and soil.

Beauty and hards.h.i.+p, bent and bound Under the selfsame yoke: Babies with bare knees plump and round And stooping women folk.

MARIE LOUISE HERSEY

WREATHS

RED wreaths Hang in my neighbor's window, Green wreaths in my own.

On this day I lost my husband.

On this day you lost your boy.

On this day Christ was born.

Red wreaths, Green wreaths Hang in Our Windows Red for a bleeding heart, Green for grave gra.s.s.

Mary, mother of Jesus, Look down and comfort us.

You too knew pa.s.sion; You too knew pain.

Comfort us, Who are not brides of G.o.d, Nor bore G.o.d.

On Christmas day Hang wreaths, Red for new pain.

Green for spent pa.s.sion.

CAROLYN HILLMAN

MEMPHIS

WHY should I sing of my present? It is nothing to me or you,

Rather I'd dream of Dixie and tie s.h.i.+ps on the old bayou!

Rather I'd dream of my packets and the lazy river days, Rather I'd dream of my levee and the crimson sunset haze,

Rather I'd dream of my triumphs, of the days that are long gone by, Rather I'd dream of flame-tipped stacks against a saffron sky, Of level lawns of topaz, of level fields of jade, Of the rambling pillared mansions that my fathers' fathers made!

Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to you or me, But the river road, the great road, the high road to the sea!

Aye, that is worth the dreaming, aye, that was worth the pain.

Send me back my river, and I shall wake again!

GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN

SAINT COLUMBKILLE

COLUMBKILLE! Saint Columbkille!

You naughty man, Saint Columbkille!

Why did you Finnian's Psalter take And secretly a copy make?

You know 'twas such a naughty thing For one descended from a king To lock himself into a cell, 'Twas far from right,-you knew it well,-- And copy Finnian's Psalter through, Against his will as well you knew.

And then to think a common bird Should feel such shame, that when he heard The breathing spy outside your door, And felt your sainthood was no more, Should through the crack attack the spy, And in a rage pluck out his eye, As if that saintly Irish crane Would hide from all your Saints.h.i.+p's stain.

I grieve to think that you did add Sin unto sin; it is too bad.

For Finnian could not you persuade To yield the copy that you made, Until the King in his behalf Ruled-"To each cow belongs her calf": And then you grew so mad you swore On Erin's face you'd look no more.

And crossed the sea the Picts to save, Because you so did misbehave To dear Saint Finnian: faith, 'twas ill For you to act so, Columbkille!

A saint you were no doubt, no doubt!

What pity 'twas you were found out!

We know an angel (sn.o.b or fool?)

To Kiaran showed a common rule, An axe, an auger, and a saw, And told that saint it was the law Of Heaven that Columbkille should be Far, far above such saints as he; For Columbkille contemned a crown, While he these homely tools laid down, To serve the Lord, and that the Lord To each would give his due reward.

I wonder if that angel knew That Christ these tools had laid down too.

O Columbkille! O Columbkille!

A saint like you must have his will, But for myself I'd rather be The common sinner that you see Than make a crane ashamed of me, And angels talk such idiocy.

E. J. V. HUIGINN

MISS DOANE

MISS Doane was sixty, probably; She rented third floor room That opened on an airshaft full Of cooking smells and gloom.

She worked in philanthropic man's Well-known department store; Cas.h.i.+ered in bas.e.m.e.nt, hot and close, For forty years or more.