W. F. McNAMARA Class _ Book Copyright N?_ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; Wayside Leaves Wayside Leaves By W. F. McNAMARA Presque Isle, Maine 1913 "76 3 ^ ? * o o Copyright 1913 By W. F. McNAMARA Set up and printed December, 1913 The MASON-HENRY Press Syracuse, N. Y. ©CI.A358759 2DeDicatt& To The Memory of My Mother PREFACE These little verses have, for the most part, been written in the brief intervals of leisure not too common in the life of a country doctor; therefore they lack much. If, however, they awaken a modicum of interest in those intimate friends for whom they have been gathered in the present form, and give to these even a pass- ing pleasure, then the purpose of this little book will have been fulfilled. W. F. M. A FOREWORD I suppose that, being contemporary deities on the staff of Chief Jupiter, Old Doc Esculapius and Apollo chummed around more or less — they must have done so. As a matter of fact, Old Doc Esculapius must have been in snucks with the whole bunch on high Olympus. He had a cinch on all the practice there — no other physi- cian admitted. Apollo was god of poetry, to- gether with the side line of furnishing daylight, and undoubtedly, when the Old Doc called in to dose him up a little, Apollo used to twang his lyre and hum over one or two of his late com- positions. We read that there was always a great deal of jealousy on Olympus among the gods and goddesses. It is not recorded, so I discover after exhaustive research, that Old Doc ever wrote any poetry. Of course, nobody knows. He may have scribbled off bits now and then, after noting what a lot of fun Apollo was getting out of the thing. But he never FOREWORD gave out anything that has come down to us — afraid of offending Apollo, probably ! They were terribly strict about departments on Olym- pus. However, I'm wagering he did write some poetry. He was a wise Old Doc. There's nothing quite like writing poetry to take your mind off your own troubles and the troubles of other folks. And a physician is obliged to lug a big burden of the troubles of other folks. For all I know, doctors may hide away a lot of poetry in the prescriptions they write. Some- times I have paused in a frantic dash from a doctor to a druggist and have studied the pre- scription, slantways, crossways and upside down, wondering what it meant. I never found any poetry yet, but a layman never can tell — it may have been there in disguise. A while ago, my old friend, Doctor McNa- mara, after exhibiting for some time the furtive look of the hunted hare, called me far enough aside so that no whisper would reaich the outside world, shut the door, pulled down the curtains, plugged the telephone with a gob of paper and admitted that he had been writing poetry. When I hastened to reveal to him my personal FOREWORD convictions in regard to the manner in which Old Doc Esculapius diverted himself in his spare moments, he seemed to be somewhat relieved. But when I told him that I had written poetry, myself, he stated that he had read some of it and promptly relapsed into a state of profound mental depression. The only way in which I could get his pulse and temperature back to normal was to take my oath that I would write no more. This announcement will also relieve the public generally, I believe. It is nice for one to feel that by a little self-denial one can make the world happier. As a matter of fact, after long and painstaking examination of my products, I find that I have never written any real poetry. Folks had often told me that I never had, but having been brought up not to believe everything I heard I was a long time being convinced. Judge George H. Smith was the first one who opened my eyes to the truth — after he had remained silent as long as human nature would allow. He was delicate in the matter, but he was judicial and firm. His sin- cerity impressed me. I looked up my poetry product and found he was right. I should have FOREWORD taken his word in the first place. George is al- ways right. But what has all this got to do with a foreword for a volume of my friend McNamara's poetry? Only this — I'm drawing attention to the fact that there are men who can put real taste, feeling, poetic thought and tender sentiment into rhymed efforts. The men who do best at this are those honest souls who make writing a pastime instead of a vocation. They can nurse the germ of an idea until it becomes a gem. Then they can, with conscientious and loving care, weave the idea into verse. They are not obliged to splatter ink like the dickens for to get a living. They say that the best critic of literary efforts is the person who can not do the trick himself in the writing line. I cannot write good poetry, but I reckon I know poetry when I see it. I'm sure that the reader who handles this little vol- ume will agree with me that my friend, the doc- tor, has put some mighty pretty fancies into delicious verse — and that makes real poetry. I am told that the book is designed for his personal friends. That will ensure a big edition. I hope he will prescribe this book in acute cases FOREWORD where patients have got too prosaic, have for- gotten that life is full of poetry, have dumped themselves in the doldrums. This is my first experience in writing a preface for any book. The discriminating reader has probably arrived at that conclusion already. But if the introduc- tion doesn't taste good, hurry and take a sip of the doctor's limpid and refreshing verse — you'll forget the introduction. I'm glad that there are busy men who are willing to sit down and give the world their best thoughts, as Dr. McNamara has done in this volume. I join my felicitations to those of his other friends because these poems have been collected and are now preserved for the enjoyment of the judicious. Sincerely Holman Day Portland, Maine, 1913. CONTENTS An Apology I To the Wind 4 To a Watcher 6 Confession 7 At Nightfall 8 A Silence 11 O, If I Were the Breeze of Ev'n 12 A Song 14 Song 16 Memories 18 A Nook 20 In Memory 22 Chick-a-dee 24 A Hammock Song 26 Serenade 27 In Return for Some Wild Flowers 28 The Man from the North 31 The Ride 34 Prospection 36 A Fragment 37 Loneliness 38 Song 39 In May 40 A Longing 42 Roses 43 At Walden Pond 45 To a Daisy 47 Why? 48 A Knight of Labor 49 Deal Gently, Love 51 On the Charles River 52 When Locusts Sing 54 A Memory 55 Little Girl 57 My Chum 59 An Inscription 61 Remissness 63 Song 65 Three Score 66 In Memoriam 67 On a Mountain Top 69 A Christmas Greeting 70 " Little Frowzy" 71 The Lost Chord 74 A Summer's Day 75 Written on a Photograph 77 In a Friend's Album 78 The Way of It 79 Noon in a Meadow 81 Drifting 83 A Memory 85 To a Dandelion Found in November 86 "A Written Apology" 88 AN APOLOGY Not with the muse of Merrimac-side, Dear Friend, my humble lays are sung; Their rhythm lacks the sunny glide Of his sweet lays, whose eventide Gives glimpses through far gates wide open flung. Our Ossipees and Bear Camps flow Through sylvan valleys green and still; And when the days of summer go, I watch as radiant sunsets glow As our loved poet saw on Carrol's Hill. But not with his anointed eyes The hidden loveliness I see; And reading oft with glad surprise What he perceived in common guise, I pray that such sweet sense might quicken me. AN APOLOGY But vain my prayer, for none may trace Unerringly the hidden thought That paints the grim rock's rugged face, Or glows beyond in cloud-swept space, Save him in nature's inner temple taught. Not mine the poet's graceful thought; My pleasing lines are poor and few, If with a love as tender wrought As his who richer themes has brought To fall on hearts as falls the grateful dew. And yet I hold the common things Are so much sweeter than we know, That his is no mean task who sings Of these, and to the fireside brings Some homely bloom from summers long ago. And so I wander on my way, — A child lost on south-sloping banks; Now listening to some warbler's lay, Now plucking some emblossomed spray, And singing as I go my grateful thanks. AN APOLOGY And grateful thanks are yours, dear friend, For all your well-remembered praise; And trusting friendliness will lend Its favor to your eyes, I send, Half fearfully, my unpretending lays. TO THE WIND O wind that 'round my lonely eaves Like some bereaved one sobs and grieves Sad and forlorn, Mourn you that summer roses die, And in their perfumed sweetness lie By rude feet torn? The fairest rose has but its day; Like love it passes soon away 'Neath frosty blast; Nor love nor roses have a part In winter's stern and sullen heart But wither fast. Then why with doleful notes repine When to the naked tree the vine Clings lifelessly? Your lips have kissed the blushing rose, And mine the cheek whose carmine glows Not now for me. TO THE WIND So should we both be well content With what the summer haply sent, Though lost so soon ; For in this changeful world of ours It is not always love and flowers, Not always June ! TO A WATCHER Cuddle your head on your downy little pillow ; Whisper to your fancies: "Go away!" For the night's well done with its watching and its waiting, And soon across the east will break the day. Cuddle your head and close your dark-fringed eyelids, Heavy with the call of blessed sleep; And may God's angels softly hover round you, And vigils like your own sweet watches keep. Cuddle your head with its crown of dusky splendor In the drowsy lap of pleasant dreams; Wander no more by Mara's bitter waters; Leave them for the sweet of crystal streams. Sleep, sweetly sleep 'till the promise of the mor- row Floods the earth again with mellow gold; Till the sorrow, and the loss, and the sound of hopeless weeping Are as sagas in the musty tomes of old. CONFESSION Sometimes I think I have forgot, And see again life's common things, Pleasing myself with the sane thought That time to all requital brings. Then floods of mem'ry barriers break That have denied their will so long, And whelm me with fierce tides that shake Foundations I had deemed so strong. And in that moment of defeat My weakness fills me with sick dread; For all I build seems incomplete, And weary years are still ahead. Yet maybe somewhere in those years I may achieve forgetfulness, Or learn the sanctity of tears, And find that sorrow, too, may bless. AT NIGHTFALL The ruddy light has failed the western sky, And shadows stretch across the dewy wold; Now is the time each little lamb should lie Securely sheltered in the drowsy fold. And this the time when downy wings, untried, Should snuggle in the home nest happily, For all the world without is dark and wide, And mother wings o'er brood so tenderly. And now when all the seaward meadows fill With purple dusk and fireflies' golden gleams, The children's merry voices clear and shrill, Arouse me from my book or quiet dreams. I hear them romping gaily to and fro, At blind-man's-buff or other noisy game; Each happy laugh and merry shout I know, And tenderly I breathe each roysterer's name. AT NIGHTFALL And one dear name, I breathe it o'er and o'er, More tenderly, much more, than all the rest; Perhaps it is because I hear no more His childish treble that I love it best. And how I miss the roguish little face; The laughing eyes with sunny hair o'er blown; The clasp of dimpled hands; the wistful grace Of tempting lips upreached to meet my own ! The future's hidden page I cannot read; Nor wisely say 'twere better thus, or so; What cruel thorns had made his dear feet bleed Still further on life's way I do not know. But this I know: That when he went away, And on his face they shut the sodden door, A something left the radiance of the day And starlit eve that came to them no more. And oft at night when downy pillows hold Wee, drowsy heads, so weary grown with play, I softly kneel and kiss their shining gold, And breathe a prayer for him who is away. AT NIGHTFALL He needs no prayer of mine, I know, In that fair land where many mansions be, But still I pray and love to think it so — A message to my little boy from me. A SILENCE There's a silence I love, — when the thrush's note Dies softly and sweet in his dainty throat, When mother thrush snugly her warm wing folds O'er the downy treasure the wee nest holds, — A silence so deep and so perfect, it seems As if the hush from the land of dreams Had fallen down from that far-off sphere On meadow, and hill-top, and forest here. And then the shadows grow long and deep, And wee, wild things lie down to sleep, While over them all, so lonely and high, The pale stars wink in the silent sky. Then one by one where the highway leads By brooding forests and billowy meads The house lights waver, and dim, and die, Till only the lamp of the firefly, Swung to and fro in the gathering night, The wanderer cheers with its friendly light. The homely noises that filled the day, — Sounds of labor and children at play, — Are lost in the silence I love so well, And Peace shall bide till the morning bell. O, IF I WERE THE BREEZE OF EV'N? O, if I were the breeze of ev'n, I'd come to thee o'er land and sea; And stealing through thy lattice, I Would breathe my tender love for thee. I'd lift the tendrils of thy hair That cling around that brow of snow; And words I might not dare to speak, I'd whisper to thee sweet and low. I'd seal thy dark-fringed eyelids fast With love's own kisses shy and pure, And thou shouldst smile in happy dreams, In thy sweet innocence secure. I'd bring thee scents from dewy leas, From banks of thyme and mignonette, To give thee dreams more subtly sweet, And make thy waking gladder yet. O, IF I WERE THE BREEZE OF EV'N? Sweetheart ! Sweetheart ! thou art to me The dewy eve, the rosy morn, The soul of beauty and of grace, And all the fond heart dwells upon ! O, if I were the breeze of ev'n, I'd come to thee o'er land or sea; For life is such a cheerless thing Away from thee, away from thee ! 13 A SONG A bit of melody lilted low, Woven with violets dewy-sweet, Trembling up through the warm night rain, To my casement comes the soft refrain From some careless passer along the street. The singer has gone into the night, But his lingering notes are left behind, To vibrate long through forgotten rooms Where have lain, neglected, the old-time blooms, Long-withered and out of mind. But the old, old gardens wake again At the touch of a new-born Spring; The violets nod 'neath the whispering trees, And bird songs float down the lazy breeze, And a song has won this thing! *4 A SONG The night and the rain are all forgot In the dreams that I thought were past, And the olden sweetness thrills me through As in happy days that once I knew — Oh, if life would only last! If love and Spring would last alway, I'd hug them to my heart; Nor the bliss of heaven, nor saintly throngs, With throbbing harpstrings and mystic songs, Should woo me from them apart. 15 SONG When the summer days are gone, And no more in early morn I hear the swallows twitter 'neath the eaves, Olden memories will rise, And the sad tears fill my eyes, As I list the rustle of the dying leaves. Ah, 'tis vain, I know, to sigh For the happy days gone by, When the future holds so much that's bright for all; Yet my heart will cling for aye To the bright hours passed away, And be sad whene'er the leaves begin to fall. When the summer days are gone, And the locust winds his horn No more in sunny dingles all the day, By the little rippling stream Oft I sit and dream, and dream iG SONG Of the happy hours that long have passed away. Still the summers come and go, And the rippling waters flow, And the swallows build their nests against the wall; Yet my heart will cling for aye To the bright hours passed away, And be sad whene'er the leaves begin to fall. 17 MEMORIES When the breath of the summer is laden With the odor of new-mown hay, And up from the wind-rowed meadows Come the voices of children at play, When the heavy wains go slowly To the gray old barns on the hill, My memory, like the soft west wind, Goes wandering whither it will, Back through the fragrant meadows To the dear old long ago, Till the laugh of the merry children Seems the same that I used to know. Then vanish the homesick longing, And the hot tears born of pain, As in the warm lap of the summer I find my lost youth again. The selfsame larks seem singing High over the meadow-sweet; l8 MEMORIES And it seems that the same lush grasses Entangle my dallying feet, As when in my happy boyhood I frolicked these meadows o'er, And tumbled the scented wind-rows With the boys that are here no more. Somewhere in the world they are faring — The boys that I used to know — And I wonder today if their mem'ries Turn back to our long ago; And whether their bays in a moment They would not tread under their feet For the rollicking days in the meadows When life was so careless and sweet? 19 A NOOK I know a nook, a sunny nook That hides in a dark old wood, Where the fern fronds saucily nod to the brook, And the rabbit pauses with timid look, And strut the partridge's brood. And I love it well when violets wake, For the merry thrushes then Their rarest notes in the soft air shake, And the swelling buds into leafage break, When the violets wake again. And pleasant it is when summer noons On the hills lie fast asleep, With green leaves whispering their tremulous runes, And the warm air full of sounds — the tunes, Mayhap, of fays who keep — A NOOK 'Tis said by the old folk everywhere, — Themselves from mortal sight; But days like this are so wondrous fair That they float around on enchanted air, Nor wait for the secret night. The cardinal lifts his fire-plumed head, By the lisping streamlet's side, When the earlier days of summer are fled, And the scattered petals of roses red Lie low in their perfumed pride. The locust whirs in the oak's tall crest; The night mists earlier fall; The provident squirrel fills his nest; And the rabbit doffs his summer vest; Then winds through the bare trees call. So the days in this nook of mine steal on With never a clanging bell To herald their birth in the rosy dawn, Or, when one softly away has gone, To dolefully peal its knell. IN MEMORY To My Mother Cool shades descend on vale and hill, And one by one glad bird-songs cease, Till falls upon my heart at last The sweet tranquillity of peace. We stand apart now, Care and I, And the vexations that have set The day's rough path with thorns so sharp Almost their wounds seem bleeding yet. And I am tired tonight, so tired I feel my pulses' fevered beat Through all my wearied frame, but here, Lo ! here is rest, and rest is sweet. So thankfully I set aside My pilgrim staff, content to find A wayside fount at close of day, Where I my sandals may unbind. IN MEMORY And thou, sweet soul, whose feet have found The land of all wayfaring quest, How oft beside the evening fount Have thy tired feet found grateful rest 1 And how I miss thee on the way ! Thy chansons ringing sweet and clear, Thy simple faith and childlike trust, That made the thorniest path grow dear. Thine was a soul that knew no fear; Thy faith the faith that martyrs crowned ; And wheresoe'er thy footsteps trod Life's choicest blessings clustered round. And yet I would not have thee back To walk terrestrial paths again, For all too oft the crown of thorns Did press thy brow with mortal pain. And thou art now, — I love to think, — Where all the blest immortals be; And that glad land is gladder yet, Dear Heart, I know, because of thee. 23 CHICK-A-DEE To Billie When dear robin redbreast Far away has flown, And the brown leaves lightly Here and there are blown, In the fragrant balsams List and you shall hear Such a tiny chanson, Low, and sweet, and clear. Chick-a-dee is singing Just to let you know He is back — the vagrant — From the fields of snow. Harbinger of North winds Blowing keen and strong, And of winter's rigors, Yet we love his song. 24 CHICK-A-DEE Plucky little fellow In his fluffy coat, With his jaunty black cap, And his cheery note ! Winter's chary bounty, Meager though it be, Seems to suit him fairly — Little Chick-a-dee. 25 A HAMMOCK SONG I wonder if tonight you lie Dreaming 'neath an alien sky, Swinging, swinging to and fro In your hammock's silken fold, Dreaming of the days of old, — Golden days of long ago? In your graceful, swaying nest, Does no thrill disturb your breast, As some thought of the dear past Wakes a memory of me; And of all that used to be In those days too sweet to last? Would some magic hand could turn Back to pages that still burn With love's ecstasy and pain, In life's book, and let us read All for which we vainly plead — All love's story once again ! 26 SERENADE O stars in yonder tranquil deeps, When the golden day is done, Send tender peace to her who sleeps — My darling one ! O roses blooming by the way, Wet with pearly drops of dew, Waft her your incense sweet I pray — My love so true ! Kind angels guard her through the night, With the care to angels known, And keep her safe till morning light — My own, my own ! 27 IN RETURN FOR SOME WILD FLOWERS To My Aunt Small need of my poor thanks have you, Dear friend, to show my gratitude For these wild flowers, wet with dew And sweet with fragrance which they drew From earth and air in the cool, pleasant wood. For well you know the love I bear Dim woodland haunts — the wild ravine, Dark-walled with pines, and still save where A stream slips downward stair by stair, And slumbrous nooks thick spread with softest green. And like a voice from these today Speak these wee flowers — your gift to me, Till as the child of yore I lay My heart on nature's heart and pray With childlike trust in all that is to be. 28 IN RETURN FOR WILD FLOWERS The burden of the weary years Off from my shoulders noiseless falls, And life its old, glad aspect wears, While memories of fruitless tears Fade in the sunny days your gift recalls. Again the south wind on my brow, Freshening, lifts with mute caress The boyish tresses waving low O'er eyes less thoughtful then than now, Though loving nature's handiwork no less. Beneath the beeches gnarled and old The brook's glad song again I hear; And once again my eyes behold At morn the mist-cloud, fold on fold, Roll backward, and the smiling hills appear. O, dear old friend, you little know How much into my lonely room Came with your flowers today, nor how, By streams of summer singing low My arid wastes are gladdening into bloom. 29 IN RETURN FOR WILD FLOWERS If wish of mine could make more blest Your humble lot, what should it be But that such gladness unexpressed As you have made today my guest, Might in your heart abide eternally. 30 THE MAN FROM THE NORTH One night like a jockey contesting a race A quaint little man with a jovial face, Dashed into the town at a rattling pace, With a six-reindeer team gaily prancing. "How lucky," he cried, "that I chanced to come down ! Why they're all fast asleep in this drowsy old town ! But a spree will soon set things a-dancing." Then he pursed up his lips and a whistle came out That brought down the north wind with rollick- ing rout; And the trees heard with fear his mad laughter and shout, And bowed low their heads as he passed them. Right onward he rushed in most terrible glee Till unsatisfied still with his maudlin spree, Chimneys, steeples and gables in his arms gath- ered he, And down to the earth rudely cast them. 31 THE MAN FROM THE NORTH In his bed the good man turned uneasily o'er, While his wife, sore affrighted, concluding her snore, First prayed, then scolded, then prayed once more To all the known saints for protection. All roused from their slumbers in fear looking forth, Exclaimed: " 'Tis the wicked old man from the North ; And little our lives and our houses are worth With the north wind at his mad direction!" The droll little man, when the north wind grew still, Blew a breath that froze hard every babbling rill, And fastened the wheel of the old village mill, Which for months had been merrily turning. Then he chuckled and said: "This will do for tonight ! What a lark there will be when each sluggardly wight With staring eyes greets the old town's sorry plight, And groans, each mad caper discerning!" 32 THE MAN FROM THE NORTH Ere morn like a youth with cheeks rosy red, The day up the steeps of the orient led, Ere Slumber arose from her sensuous bed, O'er the rime in the faint starlight glancing. And up the cold slopes of the northland there passed A queer little man with a voice like the blast, And a reindeer team dashing so gaily and fast Away through the night gaily prancing. 33 THE RIDE To My Little Chum Out on the road where the west wind calls To the outermost edge of the world, Toward the beckoning hills whose laughter falls In limpid streams o'er lichened walls, By cranny and chasm whirled. Out where the wild rose hedges grow By the side of the open way, Where the quivering larch cool shadows throw On the placid face of the pool below Through the long, bright summer day. Ours is the cool of the morning air, And the glint of the morning dew, With the song of gladness everywhere, And the subtle sense of all things fair, As if the earth were new. 34 THE RIDE And ours the languorous peace of noon, And the ebbing tide of light, From the zenith gold of radiant June To the slender bow of the nascent moon On the purple hills of night. And so we follow the lure of the wind, — The wind of the mighty West; And the shining leagues that lie behind, Or the miles that into the twilight wind, Oh, who knows which is best? 3 5 PROSPECTION Sunny and fair the shining slopes of morn Lie yet before us, happy-hearted friend; While dim and far, as if the reluctant dawn Still folds them, the blue hills ascend, Beyond whose far-seen summits winds a path Downward and ever downward where the bland, Cool breath of evening stirs the aftermath, — The sad, sweet herbage of the sunset land. 36 A FRAGMENT Honey bees among the clover, Swallows skimming in the sun, Fleecy cloudlets sailing over — Joy enough for anyone. Was there ever a day so perfect, Ever a day so all complete? Ring lily bells, ring fairy measures ! Sing, my heart, for life is sweet! 37 LONELINESS An ebbing tide — an outbound sail — A sombre twilit sea — And the sullen voice of the ruthless bar For my lonely heart and me The tide, impelled, sweeps to its home In the caverns of the deep; And seabirds haste their homing flight To nest and downy sleep; While I, alone on naked strand, See, through a mist of tears, The far, faint gleam of an out-bound sail, And the sadness of the years. 38 SONG Thou silver moon, whose tranquil rays Illume the sleeping earth tonight, Thou mindest me of happy long-gone days When life was pure and bright. When from my little cot at ev'n I watched with joy thy steadfast beams, And fancied them a shining path to heaven That still shone through my dreams. And still I love thy mellow light, Tho' youth and all its dreams are past, For seemest thou a friend of olden right, A friend so true and fast. So when the weary world is still, I keep my faithful tryst with thee; While at thy will, from silvered vale and hill Old days come back to me. 39 IN MAY Such wild, ecstatic madrigals the vagrant breeze Bears softly to my lattice in the fair, fresh morn, From strolling minstrels making merry in green trees, That truant sleep forsakes my pillow when the dawn Streaks the clear orient with its prophecy of day. And all within me thrills with life so glad and new, That prosy, uttered speech need tell me it is May No more than if I should see cowslips wet with dew In springing meadows lifting their bright faces up; Or shy, sweet violets nodding as the breeze goes by. Each feathery songster warbles as if his wee cup Were full of bliss so exquisite that he must die, Or pour it forth in quivering, bursting song 4 o IN MAY To the glad world and to the brightening arch of sky, Which with the radiance of day shall glow ere long; And through harmonious burst and swell of minstrelsy The brook's light obligato runs, nor gay nor sad, But lending to the whole a sweet tranquillity Which else might seem almost too wildly glad. 41 A LONGING There is a place that's calling me, Insistently and low, To tangled woodland's leafy maze; And how I'd like to go Where birches stand in gleaming aisles, And in soft breezes shake Their glossy leaflets in the air Beside an inland lake. Far from the city's dust and din I'd lie supine and dream, And rest this tired heart of mine 'Mid silences supreme. No whistles blow in this far place, No verberant bell awakes These mystic realms of solitude; And morbid care forsakes The weary brain when nature lays Her soft hand on the brow And whispers drowsy lullabies — O, how I'd like to go ! 42 ROSES Roses, roses, Darlings of regnant June, Lifting your fragrant faces In high and lowly places, Matchless in queenly graces, In the summer's plenilune. Roses, roses, Plebeians ne'er thou art, Humble blossoms never, But queens, — without endeavor,- Sovereigns sweet forever Of every loving heart. Roses, roses, I wonder if you've taught Her of your sweet compelling — Only tricked by spelling — While your wiles are telling A story that is naught? 43 ROSES Roses, roses, She, too, is wondrous fair, But in her changing guises Are such unwished surprises That all my shrewd surmises Leave me in deep despair. 44 AT WALDEN POND Pleasant it was that sunny summer afternoon Beneath the slumbrous pines in peace to lie, In grateful silence drinking in all June, From her rich store, gave earth, and air, and sky. Anon the west wind, from his cool retreat Amid the fastnesses of far blue hills, Shook from his wings a thousand odors sweet Such as rare June in hidden cells distils. And ever through dim, pleasant vistas shone, Like a pure jewel, the translucent lake, Girdled about with its gray-pebbled zone On whose worn marge the softest ripples brake. Here were the wilding bee, the solitary thrush, — Shy anchorite of shadow-peopled wood, — The social robin, in some sudden hush, Fluting his liquid notes athwart the solitude. 45 AT WALDEN POND And here, methought, that sweet soul still must dwell, Invisible, yet real as bird or tree, An ageless child midst things he loved so well, Feeling the hidden keys of nature's symphony. His was no zealot's rage nor miser's greed; He deemed no human soul in hazard dire; Each day's small bounty well sufficed his need, And freedom for his thought fed his desire. And his lone cairn in silence eloquent Stands here today. Each loving pilgrim lays On it a stone to prove his argument; And nature crowns her own with fragrant bays. 4 6 TO A DAISY For Billic Modest little daisy By the happy brook, Nodding to the breezes In your cosey nook ; All the golden sunshine In your cheery face, You are queen of blossoms In this pleasant place. Shining skies above you Smile all through the day, And soft shades enfold you When the sun's away; Happy little flower All your short life through, Would all little children Could be glad as you! 47 WHY? There are paths that seem to beckon (don't you know?) Down to vales where limpid waters softly flow; Where it seems the storm and stress Of the heart's unhappiness Might be left behind if we would only go. But somehow we plod along, with dogged tread, Over graves of early hopes now cold and dead, And the path leads higher, higher From the Valley of Desire, And there's not a soul that knows what lies ahead. So don't you think we'd better rest a little while Now and then along the dusty way, and smile At the dubious, scattered flowers On this chosen path of ours, Calling yet, maybe, for many a weary mile. 4 8 A KNIGHT OF LABOR There's a Knight of Labor I know right well ; I meet him oft in the flowery dell; And oft when the day is calm and still, I hear his song on the sunny hill. He wears no helmet, like knights of old, Nor ring at his heels the spurs of gold ; Yet a stout heart beats 'neath his doublet brown As e'er for a Launcelot won renown. A less pretentious fellow than he In his snuff-brown coat you seldom see, And his famous song should you list for aye, Will be but a drone as it is today. For my doughty Knight is a humble bee, Who boasts nor rank, nor pedigree, Nor spends his time in wondering why He wasn't born a butterfly. 49 A KNIGHT OF LABOR His is a humble part, 'tis true, But he does the work that is his to do, And he does it, too, so nobly and well That a precept lies in each waxen cell. And just for this the wisest sage, And the sweetest bard of every age, Have paid him tribute with tongue and pen, Till his name is famous among all men. And you who read my homely rhyme, Would you leave on the luminous scroll of time Your name in letters both bold and bright, A lesson learn from my humble Knight. 50 DEAL GENTLY, LOVE Deal gently, Love, — so short life's span From buoyant youth to worn out man, — So pitiful its burning tears, And futile hopes of brighter years And better years that never came, (But, en avant! 'tis in the game — ) Deal gently, Love. Deal gently, Love, no craven heart Begs thee withhold the sting and smart Of words that smite me as I tread A path with withered rose leaves spread; But, rather, give me kindly speech As comrades utter each to each — Deal gently, Love. Deal gently, Love, that when I feel Death's solemn stillness o'er me steal, I still can think of thee and say: "This one made glad a little way, And from her heart's rich store gave me Full measure of life's ecstasy" — Deal gently, Love. 51 ON THE CHARLES RIVER Our thought today drifts far away, Drifts far away, and lazily As thistledown o'er meadows brown In airy tufts floats wide and free. Beneath we feel the waters reel, And half as in a dream we hear The ripples low break from the prow In silvery cadence low and clear. No splashing oar awakes the shore, But noiselessly and swiftly, too, The gleaming blade by strong arms played Impels with ease our slight canoe. Round many a curve of green we swerve Which in the wave inverted gleams, With fringing trees and sunlit leas — A seeming paradise of dreams. 5» ON THE CHARLES RIVER And so we ride the sun-kissed tide, Each with his fancies left alone, Save when in speech each shows to each How far his idle thought has flown. O, day so fair ! This genial air, Though mild, the earlier frosts portends, And the bland sky, with prophecy Of coming change, above us bends. But what care we that this may be? We breathe today Lethean balm ! The selfish fret of vain regret We drift above in this sweet calm. Ours is the glow, the pomp and show Of autumn on the wooded shore, And the content of moments spent With nature, and we ask no more. S3 WHEN LOCUSTS SING When locusts sing, ah, well I know That summer days are past their prime; Then languid brooks slip soft and slow By banks shorn of their fragrant thyme ; Then dalliant winds no longer bring Sweet clover scents from dew-moist dells ; And faint and far ring tiny knells, When locusts sing. When locusts sing, the generous corn Stands yellowing down its rustling rows; Then cooler breezes woo the morn, And crickets hymn the twilight's close, Where russet boughs deep shadows fling On the soft grass; and pensive sighs From Beauty's fading lips arise When locusts sing. When locusts sing, it e'er must seem To me that of the whole glad year The best is gone; tho' fields still gleam Rich-crowned with goodly harvest cheer, In which the sickles soon shall ring, — But oh ! for vague, sweet hopes that sprang In all our hearts when May bells rang, — When locusts sing! 54 A MEMORY O for the brave young hours of morn When the lark went up the sky, When the bright dew dripped from the fragrant thorn, And the dreams of youth went by. O when the Dawn lay her blushing cheek On the palpitant bosom of "Clew," When the day crept out of the darkness bleak With a gladness ever new. Whispering, whispering everywhere, Went the breath of riotous June ; And never the earth seemed half so fair, Nor the birds in such exquisite tune. Ah, oft those days come back to me Across the tide of the years— The moaning plaint of the old sad sea, And the dreams that were drowned in tears. 55 A MEMORY Ever the waters of old Clew Bay Pound their ceaseless rote on the shore, But the dreams that were ours in that far-off day, Shall come to us nevermore. 56 LITTLE GIRL Little girl, little girl ! How I'd like to, — if I could, — Give back the happy mornings that you knew, When the bluebird came again, And the robin's fluted strain Went o'er the lawn all bright with sparkling dew. Little girl, little girl ! Yes; I know those heartaches well, And the homesickness you say still hurts you so ; And I know what you would give From your heart if you could live Just one summer in that dear old long ago. Little girl, little girl ! But my heart is aching too, With the longing for those other, happier days, When we wandered hand in hand Up and down the morning land, And love's golden mist swam through the wind- ing ways. 57 LITTLE GIRL Little girl, little girl ! Though our gods are mostly dust, And our hopes have never blossomed as they should, We shall yet be glad and smile In the pleasant afterwhile; And I'd just make you believe it — if I could 1 58 MY CHUM When shall I meet my little chum After these mortals lips be dumb, And nevermore on earth for me Shall sound the murmur of the bee? Will it be soon? or must I wait Long years beside some mystic gate That opes on amaranthine bowers, And count the slowly moving hours, Whose white sands seem eternity, And hold my little chum from me? And when he comes, O, shall I see His face alight with love for me; The old glad look, the shining eyes, The smile that never wore disguise ;- In that one day that still must come, How shall I meet my little chum? 59 MY CHUM Maybe the intervening years Will furrow his dear face with tears, Or, sadder still, sin's evil trace May mar the sweetness of his face. My fond heart could condone for sin; And tears? I have been steeped therein! But ah, the sadness that were mine If I should miss his eyes' glad shine, And know that all eternity Lay 'twixt my little chum and me! 60 AN INSCRIPTION To Judge Smith Beneath our northern pines tonight The winter's snow lies deep and white, Nor whispering pine nor shrouding snow Tells of the subtle life below, — Whether the germ of sleeping flowers Shall wake to life in April showers, Or whether all is dumb and dead As seem the lifeless twigs o'erhead. But sitting in our log-fire's glow We hear the blatant North wind blow; While Lady Nicotina's hand Evokes, with gently-waving wand, From howling blast and ruddy blaze, The shine and song of summer days. And one, unseen, sits at our fire, Thrilling our souls with his sweet lyre 61 AN INSCRIPTION Tuned to the song of birds and bees And nature's subtlest harmonies. So now to him we lift our glass, And while the glorious moments pass, We drink to Matthews* — wizard blest Who bides with us a welcome guest. * Matthews' "The Lute of Life." 62 REMISSNESS I ought to chide you, little one, — I know the others would, — For all the naughty things you've done; Perhaps / really should. But oh, you look so sorry now Through brown eyes filled with tears, That I can only let you go With loving words. The years Have shown me oft your gratitude Has never reached to me, But if you only would be good, I might forget, you see. I must forgive you once again For all your naughty deeds, Nor bare to you my heart's keen pain — The heart that for you pleads — 63 REMISSNESS I fear for other years that may Bring bitter fruit to you For thoughtless deeds you think as play, That no tears can undo. And other friends may not, like me, Your wilfulness condone, And mend the playthings tearfully, You've broken, little one. 6 4 SONG When the sparrows are southward flying, And dead lie the beautiful flowers, The best of the summer-time, darling, Still lives in these hearts of ours; The winter may shroud the white daisies, And hush the wee wood minstrel's lay, But the song and the sweet bloom of summer, In loving hearts live for aye. When the winter of age steals upon us, And powders our locks with its snow ; When our eyes are so dim, and our footsteps Together grow feeble and slow; When the sparrows are southward flying And dead lie the beautiful flowers, Still the best of the summer-time, darling, Shall bide in these hearts of ours. 6s THREE SCORE Above the drowsy hum of bees That rove amid the garden's bloom, A pure young voice comes on the breeze As glad and sweet as if no gloom Bent o'er the dreary world today; And listening to the quaint old lay — A melody my childhood knew — I half forget that I am gray, And softly hum the measures through. Oh, it does seem so long since then — Since like this artless child I sang; And threescore cannot sing as ten, For silvery bells which sweetly rang For joyous youth are silent now, So if I sing it must be low; But oh, how gladly would I fling Aside the spoil of years to go And with this careless urchin sing ! 66 IN MEMORIAM Did you ever know what it meant to me, ( In truth you never knew 1 ) When you laid your yielding hand in mine, And the sweetness thrilled me through and through ? You never knew what it meant to me, It meant so little to you. You never knew what it meant to me, (I'm sure you could not know!) The burning thrills your nearness gave, And the fateful beauty that thralled me so, The hand that held me in patient leash, Restraining my blood's hot flow. You never will know what it meant to me (And I know you will not care!) To hold in my heart through all these years A hope that was masterful, strong, and fair, A hope that led me for your dear sake All things to do and dare. 67 IN MEMORIAM But I know today what it means to me — (And you might see 'tis true!) A shrine dismantled, a prayer unsaid, And some one lying dead that you knew — But the heart still beats, and the sad lips smile, So what does it matter to you? 68 ON A MOUNTAIN TOP Once more I stand here, and alone ! Life has no more sad lessons I can learn! Love has forsaken me and flown To other climes ; and whereso'er I turn, Old days, old scenes, old memories, arise. A ne'er-forgotten face looks up to mine Through the bright witchery of glorious eyes, Each feature with love's radiant light a-shine. Now vanish, like a mist-cloud on thy face, All these; and what is left to me? The barren solitude in this high place, And sounds of harsh winds' revelry. 69 A CHRISTMAS GREETING To L. D. M. On this sweet Christmas tide that rolls Blithely toward the glad New Year, I launch this little "Chip" and trust That it may come to you, my dear, On braided waters singing low Through sober woodlands' quiet ways, Or through broad meadows loitering, Where diamonds of the hoar-frost blaze; And this I pray : That in some nook Where you await beside the stream, You may arrest my little bark, And weave its message in your dream. 70 "LITTLE FROWSY" "Little Frowsy," "Little Frowsy," do you ever think of me When the sober shades of evening gather softly o'er the lea, Or when frosty starlight glitters on the dear familiar way Where we learned life's sweetest lesson in the wagon or the sleigh? Dear "Old Nell" she must have blundered on our secret so discreet, I can almost see her loitering on with dilatory feet, As I think of those dear evenings in the happy long ago, When you were my little sweetheart, and I was your only beau. Then those evenings in the firelight in your cosy little room, With the log-fire's rosy fingers twinkling in the pleasant gloom ! What dear dreams we built together in the blaz- ing logs' bright glow As we sat in that old armchair in the evenings long ago. 71 "LITTLE FROWSY" Oh, that armchair, — all now left me from the real of other days, Here ensconced in my lone parlor oft it meets my tearful gaze; In its faded depths a vision gladdens oft my lov- ing eye That nor potentates nor princes with their glitter- ing gold could buy. And I see warm, nut-brown tresses in that old armchair tonight, And the dreamy eyes' dark splendor with love's message all a-light, And I see the saucy lips, dear, coaxingly upturned to mine, Velvet cheeks, and chin's soft curving, and the shoulders' satin shine. And I question whether heaven could give me one half the bliss That I tasted in that armchair in the rapture of your kiss; And I know no sweeter music ever thrilled a mortal ear Than your low voice softly murmuring to my quest — "I love you, dear." 72 "LITTLE FROWSY" "Little Frowsy," "Little Frowsy," will you some- times think of me When the quiet twilight shadows steal across the sleeping lea, And half wish for the old armchair and your dear accustomed place Close beside me in the firelight, with my kisses on your face? 73 THE LOST CHORD Oh, troubadour, sweet troubadour, Strike your harpstrings once again, And woo my mind from dulling care, My weary heart from all its pain. Sweep softly the responsive strings, And sing the songs of bygone days, When hearts were true, and love was more Than a mere theme for minstrel's lays. Oh, troubadour, your tuneful art Thrills with the olden time delight; The harmonies your fingers wake Suit well my wayward mood tonight; But there is one sweet chord I miss, And with it summer warmth and shine, The singing brook and sighing breeze, And happy hours no longer mine. But not for this, dear troubadour, Would I your soulful music still; No hand can find the missing chord However strong be the sweet will. So I will teach my eager ear Its wondrous sweetness to forget, And praise your strains with grateful smile, Though with sad tears my eyes be wet. 74 A SUMMER'S DAY Have you caught the lilt of a summer's day — The mingled voices of wild, glad things, The shimmer of heat on the dusty way, And the palpitant murmur of agile wings? And could you lie on this bank with me, Your face upturned to the ambient sky, And joy in the hum of the vagrant bee, While Care and his grovelling horde go by? And could you hear, with your soul unstirred, The call of Fame in the populous town, Content alone with the voice of bird, And scent of fields on the faint winds blown? Then bide a bit while the heart is young, — And 'tis still an easy thing to love, — Where the woodlands whisper the songs unsung, And the skies of summer are bright above. 75 A SUMMER'S DAY O, there's trouble enough on the way ahead, And the steppes of winter are cold and wide; Then let us here, ere the day is dead, Drink deep of the summer's golden tide. 76 WRITTEN ON A PHOTOGRAPH To G. E. R. O, dear old friend so debonair, So gallant and so knightly, Not one of all our favored band Has time's hand touched so lightly ! Gay-hearted as a schoolboy yet, Life's petty worries scorning, Your optimistic eyes but see The joy of each new morning. 77 IN A FRIEND'S ALBUM Blest be the wit, methinks, that grinds A joke from melancholy, And with a pleasant sally binds The wounds of some old folly; And would the gods, whose meager wit Was idly set to plan us, Had oftener made a lucky hit, And given us more McManus. THE WAY OF IT Oft when I was a little boy I gazed upon the sea, And thought each snowy sail might bear Some precious gift for me. I thought the Isles of Ceylon fair Might pour their treasures out — Rich gems and such a host of things, At which a boy would shout. Then there were caves I'd read about In far-off sunny isles Just bursting with the very things To fill a boy with smiles. And some good Genii sure must know The longing of a boy, And one day send a ship to me To fill my heart with joy. 79 THE WAY OF IT But shining sails went on and on, And days slipped into years, And all my ships have brought to me Has been the freight of tears. So NOON IN A MEADOW The full noon swings his censer high, The roving wind is still, Only the bee goes booming by On his way to the scented hill. Drowsy the note of katydids In the meadow's fragrant deeps; The orchid droops her fringed lids And 'mid soft grasses sleeps. No voice of bird thrills the white noon, The shallowing brook alone Sings with the katydids its rune In pensive undertone. Lush grasses, tangled meadow-sweet, And purple vetches, hold In mesh the languor of the heat, And the sun-god's shafts of gold. 81 NOON IN A MEADOW And round all swings an atmosphere Pregnant with drowsy dreams; Time's foot-steps fall unnoticed here, And all eternal seems. 82 DRIFTING Slowly down with the lapsing stream My wee boat moves like one in dream, And the snowy water-lilies gleam In the rippling wake she leaves. The sun is low in the crimsoning sky, And fleet-winged swallows homeward fly Across the lea, where shadows lie On beds of fragrant flowers. The thrushes' evening song I hear In fringing hazel copses near, And children's voices sweet and clear Float down from pleasant farms. And drifting, dreaming in my boat Of you in some vague land remote, Child, stream, and thrush, in blended note, Seem singing, dear, of you. 83 DRIFTING Would I might send my pleading prayer To you on wings of this sweet air, And know at last that you still care As in the vanished days. Then I might drift in falling dew, Ere darkness blinds us, unto you, And find you tender still and true, And hold you to my heart. 8 4 A MEMORY Only a bunch of wee wild flowers, — Buttercups golden, forget-me-nots blue, Just drooping for want of the wind's soft touch, And the wonted kiss of the loving dew. No other can see in these common flowers The matchless beauty they hold for me; For none save eyes unsealed as mine, The dear significance e'er could see. No eyes save mine can see the face, So fair and sweet 'neath the sunny hair, That smiled all day o'er the blue and gold Of the flowers I hold with such tender care. O, flowers will fade, and eyes grow dim, But memory still is sweet and dear; And life can never be long enough To lose the love of our Golden Year. 85 TO A DANDELION FOUND IN NOVEMBER Oh, little blossom smiling here, How can you look so jolly, When rustle 'round you leaflets sere. And all is melancholy? The summer's gone this many a day; The golden-rod's gaunt shadow Falls drearily across the way; And in the browning meadow The withered gentian in its nook In every rude gust shivers; The naked aster by the brook With apprehension quivers; Yet here you lift your sunny face Amid the lifeless grasses, And smile when at a furious pace The reckless North Wind passes. 86 TO A DANDELION Ah, little flower, you are too brave ! The North wind is no lover; And Winter is a surly knave That just delights to cover Such things as you with snow knee-deep Without a bit of warning; You'd better lie right down to sleep, And wake some warm spring morning. 87 "A WRITTEN APOLOGY" To Miss Hale If you can catch the lilt of the pleasant autumn days When the crimson leaf vies with the mellow gold, If you can paint the glory of the woodland's winding ways, Then half my meek apology is told. If you can hear the echo, from across the placid lake, Of the clear soprano of your happy boy, When his heart's so full of gladness that it seems as if 'twould break If he didn't throw the woods his lyric joy; If you can only picture many a mossy little nook With the forest leaves a-drifting all around, Just like the things you read of in some dreamy little book, And all the air just listening for a sound; 88 "A WRITTEN APOLOGY" If you can hear the patter of the rainfall on the roof, — The nimble fingers drumming soft and low The harmonies that mingle in life's subtle warp and woof, And bring us back the days of long ago — But what's the use of hedging? I know you understand The lure that made us old chums break the rule, And soak our souls in gladness poured from nature's lavish hand, And that's why we played "hooky" from your school. 8 9 DEC 18 1913 iffiilir "015 926 fidi 2