A Little Book of Verse 
 
 BY 
 FLORENCE DAVIS 
 
Class _^1 : 
 
 Book_iAlJ 
 
 GopightN 
 
 \*< 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
A LITTLE BOOK 
 
 OF 
 
 VERSE 
 
 BY 
 FLORENCE DAVIS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 MCMVIII. 
 

 U8«4RYolG0.NuK&5Sf 
 
 I *U COOL'S MfcCiJy^ 
 
 S£P^ 23. l*Oa 
 
 COPY B, 
 
 Copyright, 1908. 
 Br Florence Davis 
 
A LITTLE BOOK OF VERSE 
 
DEDICATION. 
 To the memory of my 
 mother, who has gone beyond, 
 to my aged father, and to our 
 beautiful Southland, this little 
 book is lovingly dedicated. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Moods of My Mind 
 
 9 
 
 The House of My Dreams 
 
 10 
 
 The Heart That Would Know My Own 
 
 - 13 
 
 To Leonie - 
 
 14 
 
 If I Were a Critic - - - - 
 
 - 15 
 
 The Ladder of Fame 
 
 16 
 
 Stir Not Those Leaves - 
 
 - 20 
 
 A Rose - 
 
 21 
 
 The Girl With The Spear - 
 
 - 22 
 
 Lines To a Child - 
 
 26 
 
 Cupid ------ 
 
 - 30 
 
 His Wedding Morn 
 
 31 
 
The moods of my mind 
 
 Both playful and wild 
 Oft seem in their changes 
 
 Astray as a child. 
 But whatever the mood, 
 
 Or whenever the time, 
 Each comes as it wills, 
 
 And it comes in rhyme. 
 
THE HOUSE OF MY DREAMS. 
 
 Tis a quaint old house 
 
 I've seen in my dreams, 
 With its moulded rafters 
 
 And cobwebbed beams; 
 With its huge, dark chimney 
 
 Where gray bats hide, 
 And its vine-cover'd lattice 
 
 And portal wide. 
 
 A strange, sweet scent 
 
 Bears a flower, that grows 
 Far under the vines 
 
 Where nobody knows. 
 The chirp of a cricket 
 
 Comes trembling near, 
 And the south wind's sigh 
 
 Breaks softly here. 
 The dew falls dripping 
 
 On each tiny leaf, 
 And the kiss of the moonbeam 
 
 Is strangely brief. 
 
 10 
 
There are rustlings and stirrings 
 
 Of creeping things ; 
 The pipe of a bird 
 
 Too young for its wings. 
 A twittering evensong 
 
 Sends it to rest 
 From the mother that hovers it 
 Close in its nest. 
 
 It has an air of decay 
 
 And of sadness, too; 
 And I think of the days 
 
 When the house was new. 
 Of the pattering feet 
 
 That trod those ways, 
 Of the laughter that rang 
 
 In the other days. 
 
 Yet I love the house 
 
 As it stands to-day, 
 With its leaning walls 
 
 Of strength in decay. 
 And my fancy peoples 
 
 It every night 
 With sprites that dance 
 
 In the moon's soft light. 
 
 11 
 
There's a charm about it, 
 
 A magic spell, 
 From its old board walks 
 
 To its moss-grown well. 
 Nor would I ever, 
 
 Were millions mine, 
 Have the old house changed 
 
 In structure or vine. 
 For I close my eyes 
 
 When the gaslight gleams 
 And visit in fancy 
 
 The house of my dreams. 
 
 12 
 
THE HEART THAT WOULD KNOW MY OWN. 
 
 He looks at her golden hair 
 
 While he dreams of eyes of brown. 
 I think of his frank, open smile, 
 
 And bow 'neath your critical frown. 
 He thinks of a slim, dark woman 
 
 To whom love is all in all, 
 Though the bills he generously pays 
 
 Are for the blonde, stately and tall. 
 I listen to all your chidings, 
 
 And explain it as best I can ; 
 But you never can understand, my dear, 
 
 You are such a serious man. 
 We just are not made for each other, 
 
 While they were not born to mate. 
 I may ne'er in the wide world meet him, 
 
 If I do it will be too late. 
 Thus my heart must forever be sighing 
 
 For the love I have never known, 
 And I still must keep a-dreaming 
 
 Of the heart that would know mv own. 
 
 13 
 
TO LEONIE. 
 
 I give thee all my love, dear, 
 And all wealth, were it mine. 
 
 I'd give thee the whole wide world, 
 Could I lay it at thy shrine. 
 
 I'd give thee all the joy, dear, 
 With ne'er a single sigh; 
 
 I'd give thee golden moments 
 That time might pass thee by. 
 
 I'd give thee fame and wisdom, 
 With friends true at thy side. 
 
 Thy life should be a living song 
 And love with thee abide. 
 
 I'd give thee more — the hereafter, 
 
 That God intends for mine, 
 "Gladly I'd give it thee, dear, 
 Were it better than thine. 
 
 14 
 
IF I WERE A CRITIC. 
 
 I might not think her "wonderful," 
 Nor deem her acting "strong;" 
 
 But I'd say she helped a little 
 To carry the play along. 
 
 I'd think of the earnest effort, 
 
 Of the storm-tossed days of toil — 
 
 Of her tears, and bitter heartache — 
 And I'd pour on a little oil. 
 
 I would not see the hollow cheeks, 
 
 Nor hear the voice almost gone. 
 My heart would go out to the woman 
 Whom Fate had left alone. 
 
 I might not think her "wonderful," 
 Nor deem her acting "strong;" 
 
 But I'd say she helped a little 
 To carry the play along. 
 
 15 
 
THE LADDER OF FAME. 
 
 I set out to climb the Ladder of Fame 
 
 For the land of the Wonderful Isles, 
 With youth in my heart and sun in my hair, 
 
 And my glad face a rose of smiles. 
 
 I set out at dawn; but stopped to rest, 
 For bright and fair was the day to me ; 
 
 I lingered apace with endearing friends, 
 Till a shower came dancing o'er the lea. 
 
 "A shower!" they cried, "at the ladder of fame? 
 
 The rungs will be wet. Come, leave it and sing. 
 So we sang and danced in forgetful play 
 
 Till the June's dusk brought the firefly's wing. 
 
 Once more at dawn I set out again ; 
 
 But the eager throng and the crowding files, 
 Jostling and pushing, utterly marred 
 
 My joy, my dream of the Wonderful Isles. 
 
 16 
 
So I sat me down on a bank of moss 
 
 To watch the passing of th' eager throng; 
 
 And as I sat and dreamily watched 
 A little year came running along. 
 
 Never before had I seen a year, 
 And this one was bonny and mild, 
 
 With filmy garb, and innocent eyes, 
 And the ringing voice of a happy child. 
 
 A young little year! She linger'd and smiled 
 And threw me a kiss on my hair. 
 
 It deepened the gold and flattened the dent 
 Of a dimple I'd thought so fair. 
 
 And as thus I sat other years went by; 
 
 All lingered with me a space. 
 The first that pass'd stayed longer, 
 
 But the latter hurried more swift in the race. 
 
 The first years were happy, joyous and young, 
 The others were stern and strong; 
 
 But each, as it passed, touched my hair and face, 
 And smiled at my careless song. 
 
Amidst the year's throng a little child 
 
 I saw running here and there ; 
 A butterfly nymph it seemed on the wing, 
 
 "Opportunity" named so fair. 
 
 It beckoned, with meaningful waves of its hands 
 
 To those who passed on the way, 
 Till its eye caught mine, when it said, with delight, 
 
 "Come, climb the ladder of fame to-day." 
 
 It ran and it leaped to the second bar, 
 "The rungs to-day are dry and high." 
 
 Then held forth its arms, "Come, hurry !" it cried. 
 "Follow me, and we'll climb to the sky." 
 
 But the moss where I sat was thick and soft. 
 
 I answered a nod and smiled, 
 And cried, "Not yet, not yet; some other day 
 
 I'll surely follow, my child." 
 
 At that very moment it fell from the rung, 
 
 And they gently bore it away. 
 But my heart grew faint at the ashen face 
 
 Of the child that died that dav. 
 
 18 
 
Lone I sat on the mossy bank, 
 
 Though the air was cold and damp, 
 
 Till the rays of the sun began to wane. 
 
 And the spark in my heart a flickering lamp. 
 
 Years came thick and years came fast, 
 
 But none e'en glanced my way. , 
 
 They tossed some snow on my thinning nair 
 And turned the gold to gray. 
 
 Then I fell on my knees and began to pray 
 "Oh God' give back the child !' -and then- 
 
 But the darkness fell and my eyes grew dim. 
 "God pity my grief! Amen! 
 
 19 
 
STIR NOT THOSE LEAVES. 
 
 Stir not those leaves of roses 
 Lest you free a world of sighs. 
 
 That flowered space encloses 
 
 The grave where a dead love lies. 
 
 20 
 
A ROSE. 
 
 It is made of a zephyr, a sunbeam, 
 A breath that comes from God. 
 
 These mixed and mingled with life's germ 
 Hidden far under the sod. 
 
 21 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE SPEAR. 
 
 My verses are bad — 
 
 I know they are — 
 But what else expect 
 
 From a comedy star? 
 
 The world scarce credits 
 Our heart or brain. 
 
 We know no sorrow, 
 Nor feel any pain. 
 
 Our days are danced 
 
 To live to a tune. 
 And wear the smiles 
 
 Of perennial June. 
 
 'Tis our business to sing 
 Tho' the heart be sad. 
 
 Be we sinners or saints 
 We are thought as bad. 
 
 22 
 
A friend we may have 
 Is our "angel," they say. 
 
 The one whom we favor, 
 Our bills to pay. 
 
 Be we "chorus" or "star 
 Our lot is the same, 
 
 For ever before us 
 
 Is the end of the game. 
 
 See that frail, poor "chorus" 
 With the slender legs, 
 
 Which she uses as stiffly 
 As thin wooden pegs. 
 
 And the one that's next her- 
 She with ink-well eyes, 
 
 And rainbow tresses 
 From numerous dyes. 
 
 23 
 
And the poor little girl 
 That carries the spear! 
 
 Ah! for that little girl 
 I drop a tear. 
 
 Her figure is rounded, 
 Her face quite young. 
 
 She stands on the ladder — 
 Its very first rung. 
 
 Along the White Way 
 As she glances up 
 
 Are throngs of men, 
 Each holding a cup. 
 
 And the sparkle of gems 
 Quite dazzle her eyes; 
 
 Yet the rays of those gems 
 Are effulgent with sighs. 
 
 24 
 
I sigh as she trembles 
 And starts to ascend. 
 
 Where will her goal be? 
 What will be her end? 
 
 The sigh breaks from me, 
 And my eye drops the tear. 
 
 God protect the girl 
 Who carries the spear! 
 
 25 
 
LINES TO A CHILD. 
 
 I'll tell you, dear, 
 Of my castle in air. 
 
 Tis built on the mount 
 Of I don't-know-where. 
 
 But the furnishings in it 
 Are wondrous fair. 
 
 The delicate art 
 
 Of its cobweb screens 
 Far, far outrival 
 
 Your wildest dreams. 
 
 The hermit who dwells 
 
 In this fairy house 
 Is a tiny, noiseless, 
 
 Gray-furred mouse. 
 
 And he loves to stand 
 
 In the moonbeams' drapes, 
 Or perch himself high 
 
 On a bunch of grapes 
 
 26 
 
That hangs so near 
 To the window's ledge 
 
 That his tail still lies 
 On its mossy edge, 
 
 As he gazes down 
 
 The dark stream below, 
 The stream that was formed 
 
 Of a sigh, you know. 
 
 And a sunset rare 
 Of which poets sing, 
 
 Was wov'n for our sky 
 From a butterfly's wing, 
 
 Which flew by one day 
 As I sat on the beach, 
 
 Sailing and circling 
 Just out of my reach. 
 
 But the color it left 
 
 As it passed by 
 Was just what I needed 
 
 To finish our sky. 
 
 27 
 
The beautiful glint 
 
 Of sunlight fair 
 Came back from a curl 
 
 Of our baby's hair. 
 
 That little gray cloud 
 
 Circling about 
 Is the chance result 
 
 Of our baby's pout. 
 
 Now, here are the keys, 
 Take and wander through 
 
 This castle I've built 
 For me and for you. 
 
 Yet, ere entering, dear, 
 Pause a brief while 
 
 To look over the grounds 
 From the quaint old stile. 
 
That queer stile was made 
 Of a grasshopper's knee 
 
 I sent to far Kansas 
 To find him, you see. 
 
 The walls of this castle 
 Are built of my thought; 
 
 Perhaps not so rare, 
 
 Yet they cannot be bought 
 
 By another on earth. 
 
 All all are my own, 
 And all are bequeathed 
 
 To you, dear, alone. 
 
 29 
 
CUPID. 
 
 A tear, a sigh, and a rose-leaf 
 On a table together, one night, 
 
 Formed themselves into a Cupid, 
 Who sped with his arrows of light. 
 
 A whiff of tobacco, a snow-flake, 
 And the rapturous sound of a kiss, 
 
 Followed the visit of Cupid 
 Into the Land of Bliss. 
 
 30 
 
HIS WEDDING MORN. 
 
 Have you ever heard the birds sing 
 
 As though their hearts were torn? 
 Have you ever seen fresh roses 
 
 Of all their beauty shorn? 
 Have you ever heard sweet music 
 
 Turn to discords harsh and wild? 
 Or seen the deepest tragedy 
 
 In the bright face of a child? 
 Have you ever, while your lips smiled, 
 
 Felt in your heart a thorn? 
 I have — 'twas yesterday — 
 
 It was his wedding morn. 
 
 31 
 

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