o -ft- i • 
 
 .^ >^^ - . . • * > ^^ -o , » - .> 
 
 ■ 
 
 
k^ ^<^^ ^'^'^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^CpV 
 
 ^cp<=.- 
 
 
 
 
 
POEMS BY EMELINE PERRY 
 
 WITH A MEMORIAL 
 
PRESS OF 
 LEVEY BRO'S 4 CO. 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS. 
 
poE/ns 
 
 EMELINE PERRY 
 
 IDitt? a Znemorial 
 
 Indianapolis, Ini/. 
 ^S93 
 
 fS>^i2^ 
 
 t- 
 
.P+4 
 
 COPYRIGHTED 
 
 1893 
 F. M. PERRY 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Memorial i's 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 I Ask you for your Favorite i 
 
 True Rest 3 
 
 Spring 4 
 
 On Hearing the First Robin 6 
 
 An Autumn Reverie 7 
 
 Star Pictures 8 
 
 The Buds 9 
 
 Only Quartz lo 
 
 Song of the Road 12 
 
 My Father 13 
 
 On a Pressed Pansy 15 
 
 A Welcome Voice i6 
 
 A Sigh, A Tear 17 
 
 Written on the Death of J. G. Whittier iS 
 
 Mayflower Church 19 
 
 To a Friend 20 
 
 Breezes of Sweet To-day 21 
 
 Written on Finding a Lame Canary Bird 22 
 
 One Summer Hour a Butterfly 23 
 
 My Sister and 1 24 
 
 My Four L,oves 25 
 
 The Convolvulus 27 
 
 Written on the Death of Mrs. Caroline Scott Harrison 28 
 
 A Little Boy just Two Feet Ten 30 
 
 To Mary and George Hall 31 
 
 Pleasure and Beauty 32 
 
A Fancy. 
 
 33 
 
 Clutching for Stars 35 
 
 Kemorse j6 
 
 The Queen of Flowers 37 
 
 Morning (".lories 3S 
 
 Blue and Brown 39 
 
 An I'npainted Picture 40 
 
 No Ring for Me 42 
 
 Violets 43 
 
 The Cyclone 44 
 
 The Man from Heaven 45 
 
 Kxtremity go 
 
 Old Letters 51 
 
 Autumn Days 52 
 
 Thine Eyes are but a Bit of Heaven 53 
 
 Discontent 54 
 
 Poem on George Washington 55 
 
 An Old Shoe 56 
 
 The Rose 57 
 
 Johnie-Jump-Up 58 
 
" The good die first." 
 
 — Wordsworth. 
 
EMELINE PERRY. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 As I think of Emeline, her genuineness, her sim- 
 plicit)% her truth and beauty overwhelm me. I feel 
 powerless to express what she was and must always be 
 to us who knew her. 
 
 Her manner so gentle, yet always bright and an- 
 imated, attracted all whom she met. A rare, sweet 
 modesty, indicated a nature pure and fine. Never ob- 
 trusive, but always ready and able when her services 
 were needed, ever kind and considerate, she was a 
 ministering angel to us all. 
 
 A happy childhood spent in reading the wonders 
 and beauties of nature and in merry intercourse with 
 loving companions, was a fit beginning of her beauti- 
 ful life, throughout which, she retained manj' of child- 
 hood's chief charms, for, in later years she did not 
 lose the sweet, unaffected simplicity of childhood, nor 
 childhood's buoyant happiness. Increasing thought- 
 fulness only tempered her character to an ideal 
 womanliness. 
 
 Eineline's was not an eventful life, full of changing 
 scenes ; she had traveled but little, and had spent but 
 
few years in school j'et she knew the world and it was 
 to her a beautiful world. Her taste for reading, her 
 keen perception and strong imagination opened to her 
 its wonders in nature and art and made them seem 
 near and real to her. She became acquainted with its 
 history and its heroes as she wandered through its 
 length and breadth with her favorite historians and 
 poets. In short she found so much to love, to admire 
 and to be grateful for, at hand, that she felt little long- 
 ing for what was beyond her reach. 
 
 The following lines which she has marked in The 
 Prelude are a true description of her: 
 
 "I knew a maid, 
 A young enthusiast, who escaped these bonds, 
 Her eye was not the mistress of her lieart; 
 Far less did r\iles prescribed by passive taste. 
 Or barren intermeddling subtleties. 
 Perplex her mind; but, wise as women are 
 When genial circumstance hath favored them, 
 She welcomed what was given, and craved no more; 
 What e'er the scene presented to her view 
 That was the best, to that slie was attuned 
 By her benign simplicity of life. 
 And through a perfect happiness of soul, 
 Whose variegated feelings were in this 
 Sisters, that they were each some new delight. 
 Birds in the bower, and lambs in the green field. 
 Could they have known her, would have loved; me lliought 
 Her verj' presence such a sweetness breathed, 
 That flowers, and trees, and even the silent hills. 
 And everything she looked on, should have had 
 An intimation how she bore herself 
 Towards them and to all creatures. God delights 
 In such a being; for, her common thoughts 
 Are piety, her life is gratitude." 
 
Among all poets Wordsworth was perhaps Enieline's 
 greatest favorite; when failing strength made the direct 
 communion with nature, that she so enjoyed, impos- 
 sible, he became her mediator. Her enthusiastic ad- 
 miration for his poetry is suggested by the lines she 
 wrote on a fly-leaf of a volume of his poems given her 
 some years ago: 
 
 "A gift that never can grow old 
 
 Or be a thing despised. 
 Poems that augels e'en might read. 
 
 By spirits recognized 1" 
 
 The lines she penciled in her Burns' give an idea 
 of the pleasure she derived from that poet: 
 
 "Though fortune oftimes did not favor, 
 And skies looked black and mud was deep, 
 
 of life he did not lose the savor. 
 He found in all some touch of sweet." 
 
 F;meline's soul was full of beauty and gladness. 
 vShe was the joy, the light, the poetry of our home. 
 Sensitive to beauty in all its forms, she not onlj' ap- 
 preciated it herself, but compelled those about her to 
 enjoy it through sympathy with her enjoyment. How 
 delightfully she could talk, comparatively few knew, 
 for, it was only when she felt that she had a sympa- 
 thetic hearer that her sweet, musical voice gave free 
 expression to her wealth of ideas. Then she was 
 irresistibly interesting. Her ideas were so clear and 
 so entirely her own; her reminiscences so fresh and 
 vivid; her gayety and laughter so spontaneous and 
 
contagious ; but never did she speak with more sweet- 
 ness and power than when, grave and serious, she gave 
 us glimpses of her inner life, and talked with simplic- 
 ity and assurance of matters of eternal interest. Trulj' 
 hers was a poet's soul and it is not strange that she 
 found verse a natural and easy medium of expression. 
 
 Her life was rich in achievement; for she was as 
 quick and alert in action as in thought, and unmindful 
 of fatigue. A dainty artist with needle and brush, her 
 hands were ever busy contriving for the pleasure and 
 comfort of those she loved. Not many lives are spent 
 in such happy forgetfulness of self. 
 
 Brave, patient, uncomplaining, she bore her own 
 sorrows alone and was ever ready to console and cheer 
 others. We have a beautiful illustration of her concern 
 for the happiness of others in the following extract 
 from a letter written to a dear friend a short time 
 before her death: 
 
 Would that 1 could have a talk with you uow instead of 
 wntiug. I am sure you would not long suffer the blues after, if I 
 could. So you are all ready to move away. Do not repine at leav- 
 ing B . You will probably be glad of it someday. What makes 
 
 you so sad and melancholy? Really now I do not believe you 
 have any definite cause to feel so. Did you ever think, dearest, 
 that although we cannot have just what we should like and long 
 for, in the end we are oft times happier and better repaid than if 
 we ha<l got what we wanted? A life of right doing and selfsacrifice 
 is so much more glorious than a life of gratified selfish desires. 
 He who lives solely for self deserves no better reward than the 
 paltry results of his own wishes — Hut remember, there can be high, 
 ennobling, grand desirt-.s aud aspirations that are a part of every 
 good life. They are a part of "nature's holy plan." If we had 
 no desire for something better than earth can give what were the 
 
need of heaveu? Lougiug and wishing are the wings that bear us 
 to heaven. 
 
 Tell me if you have any serious cause to feel so gloomy 
 and let lue sympathize. 
 
 I am trying to write while lying down, as I am not feeling 
 very strong. Write soon. Yours lovingly, 
 
 Emeline. 
 
 How she enriched our lives by her loving sympathy. 
 Every joy was doubled by it, every sorrow healed — but 
 so rich a blessing could not always be ours. 
 
 In the calm, bright noontide hour of a summer's 
 day while the busy world rested from the morning's 
 toil, we watched and waited in silent anguish while 
 "she whom we loved," our little sister, our Emeline, 
 passed through the "valley of the shadow" and out 
 into the life beyond, eternal. Freed from its frail mor- 
 tal habitation, her strong beautiful spirit seemed as it 
 passed from us, to leave in its wake a trail of light to 
 illumine the darkness, and reveal to us more clearly 
 the touch of the divine hand that guards and holds 
 our destinies. Many times we had questioned within 
 ourselves God's wisdom in apportioning unto her so 
 great an affliction as the one she bore so sweetly and 
 bravely from the early years of childhood. Many 
 times we had wondered at her patience, her cheerful- 
 ness and industry — she who was almost never wholly 
 free from pain and weariness. Now we seemed to 
 realize as never before that it was through this very 
 suffering she had been made perfect, that the trial 
 which seemed to us a cross, bearing her down, was in 
 
reality lifting her up, mouhling an«l developing, day 
 by day, a character whose purity and strength must 
 ever be a rare and beautiful memory to those who 
 knew her. A memory to cherish through time and 
 eternity, with deepest gratitude to Ilim whose loving 
 kindness has permitted even for so short a time, one of 
 His own "little ones" to dwell in our njidst, a "sweet 
 sacrifice" for us that we might win with her an in- 
 heritance in His kingdom. 
 
 We took up her well-worn IJible for consolation 
 and our eyes rested upon the freshly marked passage 
 "I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do." 
 
 I'rom among the man\- beautiful tributes to 
 Kmeline's life and character received from friends after 
 her death, a few extracts have been selected which, 
 coming as they do from people of widely different char- 
 acter and age, are interesting because of there simi- 
 larity: 
 
 "I know how you all deptnik-d upon her." 
 
 "To me Hmeline was like cliaracters I have read 
 about but never known in real life. How could one 
 help but love her and feel it a privilege to be her friend? 
 Her loving unselfish life will live after her in the 
 heails of many friends and inlluence them to strive to 
 possess her virtues." 
 
 ".She had such a l)eautiful soul, 1 sliall always be 
 glad that I have known her." 
 
"How geutle, and patient, aud loving, she was, 
 her gentle spirit was like a benediction in your home." 
 
 "She was so tender-hearted, and ever for the op- 
 pressed." 
 
 "I shall never forget her sweet, joyful, ever hopeful 
 disposition, she was always so thoughtful for the pleas- 
 ure of others." 
 
 "She was my only, my truest friend; my support. 
 What shall I do without her? She was the only one 
 who ever really understood me. She was my good 
 angel." 
 
 "Her life was perfect." 
 
 "I always felt her beautiful presence when I went 
 to vour house. I shall never forget her sweet face and 
 gentle ways. I count it a blessing to have known and 
 loved her." 
 
 "How precious the memories that will ever cluster 
 around her sweet life. It is one of the privileges of 
 my life to have known and loved her — what a large 
 place she filled in her friends' hearts and lives." 
 
 "You all felt that her pure aud patient life made 
 the very center of your home. Her pure spirit will 
 continue to shed its beautiful lustre upon you all and 
 be a lasting influence for good upon all who knew her." 
 
 "She was a benediction in your household and to 
 all who came in contact with her. Her life was ever 
 so tender, so true, so loving and so SN-mpathetic with 
 every joy and every sorrow. ' ' 
 
I ASK YOU FOR YOUR FAVORITE. 
 
 ! ask you for your favorite 
 
 Among all flowers fair, 
 Nature's own beauteous wild ones 
 
 And those of human care. 
 
 You may guess what mine is, 
 
 'Tis not the rose renowned. 
 Nor is it little daisy meek 
 
 With fleecy petals bound. 
 
 Nasturtiums? They are beautiful, 
 
 But quite too gay for me; 
 The heliotrope is daintier. 
 And so is the sioeet-pea. 
 
 Our nation's flower is not the one, 
 
 The plenteous golden-rod. 
 That beams so bright and seems to speak 
 
 And bend in graceful nod. 
 
'Tis not the violet diffident, 
 
 That turns so shyly up; 
 Nor is it that minute delight 
 
 The glistening butter-cup. 
 
 I could not choose chrysanthemum 
 With tossed, wind-combed hair, 
 
 And odor so unpleasant — 
 I think 't would be unfair. 
 
 Oh, do not name the dandelions — 
 They scarce can be called flowers, 
 
 I call them nature's golden coin 
 In payment for the showers. 
 
 J\\Q pansies/ Ah, I love them, 
 The flaunting, flirting things. 
 
 They talk, and smile, and grimace, 
 And seem to wish for wings — 
 
 But none of these my spirit loves, 
 As that quaint flower frail 
 
 Of snowy perfect little bells — 
 The lily of the vale. 
 
 JS93 
 
TRUE REST. 
 
 True rest? It is to gaze 
 
 Upon some verdant spot, 
 Where the cattle softly graze, 
 
 And seem to heed us not. 
 To smell the freshness of the grass, 
 And watch the clouds go sailing past. 
 
 True rest the soul imbibes 
 
 From all this silent life. 
 In its pure perfectness 
 
 There is no sense of strife, 
 And we feel that this is best. 
 This is rest, the truest rest. 
 
 i\Iay 19, iSgi. 
 
SPRING. 
 
 She stood beneath the peach boughs, 
 
 The light wind tossed her hair 
 Showering upon her petals pink — 
 
 A picture dreamsomefair! 
 Sweetly she poised half smiling, 
 
 I clasped her hand in mine 
 And asked her to be true to me 
 
 Until the end of time. 
 
 A year passed by; the trees again 
 
 Were pink with freshest flower. 
 1 wandered out among them. 
 
 Of beauty 't was a bower. 
 Again 1 saw the maiden 
 
 Beneath the blooming tree, 
 And she was gayly smiling 
 
 And beckoning to me. 
 
A strain of sweetest laughter 
 
 Came rippling from her lips; 
 She looked at me so archly, 
 
 Then kissed her finger tips. 
 And while 1 gazed enraptured, 
 
 She drifted light away, 
 Upon the gentlest zephyr 
 
 That ever bore a fee. 
 
 Drifted away, nor heard she 
 
 My hopeless cry of fear. 
 For echoing like a silver bell 
 
 Her voice laughed far and near. 
 But gone! too beautiful, alas! 
 
 Too lovely, to remain! 
 
 How could I hope to keep her here.'' 
 
 Can mortal spring detain? 
 
 1S91. 
 
ox HEARIXG THE FIRST ROBIN. 
 
 Hush, Hark, A Robin's voice, 
 Soloin^i, shrilly in the far! 
 
 Some hear thee welcome bird. 
 They happy are! 
 
 Some know not when they hear — 
 Contented they! 
 
.-/A' W UTUiVy RE VERIE. 
 
 Above the town in chirping little flocks, 
 The birds fly southward as the summer goes, 
 And as they dash and through the sunlight flit, 
 Here wondering down below 1 sit. 
 
 A gentle trembling of the walnut trees 
 Moves now the shadows on the kitchen floor, 
 Puzzling the great old sleepy cat, 
 Who ventures many a cautious pat — 
 
 And 1 here too am puzzled as the cat; 
 Puzzled and troubled by the shades that wave 
 Across the sunlit scenery of life. 
 Sprinkling it ever with a weary strife. 
 
STAR PICTURES. 
 
 Stars that flash and glance at me 
 
 From your ocean broad and deep, 
 Tell me of the sights you see, 
 And, 1 pray you, let them be 
 Scenes of beauty calm and sweet. 
 
 Tell me not, Oh eyes of night. 
 
 Of the sights of misery, 
 But of something fair and bright 
 Tinged with colors of the light, 
 
 And of glories yet to be. 
 
 Fairest visions, angels' art. 
 Framed in heaven's purest gold. 
 
 Pictures of the mind and heart. 
 
 Pictures of the truest part. 
 In wrap me and infold. 
 
THE BUDS. 
 
 Now the chains of their thralldom are severed; 
 
 Now the doors of their prison swing out; 
 Just hari<, you can almost hear them, 
 
 As they clamor, and rush, and rout! 
 They come in a twinkling, a moment. 
 
 We sleep, and we wake to see — 
 A host, a whole million, a billion. 
 
 All romping so merrily. 
 And clapping, and fluttering, and waving, 
 
 And bidding us all to behold. 
 That, though they have long been imprisoned, 
 
 Their garments are spotless and bold. 
 We smile, and each heart-beat is lighter, 
 
 Our feet all but dance on our way. 
 We glance all about us — then wonder 
 
 How God made the beautiful day. 
 
 1892. 
 
O.VL}' QCARIV.. 
 
 Seeking with eyes all eager wide 
 Upon the shore at fall of tide, 
 To find among the pebbles there 
 A diamond or a ruby fair — 
 Days were not many then to me, 
 A child of perspicacity, 
 No bird too high amid the skies, 
 No dream too bright to realize. 
 
 To find a perfect gem I sought. 
 All other stones were set at naught, 
 1 sought, I found a perfect one, 
 A diamond pure, bright as the sun. 
 1 carried it to elders wise 
 For them to judge my hoarded prize, 
 They said it was of other sorts, 
 They told me it was only quartz. 
 
How many a man thus strives to fmci 
 Some treasure, using might and mind, 
 He labors for it day and night, 
 Thinks only of it with delight, 
 He shows it to the skeptics, they 
 Turn from it hastily away. 
 They cannot see as his eyes saw 
 All they discern is fraud and flaw. 
 
 The honey oft insnares the fly. 
 And glitter cheats man's outward eye. 
 Much that doth shine is of no worth. 
 Many may laugh who feel no mirth, 
 And man lives on from day to day 
 Depending on what others say. 
 And fears that even Heaven's Ports 
 Will be discovered only quartz! 
 
 .Vov. i8g2. 
 
SONG OF THE ROAD. 
 
 Seeking my way through peaceful vale, 
 
 Into the city, 1 wind and swerve 
 Seeking my way over hill and dale, 
 
 I silently, gracefully^ creep and curve. 
 
 With many a twist I wriggle about 
 Among meadows with flowers gay; 
 
 With many a turning in and out 
 I take the shortest way. 
 
 With a snake-like motion I squirm and jerk, 
 In my haste to reach the town afar; 
 
 And many a lover's nook I shirk, 
 And many a landscape mar. 
 
 Through forest dense 1 struggle apace, 
 
 And dizzily stagger to and fro; 
 Then, out again, o'er smooth plains race. 
 
 To spread myself and go. 
 
 Into the city, reluctantly 
 
 I narrowly squeeze along, 
 Meeting with other roads that I know 
 
 And singing a different song. 
 
 {unfinished ) iSgo. 
 
 Vi 
 
MY FA THER. 
 
 1 look upon his face and brow, 
 
 He does not see me, does not know 
 
 That I am watching him though 
 
 My thoughts are wandering to and fro. 
 
 He sits before me, knee on knee, 
 Reading the evening paper through; 
 
 And I am asking, where is he 
 So good, so wise, so wise, so true. 
 
 No petty cares his heart annoy. 
 
 No smoldering conscience sears and burns, 
 But happy as when yet a boy, 
 
 Except for sorrow goodness earns. 
 
 The littleness of small Tom Thumbs 
 Disturbs him not. He overlooks 
 
 It as the noise of toy drums 
 
 And tearing up of picture books. 
 
 13 
 
I watch him long; he shifts his knee 
 And reaches for the pussy cat, 
 
 That nestles down so cozily 
 Upon his arm to take a nap. 
 
 And 1 think on. 1 cannot write 
 
 His goodness as I wish I could. 
 It is too fine for common light, 
 
 Its worth is not mere word on word- 
 Now many years have rolled away 
 
 Into the record of the past. 
 Molding and sculpturing till they 
 
 Have made a perfect man at last. 
 
 /^%. 
 
ox A PRESSED PANSY. 
 
 After so many days crushed down 
 Within this time worn book, 
 
 1 marvel that this little flower 
 Retains its smiling look. 
 
 Its colors true are faded some, 
 Not rich with velvet dye, 
 
 And yet that bright, coquettish look 
 Still lingers in its eye. 
 
 I wonder — no 1 don't, 1 know. 
 Why it so radiant smiles. 
 
 The pages that so closely pressed 
 Are those of great Carlyle's ! 
 
 /S92. 
 
A WELCOME VOICE. 
 
 His voice is firm, and deep, and strong, 
 
 1 love to hear it ring. 
 It echoes sweetly all along. 
 
 It is a pleasant thing. 
 
 it may not be a cultured voice 
 
 That singeth merrily. 
 Yet who can boast a truer song 
 
 Or truer melody? 
 
 It does not sing of birds or tlowers, 
 
 Of lovers false or true. 
 And yet the old refrain we love 
 
 We love its meaning too. 
 
 When days are long, and warm, and bright 
 
 And life is real and fair, 
 We welcome well the voice that sings: 
 
 "Straw-bur-riLS-out-hare!'' 
 
A Sigh, 
 A tear, 
 A few sad notes, 
 A raptured glance oft stealing, 
 
 These are the things that tell to me 
 The depths of thy heart's feeling. 
 
 A word, 
 A smile, 
 
 A rosy blush, 
 
 A ring with diamond setting. 
 These are the things that make life good 
 In spite of cares besetting. 
 
 17 
 
WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF J. G. WHITTIER. 
 
 Around about his influence fell 
 
 In gentle radiant rays, 
 Increasing as he neared the end 
 
 Of his grand earthly days. 
 
 Till like the sun of evening 
 
 He faded from our sight, 
 And left us mute and wondering 
 
 While 'round us fell the night. 
 
MAYFLOWER CHURCH. 
 
 (The church of which the writer was a member.) 
 
 'Tis a Stanch little church, 
 For it modestly stands 
 
 Away from the pomp and the glory 
 For years it has stood, 
 With its armor of good, 
 
 Resounding the ever new story. 
 
 No spire pointing upward, 
 No grandure of space. 
 
 It lacks all the modern in art — 
 But God does not prize 
 The feast of the eyes, 
 
 He taketh his joy from the heart. 
 
 Written i?i the fall of 'g2. 
 
 19 
 
rO A FRIEND. 
 
 When first 1 saw her, heedlessly 
 I watched her graceful figure move, 
 
 Noted her long white slender hand, 
 And felt a new-born love. 
 
 So calm, so unruffled, unabrupt 
 
 She moved, 1 hardly knew 
 That 1 had seen her, till her form 
 
 Had passed onward from my view. 
 
 But fortune kind had more in store 
 
 One glance than to bestow, 
 I saw her many times and heard 
 
 Her pleasing converse flow. 
 
 Untouched was she by earthly wrong, 
 From passing years retained no scar, 
 
 For she had learned through trials great 
 Beyond tlie here to look afar. 
 
 To look, to see the comfort there. 
 
 To know that here 't is not complete. 
 
 To bide her time in truth and right, 
 
 And suffer wo defeat. 
 
 May /8gj. 
 
BREEZES OF SWEET TO-DAY. 
 
 Breezes of sweet to-day, blow all my cares away, 
 Bring things of beauty and brightness 1 pray, 
 Whisper no sorrow, no gloom in my ear, 
 Send thy best zephyr to dry off this tear! 
 
 21 
 
WRITTEN ON FINDING A LAME CANARY BIRD 
 
 Out in the grass 1 heard a bird's song, 
 
 So strangely, sweetly, mellow, 
 
 Looking here and there, at last, I spied the fellow, 
 
 Such a queer, ragged, little fellow, 
 Hopping on one foot, poor bird — 
 
 Hungry and lame but singing, 
 
 All his little soul with soft sweet praises ringing. 
 
 Hungry, lame, forlorn, yet singing! 
 
 iSSi). 
 
 33 
 
ONE SUMMER HOUR A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 One summer hour a butterfly 
 
 Dissatisfied with this, 
 Sailed far up toward the azure sky, 
 
 Seeking a greater bliss. 
 
 But weary grew the gauzy wings, 
 
 "And is there not a bloom 
 To rest upon, anon to kiss 
 
 And drink its sweet perfume?" 
 
 With swiftness came the butterfly 
 
 Down from the ancient dome, 
 
 Well learned the lesson trite but true. 
 
 The best is found at home. 
 
 i8g2. 
 
My SISTER AND I. 
 
 Together we sit in the twilight, 
 
 My sister and I side by side, 
 We look at the first stars glimmer, 
 
 And 1 have a tear to hide, 
 And she has a laugh to smother. 
 
 Our thoughts are far apart, 
 How little we know the picture 
 
 Framed in each other's heart. 
 
 1892. 
 
 94 
 
MY FOUR LOVES. 
 
 With springing steps and cheeks afire 
 She comes, she whom 1 so admire. 
 With strong proportions boldly free, 
 With voice of wild, sweet melody. 
 She, maiden of my choice, 1 greet, 
 1 throw myself beneath her feet — 
 I glory in my love for her. 
 Am lost in love and mute wonder. 
 
 There comes a change across my life, 
 A change — 1 have no wedded wife — 
 A maiden coy, flirtatious elf. 
 Comes woeing me from world and self. 
 Comes, stands beneath the flowering trees, 
 Her laughter is the whispered breeze — 
 I bend, 1 bow, 1 worship her. 
 Am lost in love and mute wonder. 
 
 25 
 
Not long she stays that tickle maid, 
 Her absence is a blight, a shade? 
 Not so. In beauty more complete 
 Another comes maturely sweet, 
 With fascinating, charming smile 
 She from myself does me beguile — 
 I kneel, 1 give myself to her, 
 Am filled again with strange rapture, 
 
 The soul's immortal, otherwise 
 I ne'er could look in other eyes. 
 Framed in a silvered summer haze 
 Another comes before my gaze — 
 She sighs, her radiance seems to fall 
 In showers around and over all. 
 I helplessly resign to her. 
 She leaves. Alone 1 sit and ponder. 
 
 And while I pondering sit alone 
 Another comes in glorious gown. 
 Another? No I realize, 
 My old dear one 1 recognize, 
 Her mask is falling to the ground, 
 She hears me laugh and looks around, 
 I rush, I cry, 1 welcome her, 
 My four loves, can you then wonder! 
 
 2r, J ^93- 
 
THE CONVOLVULUS. 
 
 Behold, the frail convolvulus ! 
 
 Kissing the morning sun, 
 Gasping its last sweet breath away 
 
 Its joyful duty done. 
 
 It might have lived a longer hour 
 
 To brighten with its bloom. 
 O why, O why, should it fade so fast. 
 
 And live, to die so soon? 
 
 The same we sob of the Christian soul. 
 That parts from its worldly host, 
 
 Why goes he whom we all loved, 
 He whom we need the most ? 
 
 Then turn to the frail convolvulus 
 
 Half hidden by the leaf. 
 And question is it a thing for tears, 
 
 For suffering and grief; 
 
 Each flower fair a duty's given, 
 
 And even so is man, 
 'Tis what he does that counts above, 
 
 And not how much he can. 
 
WRITTEN ON THE DEA TH OF MRS. CAROLINE 
 SCOTT HARRISON. 
 
 She silent lies, 
 
 The birds fly up, 
 
 Gray are the skies. 
 The red leaves fall 
 The summer dies. 
 She silent lies. 
 
 O words, words, mute ! 
 Tears take thy place, 
 And sadly impute 
 
 The unswerving fates. 
 Let sobs be the lute 
 The music to suit. 
 
 Vacant, alone, 
 
 The pulse has stopped. 
 The winds low moan, 
 The clouds sail by. 
 
 Some birds are flown. 
 Not all are gone. 
 
 28 
 
Loosed is the cord, 
 Broken the wheel, 
 
 She hath gone to her Lord, 
 And we weep here — 
 
 We could not afford — 
 She was called by her Lord. 
 
 She silent lies. 
 
 A presence is near, 
 The silvered ties 
 
 Are not severed by death. 
 They lengthen, and rise, 
 They reach to the skies, 
 She silent lies ! 
 
 Oct. i8Q2. 
 
 20 
 
A LITTLE BOY JUST TWO FEET TEN. 
 
 A little boy just two feet ten 
 Exclaimed with troubled pride; 
 
 "1 wish I was like other men, 
 So tall, so stout, so wide." 
 
 His mother heard and smiling said; 
 
 "My little boy, my dear. 
 If you were like those other men 
 
 You could not nestle here." 
 
 He dimpled o'er in childish joy, 
 And climbed upon her knee, 
 
 Glad, glad that he was yet a boy — 
 As glad almost as she. 
 
rO MARY AND GEORGE HALL. 
 
 (Written on receiving a photograph.) 
 
 They stand upon infancy's threshold, 
 And gaze out on childhood's land, 
 
 With eyes that are bright with wonder, 
 And lips that a meaning demand. 
 
 Reluctant no longer in going. 
 Their feet toddle out at the door ; 
 
 And we feel with a twinge of heartache, 
 Our babies are babies no more. 
 
 The world they have entered is ever 
 
 A series of changing delights. 
 Which they people with fancies and fictions 
 
 Reality incites. 
 
 They build up their own little kingdom, 
 
 Choosing Pleasure for the king ; 
 His crown is of bright field daisies, 
 
 A dew-drop his signet ring. 
 
 Ah, long be their childhood and happy. 
 
 Be it the foundation complete. 
 Of a strong and noble manhood. 
 
 And a womanhood gentle and sweet ! 
 
 31 April 2g, i8gs- 
 
PLEASURE AND BEAUTY. 
 
 Pleasure and Beauty are chosen friends, 
 Following each other to earth's farthest ends, 
 Clinging in rapture and constant devotion, 
 Wandering about with a swiftness of motion ; 
 Guests at the banquet, the party, the ball ; 
 Sought after, welcomed, by great ones and small. 
 But brief is their visit — not long do they linger — 
 They are off with a smile, and a kiss-tipped finger. 
 And while we in agony back of the fan 
 Are yawning, and nodding, and berating that man, 
 They silently snatch from kind luxury's lap 
 A sweet little comfortable five-minute nap. 
 
A FANCY. 
 
 I wandered into the garden, 
 
 The chill wind sighed and wept ; 
 I looked around about me 
 
 And thought all nature slept. 
 Thought but a moment, then espied 
 
 A dark-eyed maiden there, 
 Standing a willow tree beside, 
 
 While wildly tossed her hair. 
 
 Her bright, dark glance was on me, 
 
 She laughed in scorn, and sang : 
 " You 've come too soon for your love, your pet." 
 
 Her words gave me a pang. 
 Too soon ? Too soon ? I glanced about, 
 
 The world was cold and grim ; 
 No grass, no flowers, no anything. 
 
 No bird upon the wing. 
 
Alas ! Alas ! She has not come, 
 
 My laughing, blue-eyed maid — 
 My darling of the dimpled face, 
 
 In lovehness arrayed. 
 And turning sadly back again 
 
 To seek my fireside's glow, 
 I heard a gush of laughter, 
 
 Of laughter light and low. 
 
 Retracted then my steps in haste. 
 
 And angrily 1 cried : 
 " You 've got my love, she 's hiding here ; 
 
 Just please to step aside." 
 With black eyes flashing bitterly. 
 
 The maiden moved away. 
 And there, just peeping shyly out. 
 
 Appeared my welcome f('c. 
 
 March /j, iSg^. 
 
 34 
 
CLUTCH I XG FOR STARS. 
 
 Clutching for stars and only grasping pebbles, 
 This is the way you spend your days, my friend. 
 
 All things so bright appear. 
 
 Till they to us draw near ; 
 Oh, then how quickly the glories end. 
 
 Our eyes see nothing but the glitter ; 
 Deeper they look not, nor can they tell 
 
 What covers gold or dross, 
 
 Whether 't is gain or loss. 
 Which to cherish and which to repel. 
 
 Often we fret at what seems our misfortune. 
 
 When 't is our blessing in disguise. 
 And we are lifted up 
 K To quaff a bitter cup, 
 
 That seems from afar a precious prize. 
 
 O'er all the winding paths many a man has traveled 
 Clutching at stars before him glittering fair. 
 But when he must he dies — 
 What in his stiff hand lies } 
 Only a pinch of dust is there ! 
 
 35 
 
REMORSE. 
 
 A millionaire sat alone by the sea, 
 Tearless his eyes, but groan on groan 
 
 Rolled from his heart and rushed away — 
 Away with the ocean's moan. 
 
 " O give, give her back to me ! 
 
 Take all ! O give her back to me ! " 
 
 Long years with him in poverty 
 She had helped and worked and saved. 
 
 Had suffered much and sacrificed 
 To gain him the wealth he craved. 
 
 But now the inevitable tide 
 
 Had swept her from his side. 
 
 While alone he sits on the ocean's shore, 
 
 Casting his gold into the sea, 
 Sighing and moaning o'er and o'er, 
 
 " Take all ! O bring her back to me ! " 
 And the ocean's roar takes up the song. 
 And the rushing sea wind bears it along. 
 
 May 20, /8gi 
 
 36 
 
l^HE QUEEN OF FLOWERS. 
 
 This is the month of roses pure. 
 
 What can I sin.g; that 's not been sung 
 Of that fair flower, beloved by all, 
 
 And praised by pen, and brush, and tongue ? 
 
 It is the universal queen 
 
 Of flowers where e'er it grows, 
 And where is there a bare-foot boy 
 
 Who does not prize a rose ? 
 
 87 
 
MORNING G LOR Ills. 
 
 (Written September 13, iS^S, between S aud g o'clock in the nioruing 
 
 Sweet flowers bright, 
 
 Sparkling with dew, 
 Gorgeous in colors bright. 
 
 Lovely are you. 
 
 When night is over, 
 
 1 hasten to see 
 The flowers so lovely. 
 
 Which bloom for me. 
 
 Sweet morning glories. 
 
 So fittingly named ; 
 Crimson and purple lined, 
 
 Those colors famed. 
 
 Sweet morning glories, 
 
 Emblems of love 
 From One who watches us 
 
 So far above. 
 
 Let us all try 
 
 And thankful be, 
 For the gifts we receive 
 
 So mercifully. 
 
BLUE AND BROWN. 
 
 Blue eyes looking; into brown, 
 Brown eyes looking into blue; 
 Brown eyes are not half so true 
 As the sweetly shining blue. 
 
AN UNPAINTED PICTURE. 
 
 (Written after a drive through Crown Hill Cemetery.) 
 
 Where the white memorials stand, 
 Pointing upward to the sky, 
 
 Mutely telling us the story 
 That to live is but to die ; 
 
 There, where sunlight sifted down 
 O'er the peaceful grassy heaves, 
 
 And the breezes hushed each other 
 As they whispered through the trees ; 
 
 There 1 saw a little maiden. 
 Maiden of two summer's bloom. 
 
 Laughing lightly, clinging tightly. 
 To a small white stone. 
 
 Just her head and arms above it — 
 The carved title, "Baby Dear;" 
 
 Title to the little live one, 
 And the still one lying near. 
 
 40 
 
Title to a fair bright picture 
 
 On a summer afternoon, 
 Where the sunlight and the shadow 
 
 Mingled over grass and tomb. 
 
 Augiist iS, iSg2 
 
 41 
 
NO A'/NG FOR ME. 
 
 No ring for me, a firmer tie 
 Binds our true hearts together, 
 
 And if we live, or if we die. 
 It cannot sever. 
 
 Year upon year wears thin the gold, 
 Year upon year wears thin the finger ; 
 
 The plumpness of the hand you hold 
 Forever cannot linger. 
 
 This ring that slips so hardly now 
 
 In later years would fall ; 
 Not so the love you give to me, 
 
 'T will firmlv cling through all. 
 
 43 
 
VIOLETS. 
 
 A cluster of limp violets, 
 
 Sick from the hand's warm press. 
 A orjance, that tells me what the tongue 
 
 Has faltered to express. 
 
 Fresh water brightens quick the tlowers. 
 
 I watch them as they rise, 
 And in each little head that lifts, 
 
 The same glance sparkling lies. 
 
 /.s^i. 
 
 43 
 
THE CYCLONE. 
 
 ( Ou the destruction by cyclone of Oalva, 111., 1892.) 
 
 Witli a terrible roar, a dense, direful sky, 
 
 Keen flashes of lightning — the cyclone draws nigh. 
 
 A moment, a second, he pants o'er the town ; 
 His anger is fury, his best smile a frown. 
 
 For one lightning second he holds back his breath, 
 Then sends forth a blast of destruction and death ! 
 
 The trees with their great trunks are nothing to him. 
 As a cat tears a bird, so he tears limb from limb ; 
 
 Firm structures that long years have dangers withstood 
 Are raveled to fragments and scattered abroad. 
 
 The beautiful village, my memory's retreat. 
 No longer can welcome my home-turning feet ; 
 
 In ruins it lies where the monarch has raged. 
 Where the demon his hunger so quickly assuaged ; 
 
 And 1 grieve for the present, but not for the past — 
 The memories of home no cyclone can blast, 
 
 No wind can extinguish that light in the heart, 
 it is lasting, more lasting, than nature or art. 
 
THE MAN FROM HE A VEN. 
 
 Fresh from a cooling shower bath, 
 The world smiled bright and clear, 
 
 No cloudlets flecked the blue of heaven, 
 No haze bedimmed the air. 
 
 When in a fascinating nook, 
 
 Adorned with nature's art alone, 
 
 A child played contentedly 
 
 Though playmates she had none. 
 
 Save one, a little home-made doll 
 With features droll and queer. 
 
 But blind to all its seeming faults 
 The child esteemed it dear. 
 
 She trotted it to Boston 
 
 And sang it lullabies, 
 And fed to it 
 
 Imaginary cakes and pies. 
 
So innocent and guileless 
 
 She prattled at her play, 
 She seemed out of the cradle 
 
 Scarcely since yesterday. 
 
 And yet her little thoughtful face, 
 Her manner, too, combined 
 
 A touching of the fullest grace 
 We anywhere can find. 
 
 Her restless eyes of purple 
 Seemed never once to rest. 
 
 But glancing as a mother bird 
 That watches o'er a nest. 
 
 She noticed every leaf that turned, 
 And every fowl that flew. 
 
 And when the breezes swept along 
 Her small head back she threw, 
 
 As if to drink more freely 
 
 The beauties passing low and high, 
 The breezes that were sent for her. 
 
 The beauties of the sky. 
 
And while she thus was glancing 
 
 hito the dome of blue, 
 Unto her earnest, restless eyes 
 
 Appeared a feature new. 
 
 Most strange it seemed, unlike a bird 
 
 That ever used a wing ; 
 Unlike a cloud, still seemed to float, 
 
 Yet unlike anything. 
 
 But as it ever nearer came, 
 
 And sparkled in the sun. 
 The child exclaimed, " It is a man — 
 
 Or Angel, surely one! " 
 
 With garments of a glistening hue, 
 And wings that seemed to glow. 
 
 As shining and as pearly white 
 As clouds of fallen snow. 
 
 Half fearing, trusting even half. 
 She waits with upturned eyes. 
 
 While nearer, nearer, nearer, comes 
 The Angel from the skies. 
 
 47 
 
She sees he is of ulorioiis molJ, 
 His dark eyes flash and burn, 
 
 His face is like a marble face, 
 His brow is broad and stern. 
 
 He touches earth at last, and stands 
 
 Not twenty yards away 
 From where the little maiden 
 
 Has ceased from her play. 
 
 He bows majestically and smiles. 
 
 The child in timid mood 
 Exclaims in nervous curiousness : 
 
 " O Angel, kind and good ! 
 
 Tell me about it up in heaven, 
 
 1 long to see it so — 
 And have you seen my little brother, 
 
 My grandma do you know ? " 
 
 Out from his mouth in mellowness 
 The laughter rolls and falls ; 
 
 It ceases, and a solemness 
 The simple child inthralls. 
 
His every motion she drinks in, 
 
 To catch his voice her own is mute, 
 
 Breathless she waits and listens — 
 "Plague take this parachute ! " 
 
 ^893- 
 
EXTREDIITY. 
 
 " 'T is cold," we cry, and huddle to the fire, 
 That burning, tjloweth with a happy warmth ; 
 
 We hold our hands out and our faces shine, 
 
 We take a little wine. 
 
 Our dress is thick and tine ! 
 
 'T is cold ! 't is cold ! Ah, where is there a blaze 
 To warm this soul, this freezing soul of mine ? 
 
 Naked, 't is freezing with no warming power — 
 
 Hope dies this bitter hour ! 
 
 No blaze, no wine, no dress, hopeless I cower ! 
 
 50 
 
OLD LETTKRS. 
 
 Touch them not, destroy them never, 
 
 Let them lie as they have lain 
 For a quarter of a century. 
 
 Do not read them o'er again. 
 Carefully folded yellowing pages, 
 
 Sad, though chronicles of bliss. 
 Telling of those days departed — 
 
 Sad the bygone happiness. 
 
 Youth and hope then crowned the writers. 
 
 But the iron-lianded time 
 Slowly stamped his mark upon them, 
 
 Dimmed the eyes that used to shine, 
 Made the golden locks like silver, 
 
 Creased the brows so smooth of old, 
 Made those merry voices falter. 
 
 Made the warm voung hearts turn cold. 
 
 51 
 
AUTUMN DAYS. 
 
 Silver days, September days, autumn days, 
 
 Clear, calm, soft, silver rays 
 
 Shine from the sun tliese autumn days. 
 
 Silver webs, September webs, autumn webs. 
 Silken, fine, soft spider-webs 
 Float in the air these autumn days. 
 
 Silver clouds, September clouds, autumn clouds, 
 Gently now the sunlight shroud, 
 Silver, soft, September clouds. 
 
 Silver frost, September frost, autumn frost. 
 In the lightest sunbeams lost, 
 That filmy, silvery autumn frost. 
 
 63 
 
THINE EYES ARE BUT A BIT OF HE A VEN. 
 
 Thine eyes are but a bit of heaven, 
 
 They teach me to be good. 
 They are the loaf, the leaven, 
 
 My soul's food. 
 
 Even in darkness, stili 1 see them shining. 
 See their soft radiance of internal joy ; 
 
 They show thy soul's true lining, 
 That soul without alloy. 
 
 Thy golden hair around thy fair face gleaming, 
 
 A halo of pure light, 
 Such as comes to us in dreaming, 
 
 Dazzling the sight. 
 
 Voice, sing and every ear will listen. 
 Wrapt in attention's downiest wing, 
 
 in every eye a tear will glisten 
 When thy sweet accents ring. 
 
 To look upon thee means adoring. 
 
 Far above us as thou art, 
 Deaf to this feeble voice imploring. 
 
 Dumb to the love of this poor heart ! 
 
 53 
 
 1891. 
 
DISCOXTENT. 
 
 1 heard a little worm complain 
 
 Because it lived so low, 
 Said it, "1 think 1 'II travel up ; 
 
 To that tree-top I Ml go." 
 
 It spent its life in toiling 
 
 The longed for height to gain, 
 
 And when it slowly reached the goal 
 It did not there complain — 
 
 It was a robin's dinner-time, 
 He made a one-course meal 
 
 Of that poor caterpillar 
 
 That died without a squeal. 
 
 £893. 
 
 6i 
 
POEM (W ciioRC]': WASH I xerox. 
 
 (Written for the first iiieetiiiff of the " Phito Club," February 22, 1891.) 
 
 George Washington, when six years old, 
 
 Received a toy hatchet. 
 He chopped a tree, and then said he, 
 
 " O, now I fear me 1 shall catch it ! 
 For Pa will know these cuts so low, 
 That this way they did never grow." 
 
 His father saw his cherished tree 
 With many cuts and bruised unsightly, 
 
 And sadly to his son said he : 
 
 " This tree 1 never more can match it; 
 
 Did you destroy this rare old tree ? " 
 " Yes, Father, with my little hatchet," 
 
 The boy made reply ; 
 
 " I cannot, cannot tell a lie," 
 
 The father clasped young Georgie to his breast — 
 "1 'd rather have you kill a thousand cherry trees 
 
 Than let one sin go unconfessed, 
 My boy, your father well you please." 
 
 53 
 
AN OLD SHOE. 
 
 It lay before us in our path, 
 
 An old, worn shoe — 
 She was lecturing me on the uses of things, 
 
 1 askeil her if she knew 
 
 Any use for that old shoe. 
 
 She smiled and hung her head a bit, 
 
 Then with a blush 
 She answered, "Of course, when you are by my side, 
 And 1 'm a bride, 
 
 The folks can throw it after us. 
 
 66 
 
THE ROSE. 
 
 She dropped a rose. Oil, where did it fall ? 
 
 I looked for many a day, 
 But 1 could not, could not, could not find 
 
 The place where that fair flower lay. 
 
 But years, years after, in my heart, 
 
 1 felt a sharp thorn pressed, 
 And I knew in sorrow and misery 
 
 The rose had been in my breast. 
 
 The rose had fallen in my heart 
 And lived and blossomed there. 
 
 And when the reaper took the flower 
 The thorn my heart did tear. 
 
 1^93- 
 
JOIINIE-Jl 'MP- ( 7'. 
 
 Johnie-jump-up ! 
 Johnie-jump-Lip ! 
 
 Spring is here at last. 
 1 tliought it would not come at all, 
 
 But now 't is coming fast. 
 The pussies have long, long ago 
 
 Climbed off the willow trees — 
 Just see the little leaflets green 
 
 A fluttering in the breeze ! 
 So Johnie-jump-up ! 
 Johnie-jump-up ! 
 
 Spring has come at last ! 
 it was so long belated 
 
 But now 't is coming fast. 
 
 58 
 
81 w 
 

 i°-nf.. 
 
 V'^' 
 
 ^r'^ 
 
 Z-^-^. 
 
 
 <. '» . » 
 
 
 
 • • * .V ' 
 
 
 :•- ^^..^^ .-^sM-. \„/ /Jife'-- V* 
 
 
 . -* ^"^ 
 
 
 • ^^ y ^^'^i/h.^ v.s^" ::^^\ ^-^..^