PS 3521 
 
 i£S C7 rowing Old 
 
 Copy l and 
 
 wther Poems 
 
 Grant Kyler 
 
Growing Old 
 
 ...and... 
 
 Other Poems 
 
 ...by... 
 Grant Kyler 
 
 Foreword by 
 Leigh Mitchell Hodges 
 
15 % 
 
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 Hi" 3 
 
 Copyright, 1913, by GRANT KYLLR, Ashland, Pa 
 
 ©CU344947 
 
A FOREWORD 
 
 '/T^O admit to these covers any word of 
 Wl^self would be as far from Grant Kyler's 
 thoughts as was this little book until one 
 Sunday afternoon I asked that he print for 
 me and others who love him such of his 
 poems as I might choose from a portly 
 scrap-book rich in rhymed fancies. 
 
 However sweet the word-tunes here 
 enclustered; however heartening, and re- 
 mindful of such days and dreams as Mem- 
 ory blends into the background of the aver- 
 age life, — his best poem is only reflected in 
 stray lines among these pages. 
 
 It is a sort more rare than measured 
 
 phrase, — the weaving into life-stanzas, 
 
 aglow with work and kindness, of strands 
 
 long tangled and trailed in the dust; the 
 
 remolding into helpful meter of 
 
 Faltering steps made firm through faith 
 In Our Friend's forgiving love. 
 
 So I was glad to have this wish granted 
 by one whose quiet victory has strength- 
 ened me and others, even as I am proud to 
 know he counts me as 
 
 His friend 
 LEIGH MITCHELL HODGES 
 Philadelphia 
 April, 1913 
 
GROWING OLD 
 
 LITTLE more frost in the chill winter 
 air; 
 
 A little less warmth in the sun ; 
 A sprinkle of silvery white on the hair, 
 
 And gladness when labor is done. 
 
 A little less eager to enter the strife ; 
 
 A little more patience to wait 
 While others pass by on the highway of life — 
 
 A little less railing at fate. 
 
 A little less boastful of strength and of skill; 
 
 A little more wasteful of time, 
 And willing to rest at the foot of the hill, 
 
 To measure the length of the climb. 
 
 A dimness of vision for things of today; 
 
 A far-sighted view of the past ; 
 While shining with gold lies the westering way, 
 
 As twilight and evening come fast. 
 
A PLACE I KNOW 
 
 KNOW a place where willows stand 
 
 Beside a quiet stream; 
 The garden spot of fairy land, 
 Entrancing as a dream; 
 A place where silence seems complete, 
 
 Until a melody 
 Of waters singing, low and sweet, 
 Makes rich the harmony. 
 
 Where robber bees in treasure cave, 
 
 Beneath a bramble's root, 
 The pilfered sweets of blossoms save, 
 
 And store their summer loot ; 
 While velvet-footed chipmunks run 
 
 Along a mossy rail, 
 And dragon flies, 'neath summer sun, 
 
 Their shimm'ring wings unveil. 
 
 Where Nature's organ softly plays 
 
 Among the templed trees, 
 An anthem of rich summer days, 
 
 Encored by every breeze; 
 And sounding through a solemn hush, 
 
 There sweetly floats along, 
 From golden-throated lark or thrush, 
 
 A hallelujah song. 
 
THE COVERED WAY 
 
 T~ | HE night is but a covered way to bind 
 A day that was unto a day to be, 
 And when the sun's bright lamp is quenched, 
 I find 
 The covered way so dark I cannot see 
 The day that lies beyond; 
 Yet strong my faith that I shall find the light 
 Beyond the covered way of gloomy night ; 
 So, when the shadows gather gray and deep, 
 For dawn I wait within the house of sleep. 
 
 I know that sunshine follows after dark, 
 
 And that the Autumn-death will surely bring 
 Unto the hidden nest the meadow lark 
 To sing the resurrection song of Spring, 
 When buds will burst their bonds, 
 And life — a stronger, newer life — will start, 
 And force the gates of Winter's grave apart 
 In answer to the all-compelling voice 
 That conquers death and leaves to souls no choice. 
 
 I know not when these mortal leaves shall turn 
 
 All brown and sere, and shrivel in a day; 
 Nor when the lamp of life shall cease to burn 
 And shadows gather o'er the covered way 
 That leads from night to morn; 
 But this I know : faith stronger is than fate, 
 And when within the house of sleep I wait 
 The coming of the light, a day divine 
 Will dawn as sure as 'morrow's sun will shine 
 
TO FRIENDS OF OTHER DAYS 
 
 S8|jpj5J T evening when the twilight falls, 
 Jr\. And length 'ning shadows cast, 
 
 JLu jh There is a still, small voice that calls 
 ypK|f A From out the distant past, 
 
 With sound as sweet as silver bells, 
 Or elfin music in the dells, 
 While thoughts come crowding fast. 
 
 With half-closed eyes I sit and dream 
 
 Of long-since vanished days ; 
 While fairy fancies dance and gleam, 
 
 And flit before my gaze: 
 Like forms reflected in a brook, 
 Or sunbeams in a shady nook 
 
 As light through darkness strays. 
 
 Tis then I see the friends held dear 
 
 In youth, who passed away; 
 The golden days when skies were clear 
 
 And work seemed only play; 
 And feel with pleasure, almost pain, 
 The joys of childhood once again 
 
 When all the world was gay. 
 
 A sacred place within my heart, 
 Kept always fresh and green, 
 
 Is mem'ry's garden, set apart 
 To days that once have been ; 
 
 And planted in that hallowed spot 
 
 There grows and blooms Porget-me-Not, 
 Sweet scented, pure and clean. 
 
THE MINOR CHORD 
 
 | HEN a master hand is sweeping 
 O'er the polished ivory keys, 
 And a minor chord is weeping 
 In the voice its magic frees, 
 I can hear the rhythmic swinging 
 Of a cradle on the floor, 
 And a woman softly singing 
 By a partly open door. 
 
 And a drowsy bee is droning 
 
 Jnst beyond the window sill, 
 Like the faint and muffled moaning 
 
 Of a distant woodland mill ; 
 Far away a buzzard soaring, 
 
 Higher mounts before my eyes, 
 In a graceful spiral boring 
 
 Even upward through the skies. 
 
 And a lazy lad is lying, 
 
 Half-asleep, beneath a tree, 
 While the minor chord is sighing 
 
 For the days that used to be — 
 Ah ! the woman 's song is over, 
 
 Lo, these many, many years, 
 And the lad that slept in clover 
 
 Knows the bitter taste of tears. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF OPTIMISM 
 
 GATHER the roses of pleasure, 
 The thistles of trouble and tears, 
 
 And fill to the brim a heart's measure 
 Of hopes all entangled with fears. 
 
 I pick out the jewels of gladness — 
 The days that were sunny and bright- 
 
 And find they are better than sadness 
 To lighten the gloom of the night. 
 
 I know that a yesterday's sorrow 
 Is soothed by a touch of today ; 
 
 That tears are the smiles of tomorrow ; 
 That work is prophetic of play. 
 
 I balance the burdens I'm bearing 
 With others from which I am free, 
 
 And feel that the yoke I am wearing 
 Is light as the foam of the sea. 
 
 I learn that the secret of living 
 
 Is doing the best that I can, 
 And offer a prayer of thanksgiving 
 
 To God for His goodness to man. 
 
MY QUEEN OF THE MAY 
 
 WISH that I again might see 
 
 The smile upon her face, 
 When I, a-flush with victory, 
 Had won a boyish race; 
 How kind the look the dear eyes gave ; 
 
 How soft and light the hand; 
 How sweet the voice that called me brave 
 In childhood's far-off land. 
 
 I'd like once more if she could hear 
 
 My ''lay me down to sleep;" 
 To catch the whispered "I am near," 
 
 When shadows gather deep; 
 To feel her arms about me cling, 
 
 And fold me to her breast; 
 And in the twilight hear her sing 
 
 My little fears to rest. 
 
 I 'd like to wipe away the stain 
 
 Of all the tears she shed; 
 To make each hill a level plain 
 
 Of velvet to her tread ; 
 To pluck from out the rose the thorn — 
 
 If she were here today, 
 I 'd plan a feast of wine and corn, 
 
 And crown her Queen of May. 
 
A PIPE DREAM 
 
 ROM the cares of the world he found re- 
 lease 
 While watching the smoke from his pipe of 
 peace ; 
 
 And to him it seemed, as he slept and dreamed, 
 That he traveled a winding path which led 
 From the garden gate of an old homestead, 
 
 Over a hill, to an old stone mill, 
 Where the whispering winds in the willows call 
 To a barefoot boy by a waterfall. 
 
 He followed the pathway, all alone, 
 Through a clover field, where the lazy drone 
 
 Of bees was heard, and his joy was stirred 
 By the wordless song in a minor strain, 
 And his soul was filled with the sweet refrain 
 
 Of summer days, when the distant haze 
 Enwraps the earth in a royal gown 
 And hangs like a veil o'er the path of brown. 
 
 And his heart was filled with a sense of rest — 
 As he turned again to the old home nest 
 
 A cradle song came floating along, 
 And he heard once more, 'neath the evening sky, 
 The words of an old-time lullaby; 
 
 When pure and clear, from the orchard near, 
 Came the twilight call of a whippoorwill — 
 And he woke from his dream — an old man still. 
 
THE WEAVER AND THE MAID 
 
 THE MAID TO THE WEAVER. 
 
 H, Weaver, thread thy loom with glee, 
 | For I a bride am soon to be, 
 
 And weave for me a cloth of gold, 
 I And warp a smile in every fold. 
 
 I want no tinge of sorrow's brown 
 To dull the glory of my gown; 
 No jealous green, nor passion's red, 
 Else I, perchance, hot tears may shed. 
 
 I want a cloth as light and fair 
 As mist upon the morning air — 
 So fashion me a garment gay 
 To wear upon my wedding day. 
 
 THE WEAVER TO THE MAID. 
 Oh, Maiden fair, upon my loom 
 There ever plays a strand of gloom, 
 And through the cloth of gold so bright 
 There warps and winds a thread of night. 
 
 Yet I for thee will gaily weave 
 A cloth of gold and make believe 
 And place within each fold a smile, 
 To last thee for a little while. 
 
 A little while ! a year, a score — 
 I pray 'twill last till life is o'er — 
 When love may drape the filmy cloud 
 About thy form — a bridal shroud. 
 
THE PSALM OF GRACE 
 
 •inn* 
 
 nn 
 
 HE Lord my Shepherd is, and he will keep 
 Me safe, and when at last I sleep, 
 He 11 lay me down in pastures green and rest 
 My weary head upon his breast. 
 
 When 'midst the vale's dark shades my soul shall flee 
 
 His rod and staff will comfort me, 
 
 Until the Morning Star shall rise and shine 
 
 With everlasting light divine. 
 
 No want I'll know when I shall walk beside 
 The silent waters with my guide, 
 For he, my Lord, in righteous paths will lead 
 My soul and grant my every need. 
 
 Before His table He will place a seat 
 Close by my loving Master's feet, 
 And fill my cup with joy till it o'erflows 
 With pleasure that no mortal knows. 
 
 And with my Lord in peace my soul shall dwell 
 Beside the everlasting well, 
 And through eternal years with love abide, 
 Safe sheltered near my Shepherd's side. 
 
ALONG THE WAY 
 
 VER the bridge of life we go, 
 
 Quietly, one by one, 
 Treading the path where all winds 
 blow, 
 
 Facing a land we do not know, 
 Beyond the setting sun. 
 
 Into the shadows dim and gray, 
 
 Pressing onward alone, 
 On through the darkness at close of day, 
 Guided by faith along the way, 
 
 Unto the mercy throne. 
 
 Halting beneath the cypress tree, 
 
 Blinded by tears of grief, 
 Bearing our trials on bended knee, 
 Unto the cross for strength we flee, 
 
 Finding through faith relief. 
 
 With hearts grown faint we plod along 
 
 Over the rugged road; 
 Hearing at last the glory song, 
 Hast'ning to meet the distant throng, 
 
 Casting aside the load. 
 
THE IMPRISONED THRONE 
 
 AR hid from sight of human kind 
 A royal emblem was confined 
 Within an ugly shell, 
 Awaiting for the master hand, 
 With strength to cleave the outward band 
 And free it from its cell. 
 
 Embedded in the earth it lay, 
 
 A shapeless mass beneath the clay 
 
 Till work removed the soil, 
 And brought to light a rugged stone, 
 Which labor shaped into a throne 
 
 By years of earnest toil. 
 
 The keenest glance would fail to trace 
 The faintest line of comely grace 
 
 In that misshapen thing, 
 Which years had passed and time forgot, 
 Until the hand of patience wrought 
 
 A throne to bear a king. 
 
 So talents sometimes buried lie, 
 Beyond the ken of mortal eye, 
 
 Till patient labor clears 
 The overtopping clay that hides 
 The uncouth stone wherein abides 
 
 The shape that beauty wears. 
 
J 
 
 
 I 
 
 s 
 
 WHEN I WAS KING 
 
 !GHT came, with velvet tread and silent 
 
 feet, 
 And bathed my eyes in poppy-dew, so sweet 
 That I, with sleep enraptured, quiet lay 
 And dreamed that I was king, just for a day, 
 And sat in royal state 
 Beside the city gate, 
 And gave command that all should bend the knee 
 Who passed that way — for I was king, you see. 
 
 Oft had I thought of how a king should rule, 
 And how comport himself with sage and fool; 
 How hold the royal sceptre in his hand, 
 And wear the crown with grace, and give command 
 
 In haughty tone, and frown 
 
 While clothed in purple gown — 
 For he who wears the purple ne'er should smile, 
 When he is king for just a little while. 
 
 O'er all the world I ruled from sun to sun, 
 And wished the day was o'er e'er scarce begun; 
 The sceptre was too large, the crown too tight, 
 The royal robes refused to hang aright — 
 
 A pretty king was I — 
 
 A start — a gasp — a cry — 
 And from the throne I fell. The royal feet 
 Had somehow got entangled in the sheet. 
 
WAITING FOR ME 
 
 T evening, oft I saw her stand 
 Within the open door, 
 Where slanting sunbeams forged a 
 band 
 
 Of gold upon the floor ; 
 With arm upraised to shield her eyes 
 
 That she might better see 
 The highway merged in purple skies, 
 While keeping watch for me. 
 
 With love responsive, quick she came 
 
 To comfort me at night, 
 (If I but whispered mother's name 
 
 The dark was filled with light), 
 And bending o 'er the trundle bed 
 
 Would patient vigil keep, 
 Until the ghostly shadows fled, 
 
 And I was fast asleep. 
 
 I know she waits and watches still. 
 
 With welcome in her smile, 
 Beyond the brow of life's steep hill, 
 
 Beside the golden stile, 
 Where she with mother-love will plead, 
 
 All tenderness and grace, 
 That he who caused her heart to bleed 
 
 May find with her a place. 
 
DANNY JONES AND HIS PIPE 
 
 JD old Danny Jones, as he lay in his bed 
 'Awaiting the snip that would sever life's 
 
 thread : 
 J" The pleasure of heaven will be incomplete 
 Without my dudeen, so well seasoned and sweet; 
 So. please don't forget, when you put me away, 
 To place in my cold hands the darling old clay — 
 'Twill comfort me much if the journey be long; 
 To leave it behind would be doing it wrong. 
 
 "When sorrow was sweeping the ash off my he'rth, 
 I found my old clay the best friend upon earth ; 
 When troubles were rolling their waves o'er my soul, 
 I'd snatch them and pack them within the old bowl, 
 And watching the smoke as it fled to the skies 
 A comforting peacefulness in me would rise — 
 Quite often together we two would converse, 
 And mostly conclude that things might have been worse." 
 
 And old Danny Jones, with his last gasp of breath, 
 Said "how-do-you-do, Sir," when greeted by Death; 
 And when he was taking his last lonesome ride, 
 The old pipe of clay was held close by his side — 
 Last evening, while watching a fast flying cloud, 
 I saw the old fellow, with wide-spreading shroud, 
 Go speeding along with his dudeen alight, 
 A long trail of gray smoke denoting his flight. 
 
THE HARBOR OF REST 
 
 S3P 
 
 N the peaceful home nest is a Harbor of Kest, 
 When the work of the toiler is done, 
 And the cares that abide on the ebb of the 
 tide 
 Sail away in the wake of the sun. 
 
 Sail away out of sight o 'er the waves of the night, 
 
 Till they leave not a ripple behind 
 In the sheltering bay, where the storms of the day 
 
 Never ruffle the calm of the mind. 
 
 When the sun goes to sleep in the vast western deep, 
 
 There is joy in the Harbor of Home ; 
 And there 's rest for awhile when the star faces smile 
 
 From the windows in heaven's vast dome. 
 
THE FORGETTERY 
 
 N Memory's attic I've fashioned a room, 
 With never a window to lighten the gloom, 
 Wherein I have gathered a wonderful lot 
 Of things that are better for being forgot. 
 
 There, broken and dulled, are the arrows and spears 
 Of Ridicule tipped with the poison of tears ; 
 And sarcastic Humor, whose quick-flying darts 
 Were feathered with smiles to impale tender hearts. 
 
 A quill that was plucked from the Gossip Bird's wing; 
 A nettle of Scorn with its venomous sting ; 
 A Truth but half spoken, distorted and bent, 
 In confidence whispered with evil intent. 
 
 And, too, there is hidden away out of sight, 
 Wrapped closely around in the garment of night, 
 A bundle of Grief, and a cup that is stained 
 With hemlock that Sorrow in agony drained. 
 
 All, all, are forgotten !I '11 never more climb 
 The stairs to the attic, where covered with grime, 
 The things that are better for being forgot 
 Are lost in the dark of the loneliest spot. 
 
TO A CATERPILLAR 
 
 OST know, thou loathsome, creeping thing, 
 Whose instinct prompts thee when to weave 
 thy shroud, 
 That, recreated, thou canst wing 
 Thy flight on airy pinions to yon cloud, 
 And with thy fairy colors bright 
 Add to the world one more delight ! 
 
 Hast thou foreknowledge of the fate 
 That doth await thy resurrection morn, 
 
 When thou shalt force apart death's gate 
 And reappear transformed and newly born ; 
 
 A thing of beauty, blithe and gay, 
 
 To float 'mid blooms where sunbeams play? 
 
 Or dost thou do the Master's will 
 
 Unknowing that, some day thou shalt receive 
 A beauteous shape, and thus fulfill 
 
 On earth the hope of those who now believe 
 That after death each soul, like thine, 
 Will be transformed bv touch divine? • 
 
APR 26 1913 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 imnHmii 
 
 015 926 194 3