John Smith, U.S.A Part 7

WHEN THE POET CAME.

The ferny places gleam at morn, The dew drips off the leaves of corn; Along the brook a mist of white Fades as a kiss on lips of light; For, lo! the poet with his pipe Finds all these melodies are ripe!

Far up within the cadenced June Floats, silver-winged, a living tune That winds within the morning's chime And sets the earth and sky to rhyme; For, lo! the poet, absent long, Breathes the first raptures of his song!

Across the clover-blossoms, wet, With dainty clumps of violet, And wild red roses in her hair, There comes a little maiden fair.

I cannot more of June rehea.r.s.e-- She is the ending of my verse.

Ah, nay! For through perpetual days Of summer gold and filmy haze, When Autumn dies in Winter's sleet, I yet will see those dew-washed feet, And o'er the tracts of Life and Time They make the cadence for my rhyme.

THE PERPETUAL WOOING.

The dull world clamors at my feet And asks my hand and helping sweet; And wonders when the time shall be I'll leave off dreaming dreams of thee.

It blames me coining soul and time And sending minted bits of rhyme-- A-wooing of thee still.

Shall I make answer? This it is: I camp beneath thy galaxies Of starry thoughts and shining deeds; And, seeing new ones, I must needs Arouse my speech to tell thee, dear, Though thou art nearer, I am near-- A-wooing of thee still.

I feel thy heart-beat next mine own; Its music hath a richer tone.

I rediscover in thine eyes A balmier, dewier paradise.

I'm sure thou art a rarer girl-- And so I seek thee, finest pearl, A-wooing of thee still.

With blood of roses on thy lips-- Canst doubt my trembling?--something slips Between thy loveliness and me-- So commonplace, so fond of thee.

Ah, sweet, a kiss is waiting where That last one stopped thy lover's prayer-- A-wooing of thee still.

When new light falls upon thy face My gladdened soul discerns some trace Of G.o.d, or angel, never seen In other days of shade and sheen.

Ne'er may such rapture die, or less Than joy like this my heart confess-- A-wooing of thee still.

Go thou, O soul of beauty, go Fleet-footed toward the heavens aglow.

Mayhap, in following, thou shalt see Me worthier of thy love and thee.

Thou wouldst not have me satisfied Until thou lov'st me--none beside-- A-wooing of thee still.

This was a song of years ago-- Of spring! Now drifting flowers of snow Bloom on the window-sills as white As gray-beard looking through love's light And holding blue-veined hands the while.

He finds her last--the sweetest smile-- A-wooing of her still.

MY PLAYMATES.

The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool-- Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool; It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill, And I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill; So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know Where the sa.s.safras and snakeroot and checker-berries grow.

What has become of Ezra Marsh who lived on Baker's hill?

And what's become of n.o.ble Pratt whose father kept the mill?

And what's become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell, And of Roxie Root who 'tended school in Boston for a spell?

They were the boys and they the girls who shared my youthful play-- They do not answer to my call! My playmates--where are they?

What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago?

I'd like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown, And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles who spelled the whole school down!

And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow and all Who I'm sure would answer could they only hear my call!

I'd like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men!

And one--I shall not name her--could I see her gentle face And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place!

The flowers and hopes of springtime--they perished long ago And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow.

O cottage 'neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys That but a little while ago made, oh! such pleasant noise?

O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you know Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago?

You see I'm old and weary, and I've traveled long and far; I am looking for my playmates--I wonder where they are!

MEDIAEVAL EVENTIDE SONG.

Come hither, lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night, For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings ye angell, as onely angells may, And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

To them that have no lyttel chylde G.o.dde sometimes sendeth down A lyttel chylde that ben a lyttel lampkyn of His own, And, if soe be they love that chylde, He willeth it to staye, But, elsewise, in His mercie He taketh it awaye.

And, sometimes, though they love it, G.o.dde yearneth for ye chylde, And sendeth angells singing whereby it ben beguiled-- They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his playe And bear him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye.

I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that G.o.dde hath lent to me-- If I colde sing that angell songe, hoy joysome I sholde bee!

For, with my arms about him my music in his eare, What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare?

Soe come, my lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night, For yonder fares an angell, yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may, And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

ALASKAN BALLADRY.

Krinken was a little child-- It was summer when he smiled; Oft the h.o.a.ry sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to him, Calling: "Sun-Child, come to me, Let me warm my heart with thee"-- But the child heard not the sea Calling, yearning evermore For the summer on the sh.o.r.e.

Krinken on the beach one day Saw a maiden Nis at play-- On the pebbly beach she played In the summer Krinken made.

Fair and very fair was she-- Just a little child was he.

"Krinken," said the maiden Nis "Let me have a little kiss-- Just a kiss and go with me To the summer lands that be Down within the silver sea!"

Krinken was a little child-- By the maiden Nis beguiled, Hand in hand with her went he-- And 'twas summer in the sea!

And the h.o.a.ry sea and grim To its bosom folded him-- Clasped and kissed the little form, And the ocean's heart was warm.

But upon the misty sh.o.r.e Winter brooded evermore.