Poems by Hattie Howard Part 6

It is the milestone on life's road Where we may lay our burdens down, and take A look at souvenirs, for love's dear sake So prettily bestowed.

Upon its shining tablet we may write-- If, like the good Samaritan, in deed-- A record that the angel band shall read With impulse of delight.

And this is why on Christmas morn The world should smile and wear its brightest glow: Because some nineteen hundred years ago A little child was born.

January, 1885.

These winter days are pa.s.sing fair!

As if a breath of spring Had permeated all the air, And touched each living thing With thankfulness for such a boon-- Discounting with a scoff The almanac's report that "June Is yet a long way off!"

We quarrel with the calendar-- For May has been misplaced-- And doubt the tale oracular Of "Ja.n.u.s, double-faced;"

For this "ethereal mildness" looks Toward shadowy delights Of roseate bowers, of cosy nooks, Of coming thermal nights.

Let robes diaphanous succeed Dense garments made of fur, And overcoats maintain the lead-- Among the things that were!

The wisely-rented sealskin sacque, By many a dame possessed, Be quickly relegated back To its moth-haunted chest!

While every portly alderman, In linen suit arrayed, Manipulates the palm-leaf fan And seeks the cooling shade; And he perspires who not in vain Suggests his funny squibs, By poking his unwelcome cane In other people's ribs.

Who dares to fling opprobrium On January now?

As to a potentate we come With reverential bow, Because it doth not yet appear That Time hath ever seen The ruler of th' inverted year In more benignant mien.

O Boreas! do not lie low-- That is, if "lie" thou must-- Upon our planet; do not blow With fierce and sudden gust, But come so gently, tenderly-- As come thou surely wilt-- That we may have sweet dreams of thee, Beneath "our crazy quilt!"

Sweet Peas.

By helpful fingers taught to twine Around its trellis, grew A delicate and dainty vine; The bursting bud, its blossom sign, Inlaid with honeyed-dew.

Developing by every art To floriculture known, From tares exempt, and kept apart, Careful, as if in some fond heart Its legume germs were sown.

So thriving, not for me alone Its beauty and perfume-- Ah, no, to rich perfection grown By flower mission loved and known In many a darkened room.

And once in strange and solemn place, Mid weeping uncontrolled, Upon the crushed and snowy lace I saw them scattered 'round a face All pallid, still, and cold.

Oh, some may choose, as gaudy shows, Those saucy sprigs of pride The peony, the red, red rose; But give to me the flower that grows Pet.i.te and pansy-eyed.

Thus, meditation on Sweet Peas Impels the ardent thought, Would maidens all were more like these, With modesty--that true heartsease-- Tying the lover's knot.

The Summer House.

Midway upon the lawn it stands, So picturesque and pretty; Upreared by patient artist hands, Admired of all the city; The very arbor of my dream, A covert cool and airy, So leaf-embowered as to seem The dwelling of a fairy.

It is the place to lie supine Within a hammock swinging, To watch the sunset, red as wine, To hear the crickets singing; And while the insect world around Is buzzing--by the million-- No winged thing above the ground Intrudes in this pavilion.

It is the place, at day's decline, To tell the old, old story Behind the dark Madeira vine, Behind the morning glory; To confiscate the rustic seat And barter stolen kisses, For honey must be twice as sweet In such a spot as this is.

It is the haunt where one may get Relief from petty trouble, May read the latest day's gazette About the "Klondike" bubble: How shanties rise like golden courts.

Where sheep wear glittering fleeces, How gold is picked up--by the quartz-- And all get rich as Croesus.

Here hid away from dust and heat, Secure from rude intrusion, While willing lips the thought repeat, So grows the fond illusion: That happiness the product is Of lazy, languid dozing, Of soft midsummer reveries, Half-waking, half-reposing.

And here in restful interlude, Life's fallacies forgetting, Its frailties--such a mult.i.tude-- The fuming and the fretting, Amid the fragrance, dusk, and dew, The happy soul at even May walk abroad, and interview Bright messengers from Heaven.

To Die in Autumn.

The melody of autumn Is the only tune I know, And I sing it over and over Because it thrills me so; It stirs anew the happy wish, So near to perfect bliss, To live a little longer in A world like this.

The sound was never sweeter, The voice so nearly mute, As beauty, dying, loses Her hold upon the lute; And like the harmonies that touch And blend with those above, Forever must an echo wake The heart of love.

Her robe of brown and coral And amber glistens through Rare jewels of the morning, The opals of the dew, Like royal fabrics worn beneath The tinselry of pearls, Or diamond dust by fashion strewn On sunny curls.

If I could wrap such garments In true artistic style About myself departing, And wear as sweet a smile And be as guileless as the flowers My friends would never sigh; 'Twould reconcile them to my death To see me die.

And why should there be sorrow When dying is no more Than 'twixt two bright apartments The opening of a door Through which the freed, enraptured soul From this, a paradise, May pa.s.s to that supremely fair Beyond the skies?

Oh, 'twere not hard to finish When earth with tender grace Prepares for her dear children So sweet a resting place; And though in dissolution's throe The melody be riven, The song abruptly ended here Goes on in Heaven.

Apple Blossoms.

Of all the lovely blossoms That decorate the trees, And shower down their petals With every breath of breeze, There is nothing so sweet or fair to me As the delicate blooms of the apple tree.

A thousand shrubs and flow'rets Delicious pleasure bring, But beautiful Pomona Must be the queen of spring; And out of her flagon the peach and pear Their chalices fill with essence rare.

Oh, is it any wonder, Devoid of blight or flaw, The peerless blooms of Eden Our primal mother saw In redolent beauty before her placed So tempted fair Eve the fruit to taste?

But woman's love of apples, Involving fearful price, And Adam's love for woman That cost him Paradise, By the labor of hands and sweat of brow, Have softened the curse to a blessing now.

If so those pink-eyed glories, In fields and orchards gay Develop luscious fruitage By Horticulture's way, Then, sweet as the heart of rich legumes, Shall luxury follow the apple blooms.