Poems of Sentiment Part 3

The other, pierced by recollected sin, Broods o'er the scars of pleasures that have been.

EASTER MORN

A truth that has long lain buried At Superst.i.tion's door, I see, in the dawn uprising In all its strength once more.

Hidden away in the darkness, By Ignorance crucified, Crushed under stones of dogmas - Yet lo! it has not died.

It stands in the light transfigured, It speaks from the heights above, "EACH SOUL IS ITS OWN REDEEMER; THERE IS NO LAW BUT LOVE."

And the spirits of men are gladdened As they welcome this Truth re-born With its feet on the grave of Error And its eyes to the Easter Morn.

BLIND

Whatever a man may think or feel He can tell to the world and it hears aright; But it bids the woman conceal, conceal, And woe to the thoughts that at last ignite.

She may serve up gossip or dwell on fashion, Or play the critic with speech unkind, But alas for the woman who speaks with pa.s.sion!

For the world is blind--for the world is blind.

It is woman who sits with her starved desire, And drinks to sorrow in cups of tears; She reads by the light of her soul on fire The secrets of love through lonely years: But out of all she has felt or heard Or read by the glow of her soul's white flame, If she dare but utter aloud one word - How the world cries shame!--how the world cries shame!

It cannot distinguish between the glow Of a gleaming star, in the sky of gold, Or a spent cigar in the dust below - 'Twixt unclad Eve or a wanton bold; And ever if woman speaks what she feels (And feels consistent with G.o.d's great plan) It has cast her under its juggernaut wheels, Since the world began--since the world began.

THE YELLOW-COVERED ALMANAC

I left the farm when mother died and changed my place of dwelling To daughter Susie's stylish house right on the city street: And there was them before I came that sort of scared me, telling How I would find the town folks' ways so difficult to meet; They said I'd have no comfort in the rustling, fixed-up throng, And I'd have to wear stiff collars every week-day, right along.

I find I take to city ways just like a duck to water; I like the racket and the noise and never tire of shows; And there's no end of comfort in the mansion of my daughter, And everything is right at hand and money freely flows; And hired help is all about, just listenin' to my call - But I miss the yellow almanac off my old kitchen wall.

The house is full of calendars from attic to the cellar, They're painted in all colours and are fancy like to see, But in this one particular I'm not a modern feller, And the yellow-coloured almanac is good enough for me.

I'm used to it, I've seen it round from boyhood to old age, And I rather like the jokin' at the bottom of the cage.

I like the way its "S" stood out to show the week's beginning, (In these new-fangled calendars the days seem sort of mixed), And the man upon the cover, though he wa'n't exactly winnin', With lungs and liver all exposed, still showed how we are fixed; And the letters and credentials that was writ to Mr. Ayer I've often on a rainy day found readin' pretty fair.

I tried to buy one recently; there wa'n't none in the city!

They toted out great calendars, in every shape and style.

I looked at 'em in cold disdain, and answered 'em in pity - "I'd rather have my almanac than all that costly pile."

And though I take to city life, I'm lonesome after all For that old yellow almanac upon my kitchen wall.

THE LITTLE WHITE HEa.r.s.e

Somebody's baby was buried to-day - The empty white hea.r.s.e from the grave rumbled back, And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way, And a shadow seemed drawn o'er the sun's golden tract.

Somebody's baby was laid out to rest, White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold, And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast, And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.

Somebody saw it go out of her sight, Under the coffin lid--out through the door; Somebody finds only darkness and blight All through the glory of summer-sun light; Somebody's baby will waken no more.

Somebody's sorrow is making me weep: I know not her name, hut I echo her cry, For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep, The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep In the little white hea.r.s.e that went rumbling by.

I know not her name, but her sorrow I know; While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more, And back to my heart surged that river of woe That but in the breast of a mother can flow; For the little white hea.r.s.e has been, too, at MY door.

REALISATION (At the Old Homestead)

I tread the paths of earlier times Where all my steps were set to rhymes.

I gaze on scenes I used to see When dreaming of a vague To be.

I walk in ways made bright of old By hopes youth-limned in hues of gold.

But lo! those hopes of future bliss Seem dull beside the joy that IS.

My noonday skies are far more bright Than those dreamed of in morning's light,

And life gives me more joys to hold Than all it promised me of old.

SUCCESS

As we gaze up life's slope, as we gaze In the morn, ere the dewdrops are dry, What splendour hangs over the ways, What glory gleams there in the sky, What pleasures seem waiting us, high On the peak of that beauteous slope, What rainbow-hued colours of hope, As we gaze!

As we climb up the hill, as we climb, Our hearts, our illusions, are rent: For Fate, who is spouse of old Time, Is jealous of youth and content.

With brows that are brooding and bent She shadows our sunlight of gold, And the way grows lonely and cold As we climb.

As we toil on, through trouble and pain, There are hands that will shelter and feed; But once let us dare to ATTAIN - They will bruise our bare hearts till they bleed.

'Tis the worst of all crimes to succeed, Know this as ye feast on a crust, Know this in the darkness and dust, Ye who climb.

As we stand on the heights of success, Lo! success seems as sad as defeat!