Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 21

It was the twilight hour; Behind the western hill the sun had sunk, Leaving the evening sky aglow with crimson light.

The air is filled with fragrance and with sound; High in the tops of shadowy vine-wreathed trees, Grave parent-birds were twittering good-night songs, To still their restless brood.

Across the way A noisy little brook made pleasant Music on the summer air, And farther on, the sweet, faint sound Of Whippoorwill Falls rose on the air, and fell Like some sweet chant at vespers.

The air is heavy With the scent of mignonette and rose, And from the beds of flowers the tall White lilies point like angel fingers upward, Casting on the air an incense sweet, That brings to mind the old, old story Of the alabaster box that loving Mary Broke upon the Master's feet.

Upon his vine-wreathed porch An old white-headed man sits dreaming Happy, happy dreams of days that are no more; And listening to the quaint old song With which his daughter lulled her child to rest:

"Abide with me," she says; "Fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens,-- Lord, with me abide."

And as he listens to the sounds that fill the Summer air, sweet, dreamy thoughts Of his "lost youth" come crowding thickly up; And, for a while, he seems a boy again.

With feet all bare He wades the rippling brook, and with a boyish shout Gathers the violets blue, and nodding ferns, That wave a welcome from the other side.

With those he wreathes The sunny head of little Nell, a neighbor's child, Companion of his sorrows and his joys.

Sweet, dainty Nell, whose baby life Seemed early linked with his, And whom he loved with all a boy's devotion.

Long years have flown.

No longer boy and girl, but man and woman grown, They stand again beside the brook, that murmurs Ever in its course, nor stays for time nor man, And tell the old, old story, And promise to be true till life for them shall end.

Again the years roll on, And they are old. The frost of age Has touched the once-brown hair, And left it white as are the chaliced lilies.

Children, whose rosy lips once claimed A father's blessing and a mother's love, Have grown to man's estate, save two Whom G.o.d called early home to wait For them in heaven.

And then the old man thinks How on a night like this, when faint And sweet as half-remembered dreams Old Whippoorwill Falls did murmur soft Its evening psalms, when fragrant lilies Pointed up the way her Christ had gone, G.o.d called the wife and mother home, And bade him wait.

Oh! why is it so hard for Man to wait? to sit with folded hands, Apart, amid the busy throng, And hear the buzz and hum of toil around; To see men reap and bind the golden sheaves Of earthly fruits, while he looks idly on, And knows he may not join, But only wait till G.o.d has said, "Enough!"

And calls him home!

And thus the old man dreams, And then awakes; awakes to hear The sweet old song just dying On the pulsing evening air:

"When other helpers fail, And comforts flee, Lord of the helpless, Oh, abide with me!"

_Eliza M. Sherman._

G.o.d's Message to Men

G.o.d said: I am tired of kings; I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor.

Think ye I have made this ball A field of havoc and war, Where tyrants great and tyrants small Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel--his name is Freedom-- Choose him to be your king.

He shall cut pathways east and west And fend you with his wing.

I will never have a n.o.ble; No lineage counted great, Fishers and choppers and plowmen Shall const.i.tute a state,

And ye shall succor man, 'Tis n.o.bleness to serve; Help them who cannot help again; Beware from right to swerve.

_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

The Sandman

The rosy clouds float overhead, The sun is going down, And now the Sandman's gentle tread Comes stealing through the town.

"White sand, white sand," he softly cries, And, as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies' eyes His gift of shining sand.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

From sunny beaches far away, Yes, in another land, He gathers up, at break of day, His store of shining sand.

No tempests beat that sh.o.r.e remote, No ships may sail that way; His little boat alone may float Within that lovely bay.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

He smiles to see the eyelids close Above the happy eyes, And every child right well he knows-- Oh, he is very wise!

But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

So when you hear the Sandman's song Sound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him long A-waiting in the street.

Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till by your bed when good-night's said, He strews the shining sands.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

_Margaret Vandegrift._

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the n.o.bler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing l.u.s.t of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._

The Wishing Bridge