Poems of Cheer Part 8

ALL FOR ME

The world grows green on a thousand hills - By a thousand willows the bees are humming, And a million birds by a million rills, Sing of the golden season coming.

But, gazing out on the sun-kist lea, And hearing a thrush and a blue-bird singing, I feel that the summer is all for me, And all for me are the joys it is bringing.

All for me the b.u.mble-bee Drones his song in the perfect weather; And, just on purpose to sing to me, Thrush and blue-bird came North together.

Just for me, in red and white, Bloom and blossom the fields of clover; And all for me and my delight The wild Wind follows and plays the lover.

The mighty sun, with a scorching kiss (I have read, and heard, and do not doubt it) Has burned up a thousand worlds like this, And never stopped to think about it.

And yet I believe he hurries up Just on purpose to kiss my flowers - To drink the dew from the lily-cup, And help it to grow through golden hours.

I know I am only a speck of dust, An individual mite of ma.s.ses, Clinging upon the outer crust Of a little ball of cooling gases.

And yet, and yet, say what you will, And laugh, if you please, at my lack of reason, For me wholly, and for me still, Blooms and blossoms the Summer season.

n.o.body else has ever heard The story the Wind to me discloses; And none but I and the humming-bird Can read the hearts of the crimson roses.

Ah, my Summer--my love--my own!

The world grows glad in your smiling weather; Yet all for me, and me alone, You and your Court came North together.

INTO s.p.a.cE

If the sad old world should jump a cog Sometime, in its dizzy spinning, And go off the track with a sudden jog, What an end would come to the sinning, What a rest from strife and the burdens of life For the millions of people in it, What a way out of care, and worry and wear, All in a beautiful minute.

As 'round the sun with a curving sweep It hurries and runs and races, Should it lose its balance, and go with a leap Into the vast sea-s.p.a.ces, What a blest relief it would bring to the grief, And the trouble and toil about us, To be suddenly hurled from the solar world And let it go on without us.

With not a sigh or a sad good-bye For loved ones left behind us, We would go with a lunge and a mighty plunge Where never a grave should find us.

What a wild mad thrill our veins would fill As the great earth, like a feather, Should float through the air to G.o.d knows where, And carry us all together.

No dark, damp tomb and no mourner's gloom, No tolling bell in the steeple, But in one swift breath a painless death For a million billion people.

What greater bliss could we ask than this, To sweep with a bird's free motion Through leagues of s.p.a.ce to a resting place, In a vast and vapoury ocean - To pa.s.s away from this life for aye With never a dear tie sundered, And a world on fire for a funeral pyre, While the stars looked on and wondered?

THROUGH DIM EYES

Is it the world, or my eyes, that are sadder?

I see not the grace that I used to see In the meadow-brook whose song was so glad, or In the boughs of the willow tree.

The brook runs slower--its song seems lower And not the song that it sang of old; And the tree I admired looks weary and tired Of the changeless story of heat and cold.

When the sun goes up, and the stars go under, In that supreme hour of the breaking day, Is it my eyes, or the dawn, I wonder, That finds less of the gold, and more of the gray I see not the splendour, the tints so tender, The rose-hued glory I used to see; And I often borrow a vague half-sorrow That another morning has dawned for me.

When the royal smile of that welcome comer Beams on the meadow and burns in the sky, Is it my eyes, or does the Summer Bring less of bloom than in days gone by?

The beauty that thrilled me, the rapture that filled me, To an overflowing of happy tears, I pa.s.s unseeing, my sad eyes being Dimmed by the shadow of vanished years.

When the heart grows weary, all things seem dreary; When the burden grows heavy, the way seems long.

Thank G.o.d for sending kind death as an ending, Like a grand Amen to a minor song.

THE PUNISHED

Not they who know the awful gibbet's anguish, Not they who, while sad years go by them, in The sunless cells of lonely prisons languish, Do suffer fullest penalty for sin.

'Tis they who walk the highways unsuspected, Yet with grim fear for ever at their side, Who hug the corpse of some sin undetected, A corpse no grave or coffin-lid can hide -

'Tis they who are in their own chambers haunted By thoughts that like unbidden guests intrude, And sit down, uninvited and unwanted, And make a nightmare of the solitude.

HALF FLEDGED

I feel the stirrings in me of great things.

New half-fledged thoughts rise up and beat their wings, And tremble on the margin of their nest, Then flutter back, and hide within my breast.

Beholding s.p.a.ce, they doubt their untried strength.

Beholding men, they fear them. But at length, Grown all too great and active for the heart That broods them with such tender mother art, Forgetting fear, and men, and all, that hour, Save the impelling consciousness of power That stirs within them--they shall soar away Up to the very portals of the Day.

Oh, what exultant rapture thrills me through When I contemplate all those thoughts may do; Like snow-white eagles penetrating s.p.a.ce, They may explore full many an unknown place, And build their nests on mountain heights unseen, Whereon doth lie that dreamed-of rest serene.

Stay thou a little longer in my breast, Till my fond heart shall push thee from the nest Anxious to see thee soar to heights divine - Oh, beautiful but half-fledged thoughts of mine.

THE YEAR

What can be said in New Year rhymes, That's not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go, We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light, We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings, We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed, We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.