The Second Book of Modern Verse Part 24

"Poet," said the plum tree's Singing white and green, "What avails your mooning, Can you fas.h.i.+on plums?"

"Dreamer," crooned the wheatland's Rippling vocal sheen, "See my golden children Marching as with drums!"

"By a G.o.d begotten,"

Hymned the sunning vine, "In my lyric children Purple music flows!"

"Singer," breathed the rose bush, "Are they not divine?"

"Have you any daughters Mighty as a rose?"

~Happy, happy mothers!

Cruel, cruel words!

Mine are ghostly children, Haunting all the ways; Latent in the plum bloom, Calling through the birds, Romping with the wheat brood In their shadow plays!

Gotten out of star-glint, Mothered of the Moon; Nurtured with the rose scent, Wild elusive throng!

Something of the vine's dream Crept into a tune; Something of the wheat-drone Echoed in a song.~

Once again the white fires Smoked among the plums; Once again the world-joy Burst the crimson bud; Golden-bannered wheat broods Marched to fairy drums; Once again the vineyard Felt the Bacchic blood.

"Lo, he comes, -- the dreamer" -- Crooned the whitened boughs, "Quick with vernal love-fires -- Oh, at last he knows!

See the bursting plum bloom There above his brows!"

"Boaster!" breathed the rose bush, "'Tis a budding rose!"

Droned the glinting acres, "In his soul, mayhap, Something like a wheat-dream Quickens into shape!"

Sang the sunning vineyard, "Lo, the lyric sap Sets his heart a-throbbing Like a purple grape!"

~Mother of the wheatlands, Mother of the plums, Mother of the vineyard -- All that loves and grows -- Such a living glory To the dreamer comes, Mystic as a wheat-song, Mighty as a rose!

Star-glint, moon-glow, Gathered in a mes.h.!.+

Spring-hope, white fire By a kiss beguiled!

Something of the world-joy Dreaming into fles.h.!.+

Bird-song, vine-thrill Quickened to a child!~

Ambition. [Aline Kilmer]

Kenton and Deborah, Michael and Rose, These are fine children as all the world knows, But into my arms in my dreams every night Come Peter and Christopher, Faith and Delight.

Kenton is tropical, Rose is pure white, Deborah s.h.i.+nes like a star in the night; Michael's round eyes are as blue as the sea, And nothing on earth could be dearer to me.

But where is the baby with Faith can compare?

What is the colour of Peterkin's hair?

Who can make Christopher clear to my sight, Or show me the eyes of my daughter Delight?

When people inquire I always just state: "I have four nice children and hope to have eight.

Though the first four are pretty and certain to please, Who knows but the rest may be nicer than these?"

The Gift. [Louis V. Ledoux]

Let others give you wealth and love, And guard you while you live; I cannot set my gift above The gifts that others give.

And yet the gift I give is good: In one man's eyes to see The wors.h.i.+p of your maidenhood While children climb your knee.

The Ancient Beautiful Things. [Fannie Stearns Davis]

I am all alone in the room.

The evening stretches before me Like a road all delicate gloom Till it reaches the midnight's gate.

And I hear his step on the path, And his questioning whistle, low At the door as I hurry to meet him.

He will ask, "Are the doors all locked?

Is the fire made safe on the hearth?

And she -- is she sound asleep?"

I shall say, "Yes, the doors are locked, And the ashes are white as the frost: Only a few red eyes To stare at the empty room.

And she is all sound asleep, Up there where the silence sings, And the curtains stir in the cold."

He will ask, "And what did you do While I have been gone so long?

So long! Four hours or five!"

I shall say, "There was nothing I did. -- I mended that sleeve of your coat.

And I made her a little white hood Of the furry pieces I found Up in the garret to-day.

She shall wear it to play in the snow, Like a little white bear, -- and shall laugh, And tumble, and crystals of stars Shall s.h.i.+ne on her cheeks and hair.

-- It was nothing I did. -- I thought You would never come home again!"

Then he will laugh out, low, Being fond of my folly, perhaps; And softly and hand in hand We shall creep upstairs in the dusk To look at her, lying asleep: Our little gold bird in her nest: The wonderful bird who flew in At the window our Life flung wide.

(How should we have chosen her, Had we seen them all in a row, The unborn vague little souls, All wings and tremulous hands?

How should we have chosen her, Made like a star to s.h.i.+ne, Made like a bird to fly, Out of a drop of our blood, And earth, and fire, and G.o.d?)

Then we shall go to sleep, Glad. -- O G.o.d, did you know When you moulded men out of clay, Urging them up and up Through the endless circles of change, Travail and turmoil and death, Many would curse you down, Many would live all gray With their faces flat like a mask: But there would be some, O G.o.d, Crying to you each night, "I am so glad! so glad!

I am so rich and gay!

How shall I thank you, G.o.d?"

Was that one thing you knew When you smiled and found it was good: The curious teeming earth That grew like a child at your hand?

Ah, you might smile, for that! -- -- I am all alone in the room.

The books and the pictures peer, Dumb old friends, from the dark.

The wind goes high on the hills, And my fire leaps out, being proud.

The terrier, down on the hearth, Twitches and barks in his sleep, Soft little foolish barks, More like a dream than a dog . . .