Oklahoma and Other Poems Part 8

STANZAS.

Put not trust nor tenderness to sleep, In sorrow sad; The heart, in which a little love may creep, Is not all bad.

The darkest hours that wear a wondrous gloom, Are somewhat light, If but one ray of brilliancy illume The brooding night.

The field in which the weed and bramble thrive Has some of good, If but a single blossom struggling live Amid the rude.

The ocean vast is not all desolate, The worlds between, If on its waters bearing human freight One sail is seen.

All is not harsh and cold amid the wood, If warbled song Resound, how feebly, through the solitude Of tangled wrong.

The desert, barren, bleak, a waste of sand Does never spread, If spear of gra.s.s in verdure green expand Above the dead.

Then put not trust nor tenderness to sleep In sorrow sad; The heart in which a little love may creep Is not all bad.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

Since Adam's first sin in the garden of song, Where the hopes of the race were empearled, Whenever a mortal does anything wrong, It is only the way of the world!

If statesmen forget all the pledges they made, And the people to evils are hurled,-- Excuse their misdeeds! 'Tis a trick of the trade, And is only the way of the world!

If bankers, confusing distinctions of wealth, Have your gold to their own pockets whirled, And then gone to Europe for pleasure and health-- It is only the way of the world.

If preachers, forgetting the Master of old And the banner of light He unfurled, Elope with the fairest ewe-lambs of the fold,-- It is only the way of the world.

If merchants, unscrupulous, cheat with a will While their lips are at honesty curled,-- Harsh blame, hie away! And your censure, be still!

It is only the way of the world!

The way of the world! What a happy excuse For the faults and the follies unfurled!

Bind virtue securely! The vices turn loose!

'Tis the way--'tis the way--of the world!

MY SHADOW AND I.

A something, not of earth or sky, Beside me walks the ways I go, And I--I never truly know, If I am it or it is I.

It soothes me with its tender speech, It guides me with its gentle hand, But I--I can not understand The links that bind us each to each.

I hear the songs of golden days Fall softly on the saddened years, But know not whose the hungry ears First feasted on the roundelays.

I feel the hopes, the yearnings brave, Within my bosom surge and roll, But know not whose the Master Soul That called their glories from the grave.

I see the great world's greater curse, Dark struggles on through darker days, But know not whose the eyes that gaze Through all the sobbing universe.

O, Shadow mine! Beneath my brow I feel thy thoughts, and in my heart Thy fondest longings madly start!

Thou art myself and I am thou!

IN THE VALES.

When from these vales I go, That slumber on in dreams, O, will the summer winds dance to and fro, And kiss the streams That play where roses scatter fond perfume And lilies burst with bloom?

Glad children of the spring, They moan their music sweet Where tangled gra.s.ses wave, and softly sing Where meadows meet, And wildwood shadows drooping bless The groves with happiness.

Their soothing songs I hear Among the granite hills, Above the elfin warbles rich and clear From rippling rills, As if they called my soul in future days To wander all their ways.

Ah, moaning winds, you seem To fill my musing breast With lullabies that linger as I dream And bring me rest; For melodies from your low voices creep That soothe my heart with sleep!

THE WILLOW.

A song for the willow, the wild weeping willow, That murmurs a dirge to the rapturous days, And moans when the kiss of the breeze laden billow Entangles and dangles among the sad sprays!

A musical ditty to scatter the sadness, A warble of wildness to banish its tears, Till tremulous measures of bountiful gladness Be sounding and bounding through all of the years.

The beautiful brooks, as they waken from slumbers, Pause under the shadows that fall from the boughs, And weave their caresses in pa.s.sionate numbers, While soothing and smoothing the frowns from its brows; But chained in the desolate sorrows of weeping Its heart never warms to the raptures of mirth, And over its bosom no pleasures are creeping While wending and blending their joys with the earth.

Then sing for the willow, the wild weeping willow, That droops in the smiles of the summer-born times, And mourns in the kiss of the sweet-scented billow, When beaming and gleaming are dripping with chimes!

While melodies move where their happiness lingers, They surely will gladden the tear-laden sprays, And music that flutters from fairy-like fingers Will lighten and brighten the burdensome days.

AT THE MILL.

The water-wheel goes 'round and 'round With heavy sighs of mournful sound, While dismal cries and weary moans Unite with sad and tearful groans, And weeping waves of water throw Afar the echoes of their sadness, And cadences of plaintive woe Dispel each little note of gladness.

My daily life goes 'round and 'round, And rest for me is never found; The sobbing dirges of distress Are more than songs of happiness; The shadows of despairing doom Condemn to-day and curse to-morrow, And m.u.f.fled terrors fill the gloom Which offers anguish to my sorrow.

But hope, O, heart, for future weal!

The waters rest beyond the wheel; So life may sing when toil is done And all its battles lost or won.

There lives a sweeter music there, Of gentle and melodious measure, Where weeping never comes and where The ages perish into pleasure.