Poems of Optimism Part 10

WINTER

Two trees swayed in the winter wind; and dreamed The snowflakes falling about them were bees Singing among the leaves. And they were glad, Knowing the dream would soon come true.

Beside the hearth an aged couple rocked, And dozed; and dreamed the friends long pa.s.sed from sight Were with them once again. They woke and smiled, Knowing the dream would soon come true.

A NAUGHTY LITTLE COMET

There was once a little comet who lived near the Milky Way!

She loved to wander out at night and jump about and play.

The mother of the comet was a very good old star - She used to scold her reckless child for venturing out too far; She told her of the ogre, Sun, who loved on stars to sup, And who asked no better pastimes than gobbling comets up.

But instead of growing cautious and of showing proper fear, The foolish little comet edged up near, and near, and near.

She switched her saucy tail along right where the Sun could see, And flirted with old Mars and was bold as bold could be.

She laughed to scorn the quiet stars, who never frisked about; She said there was no fun in life unless you ventured out.

She liked to make the planets stare, and wished no better mirth Than just to see the telescopes aimed at her from the Earth.

She wondered how so many stars could mope through nights and days, And let the sickly faced old moon get all the love and praise.

And as she talked and tossed her head and switched her s.h.i.+ning trail, The staid old mother star grew sad, her cheek grew wan and pale.

For she had lived there in the skies a million years or more, And she had heard gay comets talk in just this way before.

And by and by there came an end to this gay comet's fun - She went a tiny bit too far--and vanished in the Sun!

No more she swings her s.h.i.+ning trail before the whole world's sight, But quiet stars she laughed to scorn are twinkling every night.

THE LAST DANCE

WHEN LOVE FOR HIS MAKER AWOKE IN MAN, THE DANCE BEGAN

The wave of the ocean, the leaf of the wood, In the rhythm of motion proclaim life is good.

The stars are all swinging to metres and rhyme, The planets are singing while suns mark the time.

The moonbeams and rivers float off in a trance, The Universe quivers--on, on with the dance!

Our partners we pick from the best of the throng In the ballroom of Life and go lilting along; We follow our fancy, and choose as we will, For waltz or for tango or merry quadrille; But ever one partner is waiting us all At the end of the programme, to finish the ball.

Unasked, and unwelcome, he comes without leave And calls when he chooses, 'My dance, I believe?'

And none may refuse him, and none may say no; When he beckons the dancer, the dancer must go.

You may hate him, and shun him; and yet in life's ball For the one who lives well 'tis the best dance of all.

A VAGABOND MIND

Since early this morning the world has seemed surging With unworded rhythm, and rhyme without thought.

It may be the Muses take this way of urging The patience and pains by which poems are wrought.

It may be some singer who pa.s.sed into glory, With songs all unfinished, is lingering near And trying to tell me the rest of the story, Which I am too dull of perception to hear.

I hear not, I see not; but feel the sweet swinging And swaying of metre, in sunlight and shade, The still arch of s.p.a.ce with such music is ringing As never an audible orchestra made.

The moments glide by me, and each one is dancing; Aquiver with life is each leaf on the tree, And out on the ocean is movement entrancing, As billow with billow goes racing with glee.

With never a thought that is worthy the saying, And never a theme to be put into song, Since early this morning my mind has been straying, A vagabond thing, with a vagabond throng, With gay, idle moments, and waves of the ocean, With winds and with sunbeams, and tree-tops and birds, It has lilted along in the joy of mere motion, To songs without music and verse without words.

MY FLOWER ROOM

My Flower Room is such a little place, Scarce twenty feet by nine; yet in that s.p.a.ce I have met G.o.d; yea, many a radiant hour Have talked with Him, the All-Embracing-Cause, About His laws.

And He has shown me, in each vine and flower Such miracles of power That day by day this Flower Room of mine Has come to be a shrine.

Fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere Pale, tender shoots appear Rising to greet the light in that sweet room.

One speeds to crimson bloom; One slowly creeps to una.s.suming grace; One climbs, one trails; One drinks the light and moisture; One exhales.

Up through the earth together, stem by stem Two plants push swiftly in a floral race; Till one sends forth a blossom like a gem; And one gives only fragrance In a seed So small it scarce is felt within the hand.

Lie hidden such delights Of scents and sights, When by the elements of Nature freed, As Paradise must have at its command.

From shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things What gorgeous beauty springs!

Such infinite variety appears A hundred artists in a hundred years Could never copy from the floral world The marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled.

Nor could the most colossal mind of man Create one little seed of plant or vine Without a.s.sistance from the First Great Plan; Without the aid divine.

Who but a G.o.d Could draw from light and moisture, heat and cold, And fas.h.i.+on in earth's mould, A mult.i.tude of blooms to deck one sod?

Who but a G.o.d!

Not one man knows Just why the bloom and fragrance of the rose Or how its tints were blent; Or why the white Camelia without scent Up through the same soil grows; Or how the daisy and the violet And blades of gra.s.s first on wild meadows met.

Not one, not one man knows; The wisest but SUPPOSE.

This Flower Room of mine Has come to be a shrine; And I go hence Each day with larger faith and reverence.

MY FAITH

My faith is rooted in no written creed; And there are those who call me heretic; Yet year on year, though I be well or sick Or opulent, or in the slough of need, If, light of foot, fair Life trips by me pleasuring, Or, by the rule of pain, old Time stands measuring The dull, drab moments--still ascends my cry: 'G.o.d reigns on high!

He doeth all things well!'

Not much I prize, or one, or any brand Of theologic lore; nor think too well Of generally accepted heaven and h.e.l.l.

But faith and knowledge build at Love's command A beauteous heaven; a heaven of thought all clarified Of hate and fear and doubt; a heaven of rarefied And perfect trust; and from the heaven I cry: 'G.o.d reigns on high!

Whatever is, is best.'