The Miracle and Other Poems Part 8

REQUEST

(To E. M.)

Sing me a song--a song to ease old sorrows, And dull the edge of care-- A song of Hope to ring through all the morrows That be my share.

Unlock the doors where joy hath been in hiding, Though barred they be and strong, And send black grief far down the wind a-riding-- Sing me a song.

Sing thou thy sky-lark song of sweetest daring, And April ecstasy, That I may follow it and go a-faring To Arcady.

Charm sleep from out the shadows with thy singing, And when the light turns grey, Leave me bright dreams until the dawn comes bringing The rose-edged day.

The wind of March taught thee his springtime madness, And then in undertone Whispered the wonder-secret of his gladness To thee alone.

And thou hast learned from little brook and river Their tender melody-- The notes that set the thrush's throat a-quiver Are known to thee.

Sing me a song--a song to ease old sorrows, And dull the edge of care-- A song of Hope, to ring through all the morrows That be my share.

A SONG

0 heart of mine--if I were but a swallow-- A thing so fearless, swift of flight, and free-- On wings unwearied I would find and follow Some path that led to thee!

Were I a rose out in the garden growing My sweetness I would give the vagrant breeze For he, perchance, might meet thee all unknowing-- Yet bring thee memories.

THE TOAST

A toast to thee, 0 dear old year, While the last moments fly, A toast to thy sweet memory-- We'll lift the gla.s.ses high, And bid to thee a fond farewell As thou art pa.s.sing by!

A toast to those who reaped success In this good year of grace; A toast to every one of them-- Come! Give the victors place!

Come, wish them well with right good will-- The winners in the race!

And one toast more! To those who failed Wherever they may be;-- With faces white they fought the fight, But missed the victory; So here's to them--the ones who strove-- On land and on the sea!

Fair dreams to thee, 0 grey old year, Thy working time is done, And gone for thee the silver moon, And golden noon-day sun; Yet sad old year--and glad old year-- We'll know no better one.

THE SEA-Sh.e.l.l

Oh, fairy palace of pink and pearl Frescoed with filigree silver-white, Down in the silence beneath the sea G.o.d by Himself must have fas.h.i.+oned thee Just for His own delight!

But no!--For a dumb and shapeless thing Stirring in darkness its little hour, Thy walls were built with infinite care, Thou sea-scented home, so fine and fair, Perfect--and like a flower!

AT DAWN

Turn to thy window in the silver hour That day comes stepping down the hills of night, Infolded as the leaves infold a flower By all her rose-leaf robes of misty light.

Then, like a joy born out of blackest sorrow, The miracle of morning seems to say, "There is no night without its dear to-morrow, No lonely dark that does not find the day."

THE WHISTLER

Throughout the sunny day he whistled on his way-- Oh high and low, and gay and sweet, The melody rang down the street, Till all the weary, old, and grey, Smiled at their work, or stopped to say, "Now G.o.d be thanked that youth is fair, And light of heart, and free from care."

What time the wind blew high, he whistled and went by-- Then clarion clear on every side The song was scattered far and wide; Like birds above a storm that fly The silver notes soared to the sky, "O soul, whose courage does not fail But with a song can meet the gale."

And when the rain fell fast, he whistled as he pa.s.sed-- A little tune the whole world knew, A song of love, of love most true; On through the mist it came at last To one by sorrow overcast, "Dear Christ," she said, "by night and day They serve who praise, as well as pray."

Though the great world was white, he whistled in the night-- The sky was spangled all with gold, The bitter wind was keen and cold, Yet, gay musician, out of sight, You still put wintry thoughts to flight, For summer follows where you fare, 0 Whistler, so debonair.

And when the fog hung grey, he whistled on his way-- The little children in his train With rosy lips caught up the strain.

Then I, to hear what he might say, Followed with them, that sombre day.

"Is it for joy of life," quoth I, "Good sir, you go awhistling by?"

He smiled, and sighed, and shook his head, "I cheer my own sad heart," he said.

COMMON-WEALTH

Give thanks, my soul, for the things that are free!

The blue of the sky, the shade of a tree, And the unowned leagues of the s.h.i.+ning sea.

Be grateful, my heart, for everyman's gold; By road-way and river and hill unfold Sun-coloured blossoms that never are sold.

For the little joys sometimes say a grace; The scent of a rose, the frost's fairy lace, Or the sound of the rain in a quiet place.

Be glad of what cannot be bought or beguiled; The trust of the tameless, the fearless, the wild, The song of a bird and the faith of a child.

For prairie and mountain, windswept and high, For betiding beauty of earth and sky-- Say a benediction e'er you pa.s.s by.

Give thanks, my soul, for the things that are free!

The joy of life and the spring's ecstasy, The dreams that have been and the dreams that will be.