صفحة 1
CROSS ROADS
By Margaret E. Sangster
To My Father
NOTE
Some of the verses in this book have been printed by The Christian Herald, Good Housekeeping, Pictorial Review, New Fiction Publishing Company and the C. H. Young Publishing Company. I wish to acknowledge, with thanks, permission to reprint them.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
WOOD MAGIC
WATERIN' TH' HORSES
AT DAWN
II. THE PIONEER
III. THE FARMER
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
TO A PAIR OF GLOVES
PEAKS
LIL' FELLER
TO AN OLD SCHOOLHOUSE
THE OLD SAILOR
THE RIVER AND THE TREE
AUTUMN SONG
SCARLET FLOWERS
ON FIFTH AVENUE
FROM A CITY WINDOW
THE LADY ACROSS THE COURT
صفحة 2
tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">TO A PORCELAIN PUPPY DOG
COLORS
LIGHTS OF THE CITY
STEEL
MUSIC OF THE SLUMS
I. THE VIOLIN-MAKER
II. THE PARK BAND
III. THE ORGAN MAN
"BE OF GOOD CHEER!"
FROM MY ROOM
THE BALCONY SCENES
A BOWERY PAWN-SHOP
SPRING IN THE CITY
LI'L EMPTY CLOSET
TWO LULLABYS
II. POPPY LAND
I DREAMED YOUR FACE
ANSWER
A BABY'S HANDS
ALL ALONG THE BROAD HIGHWAY
MY MOTHER
HEREDITY
صفحة 3
href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@2487@[email protected]#link2H_4_0041" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">APRIL
THE DESERT PATH—SEVEN SONNETS
SUMMER SONG
COMPREHENSION—A MOTHER'S SONG
SINGING ON THE MARCH
EASTER
RESURRECTION
THE QUEEN
FRAGMENTS
IT'S LOTS OF FUN—
VALENTINE
THE SACRIFICE
TO A CERTAIN ROOM
OTHER DAYS
AT TWILIGHT
THERE ARE SUCH WEARY LITTLE LINES
THREE SONGS OF AWAKENING
IN A CANOE
CAPTIVE-HEART
EVENING SONG
AFTER A DAY OF WAITING
صفحة 4
tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">INTANGIBLE
AT FIRST SIGHT
FIVE SONNETS
III. THE RAIN OUTSIDE
IV. I USED TO WRITE
V. MOON-GLOW
FORGIVEN
THE WRITING
AT PARTING
THE REFUGE
TO DREAM ALONE....
NOW I MAY SING OF SADNESS....
WHEN WAR CAME
WHEN YOU WENT BY
IN MEMORIAM
TOGETHER
JIM-DOG
SIX SONNETS
FROM THE DECK OF A TRANSPORT
TIM—MY BUNKIE
A PRAYER FOR OUR BOYS RETURNING
PARIS
صفحة 5
href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@2487@[email protected]#link2H_4_0084" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">II. THE RUE DE LA PAIX—(A STREET OF JEWELS)
III. THE FLOWER WAGONS
SONGS FROM FRANCE
FROM PARIS TO CHATEAU THIERRY
A RUINED CHURCH
CHILD FACES
RETURN
THE PHOENIX
INDEPENDENCE DAY—1919
SHADOWS
L'ENVOI
PREFACE
The candlelight sweeps softly through the room,
Filling dim surfaces with golden laughter,
Touching with mystery each high hung rafter,
Cutting a path of promise through the gloom.
Slim little elves dance gently on each taper,
Wistful, small ghosts steal out of shrouded
corners—
And, like a line of vague enchanted mourners,
Great shadows sway like wind-blown sheets of paper.
Gently as fingers drawn across your hair,
I see the yellow flicker of it creep—
And in a silence that is kin to sleep,
I feel a world away from pain and care.
Roads stretch like arms across the world outside,
Roads reach to strife, to happiness, to fame—
Here, in the candlelight, I speak your name,
Here we are at life's cross way, side by side!
OH, THERE ARE BROOKS THERE, AND FIELDS THERE AND NOOKS
THERE—
NOOKS WHERE A SEEKER MAY FIND FOREST FLOWERS;
BLUE IS THE SKY THERE, AND SOFT WINDS CREEP BY THERE,
SINGING A SONG THROUGH THE LONG SUMMER HOURS.
Filling dim surfaces with golden laughter,
Touching with mystery each high hung rafter,
Cutting a path of promise through the gloom.
Slim little elves dance gently on each taper,
Wistful, small ghosts steal out of shrouded
corners—
And, like a line of vague enchanted mourners,
Great shadows sway like wind-blown sheets of paper.
Gently as fingers drawn across your hair,
I see the yellow flicker of it creep—
And in a silence that is kin to sleep,
I feel a world away from pain and care.
Roads stretch like arms across the world outside,
Roads reach to strife, to happiness, to fame—
Here, in the candlelight, I speak your name,
Here we are at life's cross way, side by side!
OH, THERE ARE BROOKS THERE, AND FIELDS THERE AND NOOKS
THERE—
NOOKS WHERE A SEEKER MAY FIND FOREST FLOWERS;
BLUE IS THE SKY THERE, AND SOFT WINDS CREEP BY THERE,
SINGING A SONG THROUGH THE LONG SUMMER HOURS.
WOOD MAGIC
The woods lay dreaming in a topaz dream,
And we, who silently roamed hand in hand,
Were pilgrims in a strange, enchanted land,
Where life was love, and love was all a-gleam.
And old remembered songs came back to
And we, who silently roamed hand in hand,
Were pilgrims in a strange, enchanted land,
Where life was love, and love was all a-gleam.
And old remembered songs came back to
صفحة 6
greet
Our ears, from other worlds of long ago,
The worlds that we of earth may seldom know—
And to those songs we timed our vagrant feet.
We did not speak, we did not need to say
The thought that lay so buried in our hearts—
The thoughts as sweet as springtime rain, that
starts
The buds to blossoming in wistful May.
We did not need to speak, we could not speak,
The wonder words that we in silence knew—
We walked, as very little children do,
Who feel, but cannot tell, the thing they seek.
Beyond a screen of bushes, bending low,
We knew that fair Titania lay at rest,
Her pillowed head upon her lover's breast,
Her kisses swift as birds that come and go!
And underneath a wall of mottled stone,
We knew the sleeping beauty lay in state,
Entangled in a mist of tears, to wait
The prince whose kiss would raise her to a throne.
Perhaps a witch with single flaming eye,
Was watching from beneath the hemlock tree;
And fairies that our gaze might never see,
Laughed at us as we, hand in hand, crept by.
Laughed at us? No, I somehow think they knew
That you and I were kin to them that day!
I think they knew that we were years away
From everything but make-believe, come true.
I think they knew that, singing through the air,
There thrilled a vague, insistent, harp-like call—
And that, where woodbine blazed against the wall,
You held me close and kissed my wind-tossed hair!
Our ears, from other worlds of long ago,
The worlds that we of earth may seldom know—
And to those songs we timed our vagrant feet.
We did not speak, we did not need to say
The thought that lay so buried in our hearts—
The thoughts as sweet as springtime rain, that
starts
The buds to blossoming in wistful May.
We did not need to speak, we could not speak,
The wonder words that we in silence knew—
We walked, as very little children do,
Who feel, but cannot tell, the thing they seek.
Beyond a screen of bushes, bending low,
We knew that fair Titania lay at rest,
Her pillowed head upon her lover's breast,
Her kisses swift as birds that come and go!
And underneath a wall of mottled stone,
We knew the sleeping beauty lay in state,
Entangled in a mist of tears, to wait
The prince whose kiss would raise her to a throne.
Perhaps a witch with single flaming eye,
Was watching from beneath the hemlock tree;
And fairies that our gaze might never see,
Laughed at us as we, hand in hand, crept by.
Laughed at us? No, I somehow think they knew
That you and I were kin to them that day!
I think they knew that we were years away
From everything but make-believe, come true.
I think they knew that, singing through the air,
There thrilled a vague, insistent, harp-like call—
And that, where woodbine blazed against the wall,
You held me close and kissed my wind-tossed hair!
WATERIN' TH' HORSES
I took th' horses to th' brook—to water 'em you know,
Th' air was cold with just a touch o' frost;
And as we went a-joggin' down I couldn't help but
think,
O' city folk an' all the things they lost.
O' cause they have their lighted streets—their Great
White Way an' such,
O' course they have their buildings large an' tall;
But, my! they never know th' joy o' ridin' ter th'
brook,
An' somehow I don't envy 'em at all!
Perhaps I'd like it—for awhile—to hear th' songs an'
laughter,
But somehow, I don't know exactly why;
I'd feel th' country callin' me; I'd long again fer
silence,
An' fer God's mountains, blue against the sky.
I took th' horses to th' brook—to water 'em you know,
Th' day was pretty as a day can be;
An' as we went a-joggin' down I couldn't help but
think,
O' city folk an' all they never see!
Th' air was cold with just a touch o' frost;
And as we went a-joggin' down I couldn't help but
think,
O' city folk an' all the things they lost.
O' cause they have their lighted streets—their Great
White Way an' such,
O' course they have their buildings large an' tall;
But, my! they never know th' joy o' ridin' ter th'
brook,
An' somehow I don't envy 'em at all!
Perhaps I'd like it—for awhile—to hear th' songs an'
laughter,
But somehow, I don't know exactly why;
I'd feel th' country callin' me; I'd long again fer
silence,
An' fer God's mountains, blue against the sky.
I took th' horses to th' brook—to water 'em you know,
Th' day was pretty as a day can be;
An' as we went a-joggin' down I couldn't help but
think,
O' city folk an' all they never see!
AT DAWN
I. THE CAVEMAN
I live! And the scarlet sunrise is climbing the
mountain steep,
I live... And below, in the caverns, the rest
of my clansmen sleep;
But I—I am here, and chanting, I could slay a
beast with my hand,
And I thrill as the mist of the morning creeps up
from the rock-strewn land!
I live, I have strength for fighting—and courage
I live! And the scarlet sunrise is climbing the
mountain steep,
I live... And below, in the caverns, the rest
of my clansmen sleep;
But I—I am here, and chanting, I could slay a
beast with my hand,
And I thrill as the mist of the morning creeps up
from the rock-strewn land!
I live, I have strength for fighting—and courage
صفحة 7
to
rend and slay,
I live! And my eyes are lifting to gaze at the new-
born day;
And I pause, on the way to my hewn-out cave,
though I know that she waits me there,
My mate, with her eyes on the scarlet dawn, and the
wind in her flame-like hair.
I live—and the joy of living leaps up in my searching
eyes,
I live, and my soul starts forward, to challenge the
waking skies!
Far down are the torrents roaring, far up are the
clouds, unfurled;
And I stand on the cliff, exultant, akin to the waking
world.
The mists are gone, and an eagle sweeps down from
the mountain high,
And I wish that my arms were feathered and strong,
that I, too, might fly;
I live! I am one with the morning! Ah, I am a
MAN, and free!
And I shout aloud, and the scarlet dawn shouts back,
on the gale, to me!
rend and slay,
I live! And my eyes are lifting to gaze at the new-
born day;
And I pause, on the way to my hewn-out cave,
though I know that she waits me there,
My mate, with her eyes on the scarlet dawn, and the
wind in her flame-like hair.
I live—and the joy of living leaps up in my searching
eyes,
I live, and my soul starts forward, to challenge the
waking skies!
Far down are the torrents roaring, far up are the
clouds, unfurled;
And I stand on the cliff, exultant, akin to the waking
world.
The mists are gone, and an eagle sweeps down from
the mountain high,
And I wish that my arms were feathered and strong,
that I, too, might fly;
I live! I am one with the morning! Ah, I am a
MAN, and free!
And I shout aloud, and the scarlet dawn shouts back,
on the gale, to me!
II. THE PIONEER
I creep along, but silently,
For, oh, the dawn is coming;
I creep along, for I have heard
A flint-tipped arrow, humming;
And I have heard a snapping twig,
Above the wind's low laughter;
And I have known—and thrilled to know,
That swift THEY followed after!
The forest turns from black to grey,
The leaves are silver-shining;
But I have heard a far-off call—
The war-whoop's sullen whining.
And I have been a naked form,
Among the tree trunks prowling;
And I have glimpsed a savage face,
That faded from me, scowling.
A rosy color sweeps the sky,
A vagrant lark is singing,
But, as I steal along the trail,
I know that day is bringing
A host of red-skins in its train,
Their tommy-hawks are gleaming—
I SEE THEM NOW; or can it be
The first pale sunlight beaming?
I creep along, but stealthily,
For, oh, the dawn is coming!
I creep along—but I have heard
A flint-tipped arrow, humming....
And yet, my heart is light, inside,
My soul, itself, is flying
To greet the dawn! I AM ALIVE—
AND WHAT IS DEATH—BUT DYING?
For, oh, the dawn is coming;
I creep along, for I have heard
A flint-tipped arrow, humming;
And I have heard a snapping twig,
Above the wind's low laughter;
And I have known—and thrilled to know,
That swift THEY followed after!
The forest turns from black to grey,
The leaves are silver-shining;
But I have heard a far-off call—
The war-whoop's sullen whining.
And I have been a naked form,
Among the tree trunks prowling;
And I have glimpsed a savage face,
That faded from me, scowling.
A rosy color sweeps the sky,
A vagrant lark is singing,
But, as I steal along the trail,
I know that day is bringing
A host of red-skins in its train,
Their tommy-hawks are gleaming—
I SEE THEM NOW; or can it be
The first pale sunlight beaming?
I creep along, but stealthily,
For, oh, the dawn is coming!
I creep along—but I have heard
A flint-tipped arrow, humming....
And yet, my heart is light, inside,
My soul, itself, is flying
To greet the dawn! I AM ALIVE—
AND WHAT IS DEATH—BUT DYING?
III. THE FARMER
The dawn is here! I climb the hill;
The earth is young and strangely still;
A tender green is showing where
But yesterday my fields were bare....
I climb and, as I climb, I sing;
The dawn is here, and with it—spring!
My oxen stamp the ground, and they
Seem glad, with me, that soon the day
Will bring new work for us to do!
The light above is clear and blue;
And one great cloud that swirls on high,
Seems sent from earth to kiss the sky.
The birds are coming back again,
They know that soon the golden grain
Will wave above this fragrant loam;
The birds, with singing, hasten home;
And I, who watch them, feel their song
Deep in my soul, and nothing wrong,
Or mean or small, can touch my heart....
Down in the vale
The earth is young and strangely still;
A tender green is showing where
But yesterday my fields were bare....
I climb and, as I climb, I sing;
The dawn is here, and with it—spring!
My oxen stamp the ground, and they
Seem glad, with me, that soon the day
Will bring new work for us to do!
The light above is clear and blue;
And one great cloud that swirls on high,
Seems sent from earth to kiss the sky.
The birds are coming back again,
They know that soon the golden grain
Will wave above this fragrant loam;
The birds, with singing, hasten home;
And I, who watch them, feel their song
Deep in my soul, and nothing wrong,
Or mean or small, can touch my heart....
Down in the vale
صفحة 8
the smoke-wreaths start,
To softly curl above the trees;
The fingers of a vagrant breeze
Steal tenderly across my hair,
And toil is fled, and want, and care!
The dawn is here!
I climb the hill;
My very oxen seem to thrill—
To feel the mystery of day.
The sun creeps out, and far away
From man-made law I worship God,
Who made the light, the cloud, the sod;
I worship smilingly, and sing!
* * *
The dawn is here, and with it—spring!
To softly curl above the trees;
The fingers of a vagrant breeze
Steal tenderly across my hair,
And toil is fled, and want, and care!
The dawn is here!
I climb the hill;
My very oxen seem to thrill—
To feel the mystery of day.
The sun creeps out, and far away
From man-made law I worship God,
Who made the light, the cloud, the sod;
I worship smilingly, and sing!
* * *
The dawn is here, and with it—spring!
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
It stands neglected, silent, far from the ways of men,
A lonely little cottage beside a lonely glen;
And, dreaming there, I saw it when sunset's golden
rays
Had touched it with the glory of other, sweeter days.
They say the house is haunted, and—well, it is, I
guess,
For every empty window just aches with loneliness;
With loneliness that tortures and memory that flays;
Ah, yes, the house is haunted with ghosts of other
days.
The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrow
stair,
And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayer
Steals out, and then a love song, and then a bugle
call,
And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall.
The story of the old house that stands beside the
glen?
That story is forgotten by every one; but when
The house is touched and softened by sunset's golden
rays,
I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts of
sweeter days.
A lonely little cottage beside a lonely glen;
And, dreaming there, I saw it when sunset's golden
rays
Had touched it with the glory of other, sweeter days.
They say the house is haunted, and—well, it is, I
guess,
For every empty window just aches with loneliness;
With loneliness that tortures and memory that flays;
Ah, yes, the house is haunted with ghosts of other
days.
The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrow
stair,
And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayer
Steals out, and then a love song, and then a bugle
call,
And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall.
The story of the old house that stands beside the
glen?
That story is forgotten by every one; but when
The house is touched and softened by sunset's golden
rays,
I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts of
sweeter days.
TO A PAIR OF GLOVES
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Sorter thin an' worn;
With th' fingers neatly darned,
Like they had been torn.
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Not s' much ter see....
Not a soul on earth can guess
What they mean ter me!
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Sorter tossed aside;
Limp an' quiet, folded up,
Like their soul had died.
Every finger seems ter look
Lonely, an' my hand
Trembles as it touches them—
Who can understand?
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Ah, she tossed 'em there....
Singin'-like, she turned ter go,
Didn't have a care!
Kissin' them? A prayer, a tear?
God, my head WILL bow—
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
.... Empty, now!
Sorter thin an' worn;
With th' fingers neatly darned,
Like they had been torn.
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Not s' much ter see....
Not a soul on earth can guess
What they mean ter me!
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Sorter tossed aside;
Limp an' quiet, folded up,
Like their soul had died.
Every finger seems ter look
Lonely, an' my hand
Trembles as it touches them—
Who can understand?
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Ah, she tossed 'em there....
Singin'-like, she turned ter go,
Didn't have a care!
Kissin' them? A prayer, a tear?
God, my head WILL bow—
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
.... Empty, now!
PEAKS
A storm may rage in the world below,
It may tear great trees apart;
But here on the mountain top, I know
That it cannot touch my heart.
I have struggled up through the lightning's glare,
I have walked where the cliffs fell sheer
To a gorge below, but I breathed a prayer,
And my soul passed doubt and fear!
Here on the mountain top the air
Is clear as a silver
It may tear great trees apart;
But here on the mountain top, I know
That it cannot touch my heart.
I have struggled up through the lightning's glare,
I have walked where the cliffs fell sheer
To a gorge below, but I breathed a prayer,
And my soul passed doubt and fear!
Here on the mountain top the air
Is clear as a silver
صفحة 9
song;
And the sun is warm on my unbound hair;
AND WHAT THOUGH THE WAY WAS LONG?
What though the way was steep and bleak,
And what though the road was hard?
I stand at last on the mountain peak,
With my eyes upraised to God!
A storm may sweep through the world below,
It may rend great rocks apart;
But here on the crest of the world I know
That it cannot touch my heart.
And the sun is warm on my unbound hair;
AND WHAT THOUGH THE WAY WAS LONG?
What though the way was steep and bleak,
And what though the road was hard?
I stand at last on the mountain peak,
With my eyes upraised to God!
A storm may sweep through the world below,
It may rend great rocks apart;
But here on the crest of the world I know
That it cannot touch my heart.
LIL' FELLER
When th.' sunshine's golden-yeller
Like th' curls upon his head,
Then he wakes—th' lil' feller—
An' he jumps up, outen bed;
An' he scrambles fer his knickers
Flung, perhaps, upon th' floor,
An' he takes his hat (my old 'un),
An' he races through th' door—
An' I hear his voice, a-singin',
In his odd, ole-fashioned way,
'Cause he's glad—th' lil' feller—
In th' mornin' o' the day.
Kinder makes me feel, well, lazy,
So I hurry up, outside,
Where th' mountains smile down, friendly—
And th' earth looks sorter wide;
An' I hear his voice a-callin',
Sayin', "Daddy, come an' see!"
An' I find him makin' gardens
Where a rock pile uster be—
An' I shout, "How goes it, sonny?"
An' my heart feels light an' gay,
Fer he's singin'—lil' feller—
In th' mornin' o' th' day.
Lil' feller, an' his gardens!
It don't matter much ter him,
If th' hoein's hard an' tedgious,
An' th' crop he grows is slim;
Fer he loves ter be a-workin',
An' he loves ter see things start
Outer nothin'.... There's a garden
In th' rock-bed o' my heart
That he's planted, just by singin'
In his odd, ole-fashioned way—
'Cause he's glad, MY LIL' FELLER,
In th' mornin' o' th' day!
Like th' curls upon his head,
Then he wakes—th' lil' feller—
An' he jumps up, outen bed;
An' he scrambles fer his knickers
Flung, perhaps, upon th' floor,
An' he takes his hat (my old 'un),
An' he races through th' door—
An' I hear his voice, a-singin',
In his odd, ole-fashioned way,
'Cause he's glad—th' lil' feller—
In th' mornin' o' the day.
Kinder makes me feel, well, lazy,
So I hurry up, outside,
Where th' mountains smile down, friendly—
And th' earth looks sorter wide;
An' I hear his voice a-callin',
Sayin', "Daddy, come an' see!"
An' I find him makin' gardens
Where a rock pile uster be—
An' I shout, "How goes it, sonny?"
An' my heart feels light an' gay,
Fer he's singin'—lil' feller—
In th' mornin' o' th' day.
Lil' feller, an' his gardens!
It don't matter much ter him,
If th' hoein's hard an' tedgious,
An' th' crop he grows is slim;
Fer he loves ter be a-workin',
An' he loves ter see things start
Outer nothin'.... There's a garden
In th' rock-bed o' my heart
That he's planted, just by singin'
In his odd, ole-fashioned way—
'Cause he's glad, MY LIL' FELLER,
In th' mornin' o' th' day!
TO AN OLD SCHOOLHOUSE
Down by the end of the lane it stands,
Where the sumac grows in a crimson thatch,
Down where the sweet wild berry patch,
Holds out a lure for eager hands.
Down at the end of the lane, who knows
The ghosts that sit at the well-scarred seats,
When the moon is dark, and the gray sky meets
With the dawn time light, and a chill wind blows?
Ghosts—well not ghosts, perhaps, but dreams—
Rather like wistful shades, that stand
Waiting a look or an outstretched hand,
To call them back where the morning gleams—
Dreams of the hopes we had, that died,
Dreams of the vivid youth we sold;
Dreams of a pot of rainbow gold—
Gold that we sought for, eager-eyed!
Dreams of the plans we made, that sleep
With the lesson books on the dusty rack,
Of the joyous years that will not come back—
That are drowned in the tears we have learned to
weep.
Ghosts did I call them! Sweet they are
As a plant that grows in a desert place,
Sweet as a dear remembered face—
Sweet as a pale, courageous
Where the sumac grows in a crimson thatch,
Down where the sweet wild berry patch,
Holds out a lure for eager hands.
Down at the end of the lane, who knows
The ghosts that sit at the well-scarred seats,
When the moon is dark, and the gray sky meets
With the dawn time light, and a chill wind blows?
Ghosts—well not ghosts, perhaps, but dreams—
Rather like wistful shades, that stand
Waiting a look or an outstretched hand,
To call them back where the morning gleams—
Dreams of the hopes we had, that died,
Dreams of the vivid youth we sold;
Dreams of a pot of rainbow gold—
Gold that we sought for, eager-eyed!
Dreams of the plans we made, that sleep
With the lesson books on the dusty rack,
Of the joyous years that will not come back—
That are drowned in the tears we have learned to
weep.
Ghosts did I call them! Sweet they are
As a plant that grows in a desert place,
Sweet as a dear remembered face—
Sweet as a pale, courageous
صفحة 10
star.
Where the sumac grows in a flaming wall,
It stands, at the end of a little lane,
And there do the children come again,
Answering, still, the bell's shrill call,
Just as we came, with their songs unsung,
And their hopes all new, and their dreams dew
kissed,
Brave as the sun in a land of mist—
JUST AS WE CAME WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG!
Where the sumac grows in a flaming wall,
It stands, at the end of a little lane,
And there do the children come again,
Answering, still, the bell's shrill call,
Just as we came, with their songs unsung,
And their hopes all new, and their dreams dew
kissed,
Brave as the sun in a land of mist—
JUST AS WE CAME WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG!
THE OLD SAILOR
I've crossed the bar at last, mates,
My longest voyage is done;
And I can sit here, peaceful,
And watch th' setting sun
A-smilin' kind of glad like
Upon the waves so free.
My longest voyage is done, mates,
But oh, the heart of me,
Is out where sea meets skyline!
My longest voyage is done....
But—can I sit, in peace, mates,
And watch the settin' sun?
For what's a peaceful life, mates,
When every breeze so free,
When every gale a-blowin',
Brings messages to me?
And is the sky so shinin',
For all it's golden sun,
To one who loves the sea, mates,
And knows his voyage is done?
And, can a year on land, mates,
Match with one day—at sea?
Ah, every wind a-singin'
Brings memory to me!
I've crossed the bar at last, mates,
My longest voyage is past,
And I must watch the sunset,
Must see it fade, at last.
My steps are not so light, mates,
As they were, years ago;
And sometimes, when I'm tired,
My head droops kind of low—
Yet, though I'm old and—weary,
The waves that dance so free,
Keep callin' to my soul, mates,
And thrill the heart of me!
My longest voyage is done;
And I can sit here, peaceful,
And watch th' setting sun
A-smilin' kind of glad like
Upon the waves so free.
My longest voyage is done, mates,
But oh, the heart of me,
Is out where sea meets skyline!
My longest voyage is done....
But—can I sit, in peace, mates,
And watch the settin' sun?
For what's a peaceful life, mates,
When every breeze so free,
When every gale a-blowin',
Brings messages to me?
And is the sky so shinin',
For all it's golden sun,
To one who loves the sea, mates,
And knows his voyage is done?
And, can a year on land, mates,
Match with one day—at sea?
Ah, every wind a-singin'
Brings memory to me!
I've crossed the bar at last, mates,
My longest voyage is past,
And I must watch the sunset,
Must see it fade, at last.
My steps are not so light, mates,
As they were, years ago;
And sometimes, when I'm tired,
My head droops kind of low—
Yet, though I'm old and—weary,
The waves that dance so free,
Keep callin' to my soul, mates,
And thrill the heart of me!
THE RIVER AND THE TREE
"You are white and tall and swaying," sang the river
to the tree,
"And your leaves are touched with silver—but you
never smile on me;
For your branches murmur love songs to the sun-
kissed turquoise sky,
And you seem so far above me that I always hurry
by!"
"You are laughing in your shallows, you are somber
in your deeps,
And below your shining surface there's a heart that
never sleeps;
But all day you pass me, dancing, and at evening
time you dream,
And I didn't think you liked me," sang the birch-
tree to the stream.
So they got a bit acquainted on a glowing summer
day,
And they found they liked each other (which is often
times the way);
And the river got so friendly, and it ran so very slow,
That the birch-tree shone reflected in the water down
below!
to the tree,
"And your leaves are touched with silver—but you
never smile on me;
For your branches murmur love songs to the sun-
kissed turquoise sky,
And you seem so far above me that I always hurry
by!"
"You are laughing in your shallows, you are somber
in your deeps,
And below your shining surface there's a heart that
never sleeps;
But all day you pass me, dancing, and at evening
time you dream,
And I didn't think you liked me," sang the birch-
tree to the stream.
So they got a bit acquainted on a glowing summer
day,
And they found they liked each other (which is often
times the way);
And the river got so friendly, and it ran so very slow,
That the birch-tree shone reflected in the water down
below!