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قراءة كتاب Songs for a Little House
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
love to place in line
The packages of cereals, or fill up
The breakfast sugar bowl; and empty out
The icebox pan into the singing night.
Then, as I fixed the cushions on the porch,
I wondered whether God, while wandering
Through his big house, the World, householderwise,
Does also quietly set things aright,
Gives sleep to sleepless wives in Germany
And gently smooths the battlefields of France?
Dear Father God, the children in their play
Have tossed their toys in saddest disarray—
Wilt Thou not, like a kindly nurse at dusk,
Pass through the playroom, make it neat again?
September, 1914.
LIGHT VERSE
| At night the gas lamps light our street, Electric bulbs our homes; The gas is billed in cubic feet, Electric light in ohms. But one illumination still Is brighter far, and sweeter; It is not figured in a bill, Nor measured by a meter. More bright than lights that money buys, More pleasing to discerners, The shining lamps of Helen's eyes, Those lovely double burners! |
FULL MOON
| The moon is but a silver watch To tell the time of night; If you should wake, and wish to know The hour, don't strike a light. Just draw the blind, and closely scan Her dial in the blue: If it is round and bright, there is A deal more sleep for you. She runs without an error, Not too slow nor too quick, And better than alarum clocks— She doesn't have to tick! |
MY WIFE
| Pure as the moonlight, sweet as midnight air, Simple as the primrose, brave and just and fair, Such is my wife. The more unworthy I To kiss the little hand of her by whom I lie. New words, true words, need I to make you see The gallantry, the graciousness, that she has brought to me; How humble and how haughty, how quick in thought and deed, How loyally she comrades me in every time of need. To-night she is not with me. I kiss her empty dress. Here I kneel beside it, not ashamed to bless Each dear bosom-fold of it that bears a breath of her, Makes my heart a house of pain, and my eyes a blur. Here I kneel beside it, humble now to pray That God will send her back to me on the morrow day. New words, true words, only such could praise The blessèd, blessèd magic of her dear and dauntless ways. |
WASHING THE DISHES
| When we on simple rations sup How easy is the washing up! But heavy feeding complicates The task by soiling many plates. And though I grant that I have prayed That we might find a serving-maid, I'd scullion all my days, I think, To see Her smile across the sink! I wash, She wipes. In water hot I souse each dish and pan and pot; While Taffy mutters, purrs, and begs, And rubs himself against my legs. The man who never in his life Has washed the dishes with his wife Or polished up the silver plate— He still is largely celibate. One warning: there is certain ware That must be handled with all care: The Lord Himself will give you up If you should drop a willow cup! |
THE FURNACE
| At night I opened The furnace door: The warm glow brightened The cellar floor. The fire that sparkled Blue and red, Kept small toes cosy In their bed. As up the stair So late I stole, I said my prayer: Thank God for coal! |
THE CHURCH OF UNBENT KNEES
| As I went by the church to-day I heard the organ cry; And goodly folk were on their knees, But I went striding by. My minster hath a roof more vast: My aisles are oak trees high; My altar-cloth is on the hills, My organ is the sky. I see my rood upon the clouds, The winds, my chanted choir; My crystal windows, heaven-glazed, Are stained with sunset fire. The stars, the thunder, and the rain, White sands and purple seas— These are His pulpit and His pew, My God of Unbent Knees! |
THE NEW ALTMAN BUILDING
Madison Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street
(January, 1914)
(January, 1914)
| Fled is the glamour, fled the royal dream, Fled is the joy. They work no more by night Deep in that cave of dazzling amber light, In pools of darkness, under plumes of steam. Gone are the laughing drills that sting and hiss Deep in the ribs of the metropolis. Gone are the torches and the great red cranes That swung their arms with such resistless might; Gone are the flags and drums of that great fight, No more they swink with rocks and autumn rains; And only girders, rising tier on tier, Give hint of all the struggle that was here. We too, mad zealots of the hardest craft, Striving to build a word-house fair and tall, Have wept to see our dear erections fall; Have wept—then flung away our tools, and laughed. Fled is the dream, but working year by year We see our buildings rising, tier on tier. |
THE MADONNA OF THE CURB
| On the curb of a city pavement, By the ash and garbage cans, In the stench and rolling thunder Of motor trucks and vans, There sits my little lady, With brave but troubled eyes, And in her arms a baby That cries and cries and cries. She cannot be more than seven; But years go fast in the slums, And hard on the pains of winter The pitiless summer comes. The wail of sickly children She knows; she understands The pangs of puny bodies, The clutch of small hot hands. In the deadly blaze of August, That turns men faint and mad, She quiets the peevish urchins By telling a dream she had— A heaven with marble counters, And ice, and a singing fan; And a God in white, so friendly, Just like the drug-store man. Her ragged dress is dearer Than the perfect robe of a queen! Poor little lass, who knows not The blessing of being clean. And when you are giving millions To Belgian, Pole and Serb, Remember my pitiful lady— Madonna of the Curb! |
MY PIPE
| My pipe is |