953 SES BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT x^ yC-NRLF 1916 B 3 571 M7S OF THE UNIVERSITY ^ OF ^ VERSES VERSES BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT at BOSTON PRINTED FOR HER FRIENDS 1916 D. B. UPDIKE • THE MERRYMOUNT PRESS • BOSTON To T. J. E. ^804172 CONTENTS Page TO MY father: I I TO MY father: II 3 ASSURANCE 4 THE GLOUCESTER MOTHER 5 FLOWERS IN THE DARK 6 BOAT SONG 7 TOP OF THE HILL 9 AT HOME FROM CHURCH 11 TOGETHER 13 A CAGED BIRD 14 STAR ISLAND 17 THE widows' house 19 [AT BETHLEHEM, PENNSYLVANIA] DUNLUCE CASTLE 21 DISCONTENT 22 t A FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER 24 [V ] PAGE A child's grave 26 THE SPENDTHRIFT DOLL 29 THE LITTLE DOLL THAT LIED 31 THE FALLEN OAK 33 [Vi] VERSES TO MY FATHER I WHEN in the quiet house I sat alone, Sometimes I heard your footfall drawing near; And with a thrill of gladness open wide I flung my door to bid you welcome, dear. Sometimes you did not even speak to me, But left me quickly when our eyes had met And you had kissed me — ah, how tenderly! Light were the tasks the busy day had set; I had grown braver for the sight of you; Out of your sight I was not left alone. A thousand times across the land and sea Your loving thoughts straight to my heart have flown, Returned from that far country of the stars. Again you find me in the quiet room, — Your angelhood has lent your love fleet wings To make the journey through the evening's gloom. How can I miss you, though the days are long And dark with sorrow since I saw you die, Though like a dream my changed life seems to me. With all its pleasures stolen suddenly ? Who is so alive as he the world calls dead! What heart so loving as the heart that waits, [ ^ ] Not cold and still, but quick with tenderness! No other hand will lead me through the gates. Your great sweet love is ever close to me To bring me courage, and my soul to keep. Heaven's peace you bring who ever brought me earth's, And some fair day I too shall fall on sleep. [ 2 ] TO MY FATHER II I HEARD to-day the first sweet song of spring - A blue-bird's eager note, so faint and far, Across the fields; and first I was so glad. I thought of summer, and the flowers that are Waiting for that glad day when they can bloom. But quick again my heart was sorrowing: It was mistaken in its winter's end. I think I never was so grieved and sad, And in my mind there was no longer room For any thought but of that dearest friend Who taught me first the beauty of these days — To watch the young leaves start, the birds return. And how the brooks rush down their rocky ways, The new life everywhere, the stars that burn Bright in the mild, clear nights. Oh! he has gone. And I must watch the spring this year, alone. [ 3 ] ASSURANCE IT sometimes happens that two friends will meet, And with a smile and touch of hands again Go on their way along the noisy street. Each is so sure of all the friendship sweet, The loving silence gives no thought of pain. And so I think those friends whom we call dead Are with us. It may be some quiet hour. Or time of busy work for hand and head. Their love fills all the heart that missed them so. They bring a sweet assurance of the life Serene above the worry that we know, And we are braver for the comfort brought. Why should we grieve because they do not speak Our words that lie so far below their thought? [4] THE GLOUCESTER MOTHER WHEN autumn winds are high, They wake and trouble me With thoughts of people lost A-coming on the coast, And all the ships at sea. How dark, how dark and cold And fearful in the waves. Are tired folk who lie not still And quiet in their graves In moving waters deep That will not let men sleep As they may sleep on any hills. May sleep ashore till time is old And all the earth is frosty cold. Under the flowers a thousand springs They sleep and dream of many things. God bless them all who die at sea! If they must sleep in restless waves, God make them dream they are ashore With grass above their graves! [ 5 ] FLOWERS IN THE DARK LATE in the evening, when the room had grown J Too hot and tiresome with its flaring light And noise of voices, I stole out alone Into the darkness of the summer night. Down the long garden-walk I slowly went; A little wind was stirring in the trees; I only saw the whitest of the flowers, And I was sorry that the earlier hours Of that fair evening had been so ill spent, Because, I said, I am content with these Dear friends of mine who only speak to me With their delicious fragrance, and who tell To me their gracious welcome silently. The leaves that touch my hand with dew are wet; I find the tall white lilies I love well. I linger as I pass the mignonette, And what surprise could dearer be than this: To find my sweet rose waiting with a kiss! [ 6 ] BOAT SONG OH, rest your oars and let me drift While all the stars come out to see! The birds are talking in their sleep As we go by so silently. The idle winds are in the pines; The ripples touch against the shore. Oh, rest your oars and let me drift. And let me dream forevermore! The sweet wild roses hear and wake, And send their fragrance through the air; The hills are hiding in the dark. There is no hurry anywhere. The shadows close around the boat, Ah, why should we go back to shore! So rest your oars, and we will float Without a care forevermore. Oh, little waves that plash and call. How fast you lead us out of sight! And we must follow where you go This strange and sweet midsummer night; [ 7 ] The quiet river reaches far — The darkness covers all the shore; With idle oars we downward float In starlight dim forevermore. [ 8 ] TOP OF THE HILL GREEN slope of autumn fields, And soft November sun, And golden leaves — they linger yet, While tasselled pines new fragrance get, Though summer-time is done. The hedge-rows wear a veil Of glistening spider threads, And in the trees along the brook The clematis, like whifFs of smoke, Its faded garland spreads. See, here upon my hand, This gauzy-winged wild bee ! Now that the winds are laid, He suns him unafraid Of winter-time or me. I love the steepled town. The river winding down. The slow salt tide that creeps Beside a shore that sleeps. Dark with its pine woods' crown. [9 ] Here, high above them all Upon my broad-backed hill, Far from shrill voices I, And near the sun and sky. Can look and take my fill. I breathe the sweet air in, While low^er drops the sun. And brighter all too soon Grows the pale hunter's moon, The whole year's fairest one. Oh, lovely light that fades Too soon from sky and field. Oh, days that are too few, How can I gather you. Or treasure what you yield ! Oh, sunshine, warm me through. And, soft wind, blow away My foolishness, my fears. And let some golden years Grow from this golden day! AT HOME FROM CHURCH THE lilacs in the sunshine lift Their plumes of dear old-fashioned flowers Whose fragrance fills the silent house Where, left alone, I count the hours. High in the apple-trees the bees Are humming, busy in the sun; An idle robin cries for rain But once or twice, and then is done. The Sunday morning stillness holds In heavy slumber all the street, While from the church just out of sight Behind the elms, comes slow and sweet The organ's drone, the voices faint That sing the quaint long-metre hymn — I somehow feel as if shut out From some mysterious temple, dim And beautiful with blue and red And golden lights from windows high, [ >• ] Where angels in the shadows stand, And earth seems very near the sky. The day-dream fades, and so I try Again to catch the tune that brings No thought of temple or of priest, But only of a voice that sings. [ '^ ] TOGETHER I WONDER if you really send These dreams of you that come and go! I like to say, "She thought of me, And I have known it." Is it so? Though other friends are by your side, Yet sometimes it must surely be They wonder where your thoughts have gone- Because I have you here with me. And when the busy day is done, When work is ended, voices cease. And everyone has said good-night In fading twilight, then, in peace. Idly I rest; you come to me, Your dear love holds me close to you. If I could see you face to face, It would not be more sweet and true. And now across the weary miles Light from my star shines. Is it, dear. You never really went away — I said farewell, and — kept you here? [ 13 ] A CAGED BIRD HIGH at the window in her cage. The old canary sits and sings, Nor sees across the curtain pass The shadow of a swallow's wings. A poor deceit and copy this Of larger lives that count their span, Unreckoning of wider worlds. Or gifts that Heaven keeps for man ! She gathers piteous bits and shreds, This solitary mateless thing. Patient to build again the nest So rudely scattered spring by spring; And sings her brief, unheeded songs. Her dreams of bird-life wild and free. Yet never beats her prison bars At sound of song from bush or tree. Yet in my busiest hours I pause, Held by a sense of urgent speech, [ H ] Bewildered by that spark-like soul Able my very soul to reach. She will be heard; she chirps me loud When I forget those gravest cares, Her small provision to supply — Clear water or the seedsman's wares. She begs me now for that chief joy The round great world is made to grow — Her wisp of greenness. Hear her chide Because my answering thought is slow! What can my life seem like to her? A dull, unpunitual service mine. Stupid before her eager speech. Her flitting steps, her insight fine! To open wide thy prison door. Poor friend, would give thee to thy foes; And yet a plaintive note I hear. As if to tell how slowly goes [ '5 ] The time of thy long prisoning. Bird! does some promise keep thee sane? Will there be better days for thee? Will thy soul too know life again ? Ah, none of us have more than this — If one true friend green leaves can reach From out some fairer, wider place, And understand our wistful speech! [ '6] STAR ISLAND HIGH on the lichened ledges, like A lonely sea-fowl on its perch, Blown by the cold sea-winds it stands. The quaint, forsaken Gosport church. No sign is left of all the town Except a few forgotten graves; But to and fro the white sails go Slowly across the glittering waves. And summer idlers stray about. With curious questions of the lost And vanished village and its men Whose boats by these same waves were tossed. I wonder if the old church dreams About its parish, and the days The fisher-people came to hear The preaching and the songs of praise. Rough-handed, browned with sun and wind. Heedless of fashion or of creed, [ '7 ] They listened to the parson's words — Their pilot heavenward indeed. Their eyes on week-days sought the church, Their surest landmark, and the guide That led them home from far at sea. Until they anchored safe beside. The harbor-wall still braves the storm With its resistless strength of stone. Now busy fishers all are gone. The church is standing here alone. I know the blue sea covers some, And others in the rocky ground Found narrow lodgings for their bones. God grant their rest is sweet and sound ! I saw the worn rope idle hang Beside me in the belfry brown. I gave the bell a solemn toll: — I rang the knell for Gosport town. [ ^8 ] THE WIDOWS' HOUSE [ AT BETHLEHEM, PENNSYLVANIA ] WHAT of this house with massive walls And small-paned windows, gay with blooms? A quaint and ancient aspect falls Like pallid sunshine through the rooms. Not this new country's rush and haste Could breed, one thinks, so still a life; Here is the old Moravian home, A placid foe of worldly strife. For this roof covers, night and day. The widowed women poor and old. The mated without mates, who say Their light is out, their story told. To these the many mansions seem Dear household fires that cannot die; They wait through separation dark An endless union by and by. [ '9 ] Each window has its watcher wan To fit the autumn afternoon. The dropping poplar leaves, the dream Of spring that faded all too soon. Upon the highest window-ledge A glowing scarlet flower shines down. Oh, wistful sisterhood, whose home Has san(5lified this quiet town ! Oh, hapless household, gather in The tired-hearted and the lone! What broken homes, what sundered love, What disappointment you have known! They count their little wealth of hope And spend their waiting days in peace. What comfort their poor loneliness Must find in every soul's release! And when the wailing trombones go Alono; the street before the dead In that Moravian custom quaint. They smile because a soul has fled. [ ^o ] DUNLUCE CASTLE TO-DAY upon thy ruined walls The flowers wave flags of truce, For time has proved thy conqueror, And tamed thy strength, Dunluce! Marauders in their clankina mail D Ride from thy gates no more, — Lords of the Skerries' cruel rocks. Masters of sea and shore. Thy dungeons are untenanted. Thy captives are set free; The daisy with sweet childish face Keeps watch and ward o'er thee. [ -J ] DISCONTENT DOWN in a field, one day in June, The flowers all bloomed together, Save one who tried to hide herself. And drooped, that pleasant weather. A robin who had flown too high And felt a little lazy Was resting near this buttercup Who wished she were a daisy. The daisies grow so trig and tall, — She always had a passion For wearing frills around her neck In just the daisies' fashion. And buttercups must always be The same old tiresome color — While daisies dress in gold and white. Although their gold is duller. •Dear robin," said this sad young flower, "Perhaps you'd not mind trying [ " ] To find a nice white frill for me Some day when you are flying." "You silly thing!" the robin said, "I think you must be crazy. I'd rather be my honest self Than any made-up daisy. "You're nicer in your own bright gown,— The little children love you. Be the best buttercup you can, And think no flower above you. "Though swallows leave me out of sight. We'd better keep our places; Perhaps the world would all go wrong With one too many daisies. "Look bravely up into the sky And be content with knowing That God wished for a buttercup Just here, where you are growing." [ 23 ] A FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER DEAR Polly, these are joyful days! Your feet can choose their own sweet ways; You have no care of anything. Free as a swallow on the wing, You hunt the hayfield over To find a four-leaved clover. But this I tell you, Polly dear, One thing in life you need not fear: Bad luck, I'm certain, never haunts A child who hunts for what she wants, And hunts a hayfield over To find a four-leaved clover. The little leaf is not so wise As it may seem in foolish eyes; But then, dear Polly, don't you see If you are willing carefully To hunt the hayfield over. You find your four-leaved clover? [ 24 ] Your patience may have long to wait. Whether in little things or great, But all good luck, you soon will learn. Must come to those who nobly earn. Who hunts the hayfield over Will find the four-leaved clover! Now put it in your dear trig shoe — Lovers by scores will flock to you. Dear Polly, you will always find Both friends and fortune true and kind ; So hunt the hayfield over And keep the four-leaved clover! [ 25 ] A CHILD'S GRAVE MORE than a hundred years ago They raised for her this Httle stone; "Miss Polly Townsend, aged nine," It says, is sleeping here alone. 'T was hard to leave your merry mates For ranks of angels robed and crowned. To sleep until the judgment day In Copp's Hill burying-ground. You must have dreaded heaven then — A solemn doom of endless rest, Where white-winged seraphs tuned their harps — You surely liked this life the best ! The gray slate headstones frightened you, When from Christ Church your father brought You here on Sunday afternoon. And told you that this world was nought; And you spelled out the carven names Of people who beneath the sod, [ 26 ] Hidden away from mortal eyes, Were at the mercy of their God. You had been taught that He was great — You only hoped He might be good — An awful thought that you must join This silent neighborhood! Did you grow up to womanhood In Heaven, and did you soon lose sight, Because you are so happy there. Of this world's troubles infinite? No one remembers now the day They buried you on Copp's Hill-side; No one remembers you, or grieves And misses you, because you died. I see the grave and serious men And pious women, meek and mild, Walk two by two in company. The mourners for this little child. [ 27 ] The harbor glistened in the sun; The bell in Christ Church steeple tolled; And all her playmates cried for her — Miss Polly Townsend, nine years old. [ ^8 ] THE SPENDTHRIFT DOLL AS I was coming down the street, ^ I saw the saddest sight; Sitting before a candy-shop, A doll all dressed in white. A Paris hat was on her head, Her eyes were china blue, And, looking down below her gown, I saw her pink kid shoe. Her veil thrown back showed me that her Expression was refined; Her carriage-top was folded down, Her sash was tied behind. Beside her sat a shaggy dog, And, as I came too near. His growls, though not so very loud. Were terrible to hear. Just then the shop-door opened wide And out two children came; The last one several bundles bore, The first one just the same. [ ^9 ] And some they put behind the doll, And some before her lay; And taking now the horse's place They turned to go away. We, who are good, can't understand Such very wicked ways; There must have been at least a pound Of candy in the chaise! The money she so idly spends She might so wisely use — Buy some poor doll a Sunday hat, Or week-day pair of shoes; To outgrown and old-fashioned dolls She might be such a friend ; To heathen dolls in savage lands Improving books might send. 'Tis sad to think that one so small Can be so great in sin. I fear my tears will form a lake And I shall fall therein! [ 30] THE LITTLE DOLL THAT LIED "TT THY, Polly! What's the matter, dear? V V You look so very sad : Has your new doll been taken ill? It cannot be so bad!" Nine of the dolls sit in a row, But there is one beside — See in the corner, upside-down, The little doll that lied ! Out in the corner, all alone. The wicked doll must stay! None of the rest must speak to her. Or look there while they play. All her best clothes, except her boots, Are safely put aside (Her boots are painted on her feet) — The little doll that lied! Oh, lying's such a naughty thing! Why, she might swear and steal. Or murder someone, I dare say; Just think how we should feel [ 31 ] To have her in a prison live, Or, worse than that, be hung! What won't she do when she is old, If she did this so young? And now the silver mug and spoon Come into use again. And down the faces of the dolls The tears run fast as rain. Three have tipped over in their grief, Their tears cannot be dried; Their handkerchiefs are dripping wet- The little doll has lied! [ 32 ] THE FALLEN OAK WHERE the oak fell, a great road leads away, Across the country to the door of day, To find no ending where the sky begins: — What the oak knew our larger outlook wins. [ 33 ] RETURN CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT TOiiS^ 202 Main Library 642-J4UJ LOAN PERIOD 1 HOME USE 4 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLhD Ah I hk > UA t o DUE AS STAMPED BELOW cf. 5ig. «&i<3'^6 gAN22 ^^78 RECCIR.. )lil 25 77 ^.vv^ ^ K^^ Rdturned t. , SflAY 2 3 1991 Santa Cruz Jitnw FORM NO. DD 6, 40m, 6'76 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKEl BERKELEY, CA 94720 Berkeley CD3S3DMDfiD V