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Produced by Greg Bergquist, Paul Clark and the Online | |
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This | |
file was produced from images generously made available | |
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) | |
Transcriber's Note: | |
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as | |
possible. Some changes of spelling and punctuation at the end of the | |
text. | |
The Calendar | |
and | |
Other Verses | |
by | |
Irving Sidney Dix | |
To Robert Meaker | |
Dear boy, ten summers--ten swift summers now | |
Have come and gone since last I said good-bye, | |
Ten idle, wasted summers gone, and how | |
I hardly know, so swift the seasons fly: | |
So swift the seasons come, so swift they go, | |
That scare it seems one brief, one little day, | |
Since boyish voices bid us come and play: | |
And little girls did seem to lure us so. | |
O Robert!--Robert!--If in Paradise | |
These idle words of mine can penetrate, | |
Thou knowest, then, that tears have wet mine eyes, | |
Thou knowest that I felt thy ruthless fate; | |
And yet, dear boy, I sometimes feel that thou | |
Art happier there than I who mourn thee now. | |
I. S. D. | |
Written in 1912. | |
Contents | |
Page | |
The Calendar 7 | |
Niagara 14 | |
Fairies of the Frost 15 | |
The Rivermen 16 | |
The School of Life 17 | |
A Visit from a Cricket 20 | |
In Praise of Inez 22 | |
The Crime of Christmastime 23 | |
The Miner 25 | |
Love of Country 27 | |
The Sinking of the Titanic 27 | |
War and Peace 30 | |
Peace and War 31 | |
To Andrew Carnegie 32 | |
Foreword | |
About a year ago, having collected all those poems and verses which I | |
considered of any value, I took a certain pride in the thought that I | |
might soon bring under one roof these imaginary children of mine, so | |
that they might be sheltered in time of storm, as it were, from the | |
cold, and oftimes unfeeling world of commerce but where friends of | |
poetry, who had met with some of my stray children of verse in public | |
journals, might meet with them again, if they desired, with other | |
friendly faces around one common fireside. | |
But I found that the expense incident to such a venture was so great | |
that unless a large number of copies were sold I would be involved in a | |
larger debt than I cared to contract. Then the plan of securing | |
sufficient advance subscriptions to meet part of the expense of a first | |
edition occurred to me, thereby following the method of Tennyson, Robert | |
Burns and others, of whose example I needed not to be ashamed, but other | |
work prevented me, and still prevents me, from carrying out this plan. | |
So lest those friends who have shown an interest in my verses should | |
think that I have turned aside from the Path of Poetry, I herewith offer | |
"The Calendar and Other Verses," as evidence of my love for and interest | |
in the greatest of all the arts, hoping that the time may come when I | |
shall be able to present a more worthy offering to the Muses and perhaps | |
justify the kind words that have recently appeared in regards to the | |
author of "The Quiet Life"--A Plain Poem of the Hills, which, in a | |
revised form, appeared serially during the past summer in The Wayne | |
Countean. | |
I. S. D. | |
Shehawken, Pa. | |
Copyrighted 1913 | |
by | |
IRVING SIDNEY DIX | |
The Calendar | |
AN IDYLL OF THE HILLS | |
Part 1 | |
JANUARY | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis January; | |
The knee-deep snow lies heavy on the ground | |
And hark!--the icy winds--how swift they hurry | |
Over the fields with melancholy sound; | |
And save these winds or some forsaken raven, | |
Winging its way along yon frozen hill, | |
Nature is hush'd--her dormant image graven | |
In marble masks on woodland, lake and rill. | |
And look!--the trees their naked trunks are swaying, | |
As bitterly each blast goes howling by, | |
And hark!--the music in the hemlocks playing, | |
Like some lost spirit banished from the sky, | |
And see the smoke from yonder chimney curling, | |
Hugs the broad roofs, deep-burden'd with the snow, | |
While clouds of snow are round the low eaves whirling. | |
How cold it is!--Come, let us homeward go | |
There will we find the cheerful fire still burning, | |
There ruddy warmth will make our faces glow, | |
And there kind hearts will welcome our returning; | |
Come!--let us hasten through the drifty snow. | |
FEBRUARY. | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis February; | |
The sun is creeping slowly toward the North, | |
And every breeze to-day seems blithe and merry, | |
And prophets of the Spring are waking forth-- | |
The hungry ground-hog casts a thin, gray shadow | |
Beside his open villa, dark and cold, | |
And the starv'd hare surveys the icy meadow, | |
And chipmonks chatter in the leafless wold. | |
And hark!--the blue-jay's fife is sounding shrilly, | |
And merry chickadees are piping loud, | |
E'en though the bitter North-wind's breath is chilly, | |
And the great trees are low before him bow'd; | |
And see!--the Lady of the South is creeping | |
Higher and higher--'Tis the hour of noon, | |
And sad-eyed Winter by yon brook is weeping,-- | |
Yon little brook that sings a pleasant tune. | |
Yet, as the sun is with the day declining, | |
Swift, darkening clouds are gathering in the West, | |
Where the snow-fairies are again designing | |
Another robe for Nature's barren breast. | |
MARCH. | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis March and windy, | |
And Winter's dying breath comes hard and fast, | |
And hark!--the storm, like death-bells of a Sunday, | |
Tolls the sad knell upon the icy blast; | |
Louder and louder now the winds are wailing, | |
Faster and faster wings the frozen snow, | |
Darker and darker the cold clouds are sailing, | |
As the March-storm goes hurrying to and fro. | |
But see!--the sun above the clouds is creeping, | |
And look!--soft flakes are falling, one by one, | |
And Winter, pale in death, lies gently sleeping, | |
While Spring awakes e'er half the day is done. | |
And soon the sun, like some great hearth is burning, | |
Melting the ghosts of Winter on the hills, | |
And hark!--the robin from the South returning, | |
Joins the glad music of the murmuring rills, | |
And now the farmer-boy, whose heart is leaping, | |
Gathers the sap that sings a merry song, | |
While the blue-birds sweet melodies are keeping, | |
And noisy squirrels leap the trees among. | |
APRIL. | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis April weather; | |
A voice like Spring is calling: Let us go | |
Where violets are blooming on the heather, | |
And song-birds bend the branches to and fro; | |
For everywhere the very ground is springing, | |
And everywhere the grass is getting green-- | |
How can I now--how can I keep from singing | |
When all the world is like a fairy scene! | |
The buds in all the trees, are ripe for bursting, | |
And fleecy catkins flutter everywhere, | |
And every little flower seems a-thirsting | |
For something sweet and beautiful and fair. | |
But look!--to Westward--see!--an April shower | |
Sudden has gathered, darkening the sun, | |
Yet wait!--beside me lifts a gentle flower, | |
That lights my pathway, blossoming alone; | |
And hark!--O hark, the meadow-lark is singing, | |
Greeting the storm from yon tall maple tree, | |
While, like a herald in its homeward winging, | |
Wheels a lone flicker o'er the darkening lea. | |
MAY | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis merry May-time; | |
The little lambs are gamboling on the green,-- | |
Nature is glad--it is her hour of playtime, | |
And now, or never, her true heart is seen; | |
The butterflies are floating down from heaven, | |
And humming-birds again are on the wing,-- | |
And the kind swallows, seventy times seven, | |
Fill all the air with merry murmuring. | |
And see the lilacs by yon cottage blooming!-- | |
How sweet the air is!--sweetness everywhere, | |
For look!--rich apple-blossoms are perfuming | |
This little lane that leads to woodlands fair,-- | |
Here honeysuckle-bells are softly swinging, | |
And pink azaleas perfume all the wood, | |
And, in the trees, the vireos are singing | |
Incessantly their songs of solitude, | |
While round the hill, as slow our steps are wending, | |
We hear a sweet Voice calling,--"Come, O come!" | |
For see!--the sun is in the West decending, | |
And happy hearts are waiting us at home. | |
JUNE | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis June,--fair June-day, | |
And Nature smiles--her magic hands are still, | |
For not a ripple stirs yon lake at noon-day, | |
And not a breeze disturbs this woody hill; | |
But hark!--what idle dreamer there is drumming? | |
It is--it is a pheasant calling--"Come!" | |
And listen!--like a low voice sweetly humming | |
Is heard the brook within its forest home. | |
But wait!--We cannot wait--'Twill soon be Summer, | |
So let us now enjoy these days of June, | |
For hear ye not that late, but welcome comer, | |
Robert-of-Lincoln carroling his tune; | |
And see ye not yon oriole high swinging | |
His basket from that tall and leafy tree-- | |
O Comrade, Comrade!--Time is swiftly winging,-- | |
'Twill not be always June with you and me; | |
Spring-time is passing--Summer is a-coming, | |
And soon fair Autumn with her idle dreams, | |
And then cold Winter, her White hands benumbing | |
The icy lakes and silent, woodland streams! | |
O Comrade!--Comrade!--let us not be weary, | |
But pick life's pretty blossoms while they bloom, | |
Forgetting every prospect, sad or dreary, | |
Avoiding every lane that leads to gloom! | |
For see!--each flower lifts a golden chalice | |
Inviting us to drink--Shall we pass by, | |
With faces sad, nor enter this fair palace | |
That June has rear'd us 'neath a cloudless sky? | |
PART TWO. | |
JULY. | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis July weather; | |
The western sun is burning round and bright, | |
And not a breeze disturbs yon tiny feather | |
From a young swallow loosen'd in its flight; | |
But hark!--in yonder broad and sunlit meadow | |
The sound of busy mowers fill the air, | |
While from a tree that casts a pleasing shadow, | |
Is heard the locust piping shrilly there. | |
And see, how strong men lift the scented grasses! | |
And how they pile the wagons with the hay! | |
How fast the rake, with rolling burden, passes! | |
How regular the long, round winrows lay! | |
And see!--the sun--the great round sun is setting, | |
Like a red rose upon the distant hill, | |
Till all the earth seems tenderly forgetting | |
Day's dying light on meadow, lake and rill; | |
But come!--for darkness soon will gather round us, | |
And we must pass through yonder woodlands there; | |
And then white fields of buckwheat will surround us, | |
And then--then--home we shall together share. | |
AUGUST | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis August. Listen! | |
The meadow-quail is whistling merrily, | |
And see!--the dew-drops, like great diamonds, glisten | |
On grass and shrub and bush and bending tree; | |
And everywhere is peace and joy and plenty, | |
For everywhere this morning we may go | |
One seed of Spring has well returned its twenty, | |
Till Autumn's face with goodness is aglow. | |
Yes, oaten fields are white and ripe for reaping, | |
And green things paling in the garden there | |
Tell us too well that Summer is a-sleeping, | |
And harvest-time is on us unaware; | |
The early apples even now are falling, | |
The tassel'd corn, the fields of ripening rye, | |
The purpling grape--all, all are sadly calling | |
That Summer's glory, too, must fade and die. | |
But hark!--what sound is that!--it seems like thunder, | |
And yet 'tis but the wind, within the trees,-- | |
The far-off wind, fresh-filled with nameless wonder,-- | |
A prophesy of Autumn's freshening breeze. | |
SEPTEMBER | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis sweet September; | |
And quietly the clouds are gliding by, | |
And silent runs the brook that, you remember, | |
We pass'd last Spring--it now is dumb and dry, | |
And overhead, the first red leaf is falling, | |
And, underfoot, the flowers are fading fast, | |
While in the air I hear a strange, sad calling | |
That tells me Summer is forever past. | |
And yet how peaceful seems the face of Heaven, | |
How calm the earth is--Nature is at rest, | |
And all the hopes that unto Spring were given, | |
Folds Autumn now in silence to her breast; | |
The birds are singing, yet not half so sweetly | |
As when they sung their song at opening Spring, | |
And flowers are blooming, yet not so completely | |
As when the birds were first upon the wing; | |
And I am singing--but the fading glory | |
Of Autumn-time subdues my idle song, | |
For what is Autumn but the sweet sad story | |
Of leaves that fade and lives that last not long. | |
OCTOBER | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis now October; | |
And yet the fields put forth fresh blades of green. | |
Lest the advancing days shall seem to sober, | |
And prophesy too plainly the unseen; | |
For Nature loves to lead us forward blindly,-- | |
Giving a glory to the fading leaf! | |
Yet were it worse if, speaking less unkindly, | |
Nature should plainly tell us life is brief. | |
The flowers, too, are fading--and are dying, | |
The leaves are falling, and incessantly, | |
And on the hills great flocks of crows are crying, | |
And the blue-jays once more are calling me; | |
But Winter!--Winter soon, too soon, is coming, | |
For see!--see there,--the frost is on the grass! | |
And the wild-bee--I hear no more its humming | |
As once I did, wherever I might pass; | |
And robin--he is gone, and all the singing | |
Of all the sweet birds now no more I hear, | |
While the dry leaves, to barren branches clinging, | |
Full plainly speak the passing of the year. | |
NOVEMBER | |
Come walk a mile with me--November!--Faintly | |
The long, blue hills lift to the eastern sky; | |
'Tis Indian-summer now--this day seems saintly, | |
Like some good martyr e'er he goes to die; | |
The skies are cloudless; not a breeze is blowing, | |
And silent is each bare and leafless form; | |
The brooks--how quiet!--I like not their flowing, | |
For oh,--it is the calm before the storm. | |
Yes, yes--e'en now--to Westward--look! a figure | |
Is sudden forming, stretching forth a wand, | |
Shaping a shape as of some giant, bigger | |
Than any fabled thing from Fairyland; | |
Higher and higher that strange shape is lifting, | |
Swifter and swifter its fleet heralds run, | |
Wider and wider its white breath is drifting | |
As lower sinks the slow decending sun; | |
And now--the storm!--the storm is on us. Hurry! | |
Yet see!--the myriad snow-flakes--see them come! | |
O Comrade!--See!--it is young Winter's flurry-- | |
And yet 'tis but the storm that drives us home. | |
DECEMBER | |
Come walk a mile with me--'Tis dark December; | |
The cold, rough winds are never, never still; | |
O for the days of Spring I well remember! | |
O for the flowers that blossomed on the hill!-- | |
And wish you not that you,--you too were playing | |
Upon the hillside, building castles there, | |
Dreaming sweet dreams, as when we went a-Maying, | |
Midst singing birds and blossoms sweet and fair? | |
But hark, the wind!--and see, the falling snow-flakes! | |
How thick they come--how beautiful they seem! | |
Yet I am weary--weary of the snow-flakes-- | |
O Comrade!--tell me,--is it all a dream; | |
O Comrade!--Comrade!--Winter is upon us; | |
Our hopes, like snow-flakes, now are falling fast, | |
Our dreams are broken--God have mercy on us!-- | |
We must not perish in the wintry blast-- | |
For see, O see!--the sun,--the sun is shining! | |
'Tis noon, and lo!--yon glorious orb of day | |
Is turning backward, a New-year designing-- | |
So shall all Winters turn to Spring alway. | |
And so shall Winter be an emblem only | |
Of the dark days that meet us, one and all, | |
Making our little lives seem sad and lonely, | |
Until the New-Year answers to our call, | |
Until another Spring renewing Nature; | |
Renews our hopes that were so desolate | |
Giving us faith that not one living creature | |
Is blindly born to blindly meet its fate. | |
NIAGARA | |
Almighty organ of America, | |
E'er mortal man thy voice did hear | |
Thy notes, full clear, | |
Rose with voluptious music on the air, | |
Till angels, wondering, hesitated there, | |
And rude barbarians fell in fear | |
Beside thy god-like amphitheatre. | |
Thus, when thy ancient spirit touch'd those keys, | |
Those smoothly polished keys, | |
Those swift and mighty keys | |
A powerful yet a pleasing note was found | |
That gave to Silence round | |
A song whereof no mortal heard a sound, | |
But which did Heaven please | |
Through the long centuries, | |
And unto these. | |
Then, when the red-men's blue-eyed brother came | |
Beside this shrine, thy temple here to claim, | |
Humbled was he, | |
Such glory here to see; | |
Thy awful music's note | |
Upon his spirit smote | |
Subduing stronger passions of the mind, | |
Until, like prisoners, suffering there confined, | |
Those gentler melodies | |
Within his bosom there, | |
Ascended with thy voice to heav'n | |
In one triumphant prayer. | |
Then louder, ye organ of America, | |
Still louder sound thy anthems on the sky; | |
And thou, Niagara, e'er thy spirit die, | |
Wake!--wake the courts of Heaven with thy lay, | |
Till the dear angels learn like thee to pray | |
For all the world to-day; | |
Yet louder, ye organ of America, | |
Still louder, let thy Spirit from those keys,-- | |
Those smoothly polished keys, | |
Those swift and heavy keys,-- | |
Strike, with inspiring fingers, | |
Heaven-and-earth's triumphant harmonies. | |
FAIRIES OF THE FROST | |
When the Frost-spirit, with her icy wand, | |
Strikes the cold Northwind, bringing frost and snow, | |
She sends her Fairies through the frozen land | |
To deck with sculpture all the world below; | |
Soon every bank, so lately green with grass, | |
Like streets of marble to the margin lies, | |
And here and there, wherever one may pass, | |
Frail, fairy structures magic-like arise; | |
The slender willows, bow'd in artless grief, | |
Appear in white, as pledge of Winter's care, | |
And every idle reed and clinging leaf | |
Have spirits, full as bright, beside them there; | |
While pine and hemlock, shorn of all their green, | |
Stand out like sculptur'd Druids of the wood; | |
And the small beeches, hovering between, | |
Seem children of some banish'd brotherhood; | |
The broken stumps become as kingly chairs, | |
The fallen logs, great pillars, round and white, | |
And the dead branches, Oriental stairs | |
That lead to rooms all glittering with light; | |
Each mossy knoll becomes a marble mound, | |
Th' unlettered stones, all artless works of art, | |
And e'en the brooklets in the forest round | |
Are set with diamonds dear to Nature's heart. | |
THE RIVERMEN. | |
When, in the days gone by, down the Delaware | |
The high Spring-floods, with an angry roar | |
Were running like breakers far up the shore, | |
Then the riverman by his chimney-seat | |
Would feel his stout heart strangely beat-- | |
So 'twas ho! for the raft and the river again, | |
The raft and the river for rivermen. | |
When the creeks flow'd wild round the Delaware, | |
And the sky showed blue through the sharp Spring air, | |
And the rafts were waiting the raftmen there, | |
Then these rivermen were ill-content | |
Until their backs to the oars were bent-- | |
So 'twas ho! for the raft and the river again, | |
The raft and the river for rivermen. | |
When, in days gone by, down the Delaware | |
Those great rafts tethered against the shore, | |
Were loosed like chafing steeds once more, | |
Then out of the valleys, and off the hills | |
The raftmen came flocking with school-boy wills-- | |
And 'twas ho! for the raft and the river again, | |
The raft and the river for rivermen. | |
THE SCHOOL OF LIFE | |
Life is a school, and all that tread the earth | |
Are pupils in it. Its lessons all should learn, | |
And few there be who escape them--and they are fools. | |
At birth this school begins, at death it ends, | |
And many terms there be,--and faithful teachers | |
Not a few. Necessity is one; | |
For e'en the babe when first it feels the cool | |
And earthly air, and sees the light of day, | |
Shrinks from their touch, and cries aloud--herewith | |
It doth begin to learn the alphabet | |
Of life. Then hunger comes; and so to ease | |
Itself the babe doth learn to love the things | |
That give it life. Thus hour by hour, and day | |
By day it gathers knowledge at the school | |
But knows it not--even as wiser men, | |
Of knowledge full, know scarcely what they do. | |
And months pass by--the babe becomes a child, | |
Eager to learn, to imitate, to know, | |
Lisping the lessons of a higher grade, | |
Repeating words of wisdom, gems of truth | |
That others think the little thing should know; | |
Until at length in childish innocence | |
It leaves the kindergarten of the world, | |
And knocks upon the door of adult life, | |
And enters there, flushed with the lulling sense | |
Of something new. The playthings are forgot; | |
The little bells no longer please the ear, | |
The little books no longer feed the mind, | |
The little seats no longer suit the child, | |
The little friends no longer stir the soul, | |
For it hath learned the alphabet of life, | |
And put aside the primer once for all. | |
There is a longing now for deeper life | |
That fills the heart to overflow--there is | |
A tumult now within the swollen veins, | |
When, for the first, they feel a larger life | |
In unison close beating to its own-- | |
There is a hatred of authority | |
And of restraint--a satisfaction now | |
As of a soul enamoured with itself, | |
A soul insolvent on the rising tide | |
Of pure existence, with such a stubborness | |
As mocks advice and takes a happy pace, | |
Securer of its own security. | |
And like the waters of a swollen stream, | |
That leaves its early channels far behind, | |
Youth ventures into unknown paths, full fed | |
By surging hopes, by sudden, deep desires, | |
By wild ambitions and a thousand things, | |
Unnamed and nameless--rivulets of life | |
That ever empty in this stirring stream. | |
Now would the student leave his school, and play | |
Among the hills, or in the valley's shade,-- | |
Now would the scholar chafe at books | |
And knowledge and authority--rough banks | |
That, like a <DW18>, hold in life's mighty stream | |
Until the floods of Springtime can abate, | |
And in a clearer, safer channel course again. | |
So, with life's lessons still unlearned | |
Full many a scholar e'en would graduate | |
With highest honors, and in his pride | |
And surety of knowledge be a god | |
To give advice to those who should advise; | |
Forth full of wisdom would he quickly go, | |
And even issue take with all the world, | |
But when this truant-fever runs its course, | |
This hey-day of existence has its turn, | |
Back to the school the skulking scholar comes, | |
Like a whipped cur, and willing to be taught | |
By those same teachers he so lately spurn'd, | |
And left for larger things. | |
For manhood now | |
Is here--the errors and the follies, everyone, | |
By the wise student surely now are seen, | |
And in the book of life he reads with ready eye | |
The rules and lessons, and considers well | |
His bold instructors,--Want,--Adversity,-- | |
And Disappointment, with her heavy hand; | |
The whip of Scorn, and Sorrow's bitter book, | |
And Sickness' long and tedious term, | |
And all the various teachers of the school. | |
And if perchance these lessons be forgot, | |
These, his instructors, will rehearse him well, | |
Lest he forget in later life these things, | |
And be a dullard in the school of schools, | |
A freshman wise in his own foolishness. | |
So manhood comes--and so it surely goes, | |
From grade to grade and term to term, | |
With all the questions and perplexing rules, | |
And devious methods of the Master-mind, | |
Who holds the key to all the questionings, | |
Yet leaves the student to himself alone, | |
Half puzzled by the figures on the dial | |
That tell the hour when he shall graduate | |
Above earth's petty problems, and shall hold | |
A clearance to that life which is to come, | |
And whereunto he graduates, perchance, | |
A better man. | |
A better man--if not, | |
So shall he go again in that same grade | |
Where like a laggard half-asleep in school, | |
He wakes to find himself a scholar still, | |
With all the vexing problems yet unsolved, | |
Which, in his idleness and lust of life, | |
Were left until the morrow, and the sun | |
To usher in another dreamless day. | |
So manhood comes--and so it surely goes, | |
Till those who here have studied to become | |
Proficient in the lessons of this life, | |
Shall be excused from school, and left to play | |
By running brooks and hills that shout for joy, | |
And living waters wild in their delight. | |
So is it meet that all should labor now | |
To learn these lessons well, so, when the day | |
Of graduation comes, a Voice will say:-- | |
Well-done; perfect in life, perfect in death; | |
Receive thy rich reward, for thou hast found-- | |
Perfection is the only key to Heaven. | |
A VISIT FROM THE CRICKET | |
I. | |
Thou shrill-voiced cricket there | |
In yonder corner, | |
Thou remindest me | |
Of joys departed, and of fair | |
And fallen summer. O little mourner, | |
Cease thy pensive fluting, | |
Lest a flood of melancholy, | |
Sad as thine, | |
That to my heart is suiting, | |
Encompass me--it is unholy | |
Thus to pine | |
For fallen joys or days departed, | |
E'en though thou art so broken-hearted, | |
For moments are divine. | |
II. | |
Silent art thou?--thanks to thee, | |
O little cricket | |
Underneath my chair; | |
Thanks to thee--yet would I see | |
Thy shadow less--out to yon thicket! | |
There let thy dull repining | |
Drive where the winds are driven, | |
Nor deign to bring | |
Thy sorrows back--let such be given | |
To those in shades reclining | |
Who love to sing, | |
With thee, of dear departed Summer, | |
And hear again her sad funereal drummer, | |
Thou little, mournful thing. | |
III. | |
One moment stay--why comest thou | |
With doleful ditty | |
Unbidden to my room; | |
Wee, dusky mourner, do not go, | |
But say--what is it claims thy pity, | |
And sets thee telling, telling | |
Such a solemn story | |
So to me, | |
As if there knelling, knelling | |
Of some departed glory | |
Dear to thee? | |
O sad musician, put aside thy fiddle, | |
And admit life is a riddle, | |
And Heaven holds the key. | |
IV. | |
Thou mindest not; for hark!--again | |
Resounds thy racket | |
Shriller than before; | |
Singst thou this sad strain | |
As if befitting to thy ebon jacket, | |
With carvings curious, | |
And a color glossy, | |
Like old wine-- | |
Tiny thing, be not so furious | |
And uneedful noisy; | |
Cease to pine | |
For something fled--for joys or hopes departed, | |
Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted, | |
O mourner most divine. | |
IN PRAISE OF INEZ. | |
Sweet Inez, would that I might pledge | |
My thoughts to thee with line on line, | |
And prove, if tender words can prove, | |
That all my tender thoughts are thine. | |
Would that my feeble pen might pluck | |
From the green fields of poetry, | |
Some flower, sweet girl, wherewith to deck | |
Thy name so near, so dear to me. | |
Would that my hand might gather here | |
From the sweet fields of tender thought, | |
Some blossom, fragrant as the rose, | |
Some lily, lovely as I ought. | |
But why should I commit a sin | |
By wishing any flower for thee; | |
Thou art more beautiful, I know, | |
Than all the flowers of poetry. | |
What shall I then with thee compare, | |
To make a true comparison-- | |
The dawning day, the dying light, | |
The rising or the setting sun? | |
At morn I see the early sun | |
Appear with glory in her eye, | |
But looking there, I think of thee, | |
And thinking of thee, for thee sigh. | |
At noon I see that fervid orb | |
Proclaim the sultry hour of day, | |
But looking there, I think of thee, | |
And thinking of thee, turn away. | |
At length I see that same bright sun | |
Descend below the western blue, | |
Yet looking there, I think of thee, | |
And thinking of thee love thee, too. | |
Fade then, ye flowers of the field, | |
And sink, ye dying beams of light, | |
But let, O let my Inez be | |
Forever present to my sight. | |
THE CRIME OF CHRISTMASTIME. | |
I. | |
Two thousand years!--two thousand years | |
Since Mary, with a mother's fears, | |
Brought forth for all humanities | |
The Christian of the centuries; | |
And now men turn from toil away | |
To celebrate his natal day | |
By feasting happy hours away | |
And giving gifts with lavish hand, | |
Throughout the length of every land;-- | |
A noble custom nobly born | |
In Bethlehem one holy morn, | |
But intermingling with the good, | |
A pagan custom long has stood, | |
As you and I and all may see-- | |
This war against the greenwood tree, | |
This robbing of posterity,-- | |
Until the burden of my rhyme | |
Is of this crime of Christmastime. | |
II. | |
The skies are white with soft moonlight; | |
In Christian lands the lamps burn bright, | |
In splendor gleaming from the walls | |
Of parlors and of festive halls; | |
Or yet, amid some snow-white choir, | |
Sweet maidens sing the world's desire, | |
Till, answering in low refrain, | |
The people all repeat the strain | |
Of "peace on earth, to men good-will," | |
When sudden all the hall is still. | |
Then tender music, soft and low, | |
Heavenward seems to float and flow, | |
But--mid these glittering lights, O see | |
The stately form of greenwood tree! | |
Whose graceful arms are drooping wide | |
As grieving this fair Christmastide. | |
III. | |
The hills are white with lovely light, | |
And everywhere the stars burn bright | |
In splendor gleaming on the wood, | |
Where once, in loyal familyhood, | |
The evergreens together stood, | |
But--now no vespers, sweet or low, | |
In happy measures upward flow, | |
For there--by Heaven's lights, O see | |
The absence of the greenwood tree! | |
Whose noble form once waiving wide, | |
This melancholy waste did hide. | |
IV. | |
Yet here and there a lonely tree | |
Still sounds a mournful melody, | |
And answering, in low refrain, | |
The winds repeat the solemn strain, | |
Until the hills conscious of harm, | |
Awaken in a wild alarm, | |
Until, with trumpets to the sky, | |
They echo up to Heaven the cry:-- | |
Ye Forests, rouse--shake off thy shroud, | |
And sound a protest, long and loud; | |
Ye Mountains, speak, and Heaven, chide | |
This carelessness of Christmastide-- | |
And Man, thou prodigal of Time, | |
Bestir thyself--and heed my rhyme, | |
And curb this crime of Christmastime. | |
THE MINER. | |
Beyond the beams of brightening day | |
A lonely miner, moving slow | |
Along a darkly winding way, | |
Is daily seen to go, | |
Where shines no sun or cheerful ray | |
To make those gloomy caverns gay. | |
For there no glorious morning light | |
Is burning in a cloudless sky | |
And there no banners flaming bright, | |
Are lifted heaven-high, | |
But that lone miner, far from sight, | |
Treads boundless realms of boundless night. | |
There neither brook nor lovely lawn | |
Allures the miner's weary eye, | |
For, having caught one glimpse of dawn, | |
With many an anxious sigh, | |
Those precious lights are left in pawn | |
To be by fainter hearts withdrawn. | |
Nor tender leaf nor fragrant flower | |
Dare penetrate that fearful gloom, | |
Where, low beneath a crumbling tower, | |
Or dark, resounding room, | |
Yon miner, in some evil hour, | |
A ruined prisoner may cower. | |
Yet, while the day is speeding on, | |
Far from those skies that shine so clear, | |
Far from the glory of the sun | |
And happy birds that cheer-- | |
Hark!--through those echoing caves, anon | |
The hammer's merry monotone. | |
There, far from every happy sound | |
Of blithesome bird or cheerful song, | |
In yonder solitudes profound, | |
The miner, all day long, | |
Hears his own music echo round | |
Those deep-voiced caverns underground. | |
There, in that gloom which doth affright | |
Faint-hearted, sky-enamoured men, | |
The miner, with his little light, | |
Hews out a hollow den, | |
And seems to find some keen delight | |
Where others see but noisesome night. | |
Thus many a heart, along life's way, | |
Must labor where no cheerful sun | |
Of golden hopes or pleasures gay, | |
Shines till the day is done, | |
For where the deepest shadows play | |
The purest hearts are led astray. | |
Yet some, unseen by careless Fate, | |
Know naught of gloom or sorrow here. | |
But happily, with hearts elate, | |
They walk a charmed sphere, | |
And lightly laugh, or lightly prate | |
Of lonely souls left desolate. | |
So are we miners, great and small, | |
By sunny <DW72> or lower gloom, | |
And day by day we hear a call | |
As from the distant tomb, | |
But, when the evening shadows fall, | |
The lights of home will gleam for all. | |
LOVE OF COUNTRY. | |
Love of country is the life of war; | |
Love not your country then, | |
If loving it should lead you into war; | |
Oh do not be deceived--Love is broader,-- | |
Love is broader than a wheatfield, | |
Love is broader than a landscape; | |
Do not be misled--love the world; | |
Begin at home--love your birthplace, | |
Then your county, then your state, | |
Then your country, then the countries | |
Of your brothers and sisters, who look | |
So much like you--like hands, like feet, | |
Like ears, like eyes, like lips; like sorrows, | |
Like hopes, like joys; like body, mind | |
And spirit, for the spirit of one man | |
Differeth not from the spirit of another, | |
Or high or low, or rich or poor, being | |
The same yesterday, to-day and forever. | |
Love of country is the life of war; | |
Love not your country then, | |
If loving it should lead you into war-- | |
Should lead you into hatred | |
Of your neighbor's country--lead you | |
To strike down even unto death | |
Your brother who so resembles you, | |
Made in your image, and in the likeness | |
Of the living God. | |
THE SINKING OF THE TITANIC | |
"Titanic!--rightly named, sir"--says the captain of the ship, | |
"And the safest of all vessels--now mark her maiden trip," | |
And all think as the captain thinks--all her two thousand souls | |
As steadily out o'er the sea the stately vessel rolls. | |
For she is shod with iron and her frame is built of oak, | |
And stout hearts man the vessel, wherefore the captain spoke; | |
And with naught for pleasure lacking, so stately and so fair, | |
She seems a floating palace--fit for angels living there. | |
So "farewell," says merry England, "farewell" says each green isle, | |
"And blessings for this noble ship on her initial trial, | |
And praise be to her makers, and good-will to her crew, | |
And safety to her passengers"--take this as our adieu. | |
O there were pleasant partings as the vessel sail'd away, | |
And there was joy in every heart that pleasant April day, | |
And there were happy thoughts of home--of meeting kith and kin, | |
For the stately vessel soon would be her harbor safe within. | |
And so blue the sky above them and so blue the wave beneath, | |
That all,--all thought of living and no one thought of death, | |
As, hour by hour, the vessel left England far behind, | |
And, hour by hour, the ship sped on as speeds an ocean wind. | |
And when night came, with fond good-nights the floating city slept, | |
Yet ever o'er the rolling waves the mighty vessel swept, | |
And no one thought of danger--until with thunderous roar, | |
The great ship struck the rock-like ice, and shook from floor to | |
floor. | |
Then there was breaking timbers, and bulging plates of steel, | |
And noise of great commotion along that vessel's keel-- | |
Then there were cries of anguish, and curses from rough men, | |
And earnest prayers for safety--O prayers for safety then. | |
For women wept in terror, and stout men drop'd a tear, | |
And the shouting and the tumult was maddening to hear, | |
Yet there amidst that seething the life-boats, one by one, | |
Were set adrift at midnight--where cold sea-rivers run. | |
Then, on that fated vessel, the thousand waited there | |
In hope some sea-born sister would snatch them from despair, | |
But no ship came to aid her, and, in the dead of night, | |
The noble ship Titanic sank suddenly from sight. | |
O midway in old ocean, in her darkest, deepest gloom, | |
A thousand brave hearts bravely went down to meet their doom,-- | |
And what a tragic picture!--Oh, what a solemn sight | |
Upon that fated vessel with the stars still shining bright! | |
Then there was time for thinking--O time enough to spare, | |
And there was time for cursing and time enough for pray'r,-- | |
Time,--time for retrospection, and time enough to die, | |
Time, time for life's great tragedy--and time to reason why. | |
That was the greatest battle that ever yet was fought; | |
That was the greatest picture on any canvas wrought; | |
That was the greatest lesson that mortal man can teach; | |
That was the greatest sermon that priests of earth can preach. | |
Yet no one fought that battle with saber or with gun, | |
And no one saw that picture, save those brave hearts alone, | |
And no one read that lesson there written in the dark, | |
And no one heard that sermon that went straight to its mark. | |
Nor shall we know their story, the saddest of the sea, | |
Or shall we learn the sequel, the sorrow yet to be, | |
But long shall we remember how brave men bravely died | |
For some poor, lowly woman with a baby at her side. | |
And when the world gets scorning the greatest of the great, | |
When poverty sits cursing the man of large estate, | |
O then let men remember, how, in that awful hour, | |
The wealth of all the world was powerless in its power. | |
WAR AND PEACE. | |
War is hell!--war is hell!-- | |
This is what the war-men yell | |
Yet they love to be in hell, | |
Love to hear the iron hail | |
Strike, till even strong men quail; | |
Love the dying soldier's knell, | |
Ringing shot and shrieking shell, | |
Love to hear the battle-cry, | |
Love to see men fight and die | |
With the struggle in their eye-- | |
War is hell--war is hell,-- | |
This is what the war-men yell. | |
War is wrong--war is wrong; | |
This the burden of my song: | |
War is wrong--war is wrong-- | |
Sound the pean, human tongue; | |
Let the message far be flung-- | |
Sound it, sound it heaven-high, | |
Sound it to the starry sky, | |
And Heaven, repeat the echoing, | |
Till all the earth of peace shall sing. | |
Peace loves day, but war loves night; | |
Peace loves calmness, war--to fight | |
In the wrong or in the right; | |
Peace the hungry man gives bread, | |
War would give a stone instead; | |
Peace is honest--not so war, | |
Crying--any way is fair; | |
Peace loves life--War loves the dead | |
With a halo overhead; | |
Peace pleads justice--War cries might | |
In the wrong or in the right; | |
Peace pleads--love your fellow-man, | |
War cries--kill him if you can; | |
Peace no evil thing would slight, | |
Yet while daring dares not fight, | |
Knowing might makes nothing right; | |
Peace means liberty and life, | |
War means enmity and strife; | |
Peace means plenty, peace means power, | |
War means--hell, and would devour | |
All who do not trust its power; | |
Peace means joy and love tomorrow, | |
War means hatred, death and sorrow; | |
Peace says--Bless you--men are brothers, | |
War says--Damn you, and all others. | |
War is hell, war is hell!-- | |
This is what the war-men yell; | |
War is wrong, war is wrong-- | |
This the burden of my song; | |
War is wrong, war is wrong, | |
There never was a just one, | |
Never; | |
There never was a just one, | |
Never. | |
True as two from two leaves none, | |
True as days are never done, | |
True as rivers downward run, | |
True as heaven holds the sun,-- | |
War is wrong, war is wrong, | |
There never was a just one, | |
Never; | |
There never was a just one, | |
Never-- | |
Sound the message, human tongue, | |
Sound it, sound it heaven-high, | |
Sound it to the starry sky, | |
And Heaven, repeat the echoing | |
Till all the earth of peace shall sing. | |
PEACE AND WAR. | |
Blest is that man who first cries peace, | |
But curst is he who first cries war, | |
For war is murder. It must cease | |
Forever and from everywhere. | |
TO ANDREW CARNEGIE. | |
Philanthropist, far-sighted millionaire, | |
Lover of prose and friend of poetry, | |
What needs my pen in furtherance declare | |
Thou art also a friend of liberty,-- | |
Thou art, indeed, a very Prince of Peace, | |
Who, conscious of the uselessness of war, | |
Believest man's red carnage soon should cease, | |
And nations now for nobler things prepare: | |
What needs my pen in furtherance recite | |
Thy kindly interest in the weal of man-- | |
Yet, lacking need, I nothing lose to write, | |
But rather gain in praising as I can, | |
For, if thy wealth the world sweet peace may give, | |
Perhaps my lines in praise of peace may live. | |
Press of | |
[Illustration: TYPOGRAPHICAL | |
UNION LABEL CARBONDALE PA] | |
Munn's Review | |
Transcriber's notes: | |
The index entries for "The Miner" and "Love of Country" have been | |
moved from after "The Sinking of the Titanic". | |
In "The Miner" a stanza break was inserted before the line | |
"Nor tender leaf nor fragrant flower". | |
The following is a list of other changes made to the original. | |
The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. | |
And prohesy too plainly the unseen; | |
And prophesy too plainly the unseen; | |
As mocks advce and takes a happy pace, | |
As mocks advice and takes a happy pace, | |
These, his instructors, will reherse him well, | |
These, his instructors, will rehearse him well, | |
Ringing shot and shreiking shell, | |
Ringing shot and shrieking shell, | |
Thou are also a friend of liberty,-- | |
Thou art also a friend of liberty,-- | |
Believeth man's red carnage soon should cease, | |
Believest man's red carnage soon should cease, | |
End of Project Gutenberg's The Calendar and Other Verses, by Irving Sidney Dix | |
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