Afterwhiles | Page 5

of old.
'Twas the dear little girl that I scolded--?"For was it a moment like this,"?I said, "when she knew I was busy,?To come romping in for a kiss--??Come rowdying up from her mother,?And clamoring there at my knee?For 'One 'ittle kiss for my dolly,?And one 'ittle uzzer for me!"
God pity, the heart that repelled her,?And the cold hand that turned her away,?And take, from the lips that denied her,?This answerless prayer of to-day!?Take Lord, from my mem'ry forever?That pitiful sob of despair,?And the patter and trip of the little bare feet,?And the one piercing cry on the stair!
I put by the half-written poem,?While the pen, idly trailed in my hand?Writes on--, "Had I words to complete it?Who'd read it, or who'd understand?"?But the little bare feet on the stairway,?And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,?And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,?Cry up to me over it all.
The Sphinx
I know all about the Sphinx--?I know even what she thinks,?Staring with her stony eyes?Up forever at the skies.
For last night I dreamed that she?Told me all the mystery--?Why for aeons mute she sat--:?She was just cut out for that!
If I knew What Poets Know
If I knew what poets know,?Would I write a rhyme?Of the buds that never blow?In the summer-time ??Would I sing of golden seeds?Springing up in ironweeds??And of raindrops turned to snow,?If I knew what poets know?
Did I know what poets do,?Would I sing a song?Sadder than the pigeon's coo?When the days are long??Where I found a heart in pain,?I would make it glad again;?And the false should be the true,?Did I know what poets do.
If I knew what poets know,?I would find a theme?Sweeter than the placid flow?Of the fairest dream:?I would sing of love that lives?On the errors it forgives;?And the world would better grow?If I knew what poets know.
Ike Walton's Prayer
I crave, dear Lord,?No boundless hoard?Of gold and gear,?Nor jewels fine,?Nor lands, nor kine,?Nor treasure-heaps of anything--.?Let but a little hut be mine?Where at the hearthstone I may hear?The cricket sing,?And have the shine?Of one glad woman's eyes to make,?For my poor sake,?Our simple home a place divine--;?Just the wee cot-- the cricket's chirr--?Love and the smiling face of her.
I pray not for?Great riches, nor?For vast estates and castle-halls--,?Give me to hear the bare footfalls?Of children o'er?An oaken floor?New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread?With but the tiny coverlet?And pillow for the baby's head;?And pray Thou, may?The door stand open and the day?Send ever in a gentle breeze,?With fragrance from the locust-trees,?And drowsy moan of doves, and blur?Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees,?With after-hushes of the stir?Of intermingling sounds, and then?The good-wife and the smile of her?Filling the silences again--?The cricket's call?And the wee cot,?Dear Lord of all,?Deny me not!
I pray not that?Men tremble at?My power of place?And lordly sway--,?I only pray for simple grace?To look my neighbor in the face?Full honestly from day to day--?Yield me his horny palm to hold.?And I'll not pray?For gold--;?The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,?It hath the kingliest smile on earth;?The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,?Hath never need of coronet.?And so I reach,?Dear Lord, to Thee,?And do beseech?Thou givest me?The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr,?Love and the glad sweet face of her!
A Rough Sketch
I caught, for a second, across the crowd--?Just for a second, and barely that--?A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed,?Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim'd hat--?With small gray eyes, of a look as keen?As the long, sharp nose that grew between.
And I said: 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own,?Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear,?On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown?Hither and thither and everywhere--?With its keen little sinister eyes of gray,?And nose like the beak of a bird of prey!
Our Kind of a Man
1?The kind of a man for you and me!?He faces the world unflinchingly,?And smites, as long as the wrong resists,?With a knuckled faith and force like fists:?He lives the life he is preaching of,?And loves where most is the need of love;?His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears,?And his face sublime through the blind man's tears;?The light shines out where the clouds were dim,?And the widow's prayer goes up for him;?The latch is clicked at the hovel door?And the sick man sees the sun once more,?And out o'er the barren fields he sees?Springing blossoms and waving trees,?Feeling as only the dying may,?That God's own servant has come that way,?Smoothing the path as it still winds on?Through the golden gate where his loved have gone.
2?The kind of a man for me and you!?However little of worth we do?He credits full, and abides in trust?That time will teach us how more is just.?He walks abroad, and he meets all kinds?Of querulous and uneasy minds,?And sympathizing, he shares the pain?Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain;?And knowing this, as