Afterwhiles | Page 6

we grasp his hand?We are surely coming to understand!?He looks on sin with pitying eyes--?E'en as the Lord, since Paradise--,?Else, should we read, Though our sins should glow?As scarlet, they shall be white as snow--??And feeling still, with a grief half glad,?That the bad are as good as the good are bad,?He strikes straight out for the Right-- and he?Is the kind of a man for you and me!
The Harper
Like a drift of faded blossoms?Caught in a slanting rain,?His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp?In a tremulous refrain:
Patter and tinkle, and drip and drip!?Ah! But the chords were rainy sweet!?And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip,?As he played there in the street.
Patter, and drip, and tinkle!?And there was the little bed?In the corner of the garret,?And the rafters overhead!
And there was the little window--?Tinkle, and drip, and drip--!?The rain above, and a mother's love,?And God's companionship!
Old Aunt Mary's
Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine,?In those old days of the lost sunshine?Of youth-- when the Saturday's chores were through,?And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen too,?And we went visiting, "me and you,"?Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
It all comes back so clear to-day!?Though I am as bald as you are gray--?Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,?We patter along in the dust again,?As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,?Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
We cross the pasture, and through the wood?Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,?Where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry,?And the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing" sky?And lolled and circled, as we went by?Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And then in the dust of the road again;?And the teams we met, and the countrymen;?And the long highway, with sunshine spread?As thick as butter on country bread,?Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead?Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Why, I see her now in the open door,?Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er?The clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me!?Wasn't it good for a boy to see--?And wasn't it good for a boy to be?Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade,?And the cherry and quince "preserves'' she made!?And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,?With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--!?And the more we ate was the more to spare,?Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom?Of the willow-trees--, and the cooler room?Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept--?Where the cream in a golden languor slept?While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept--?Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And O my brother, so far away,?This is to tell you she waits to-day?To welcome us--: Aunt Mary fell?Asleep this morning, whispering-- "Tell?The boys to come!" And all is well?Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Illileo
Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales--?The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales; The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails, And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.
Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone,?With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone, There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone?So mystically, musically mellow as your own.
You whispered low, Illileo-- so low the leaves were mute,?And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit; And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute: And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.
Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss,?What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this--? Let them reeling reach to win me-- even Heaven I would miss, Grasping earthward--! I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss.
And blossoms should grow odorless-- and lilies all aghast-- And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast, Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last--.?So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past.
IIlileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws?Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos,?A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose?Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.
The King
They rode right out of the morning sun--?A glimmering, glittering cavalcade?Of knights and ladies and every one?In princely sheen arrayed;?And the king of them all, O he rode ahead,?With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red?That spurted about in the breeze and bled?In the bloom of the everglade.
And they rode high over the dewy lawn,?With brave, glad banners of every hue?That rolled in ripples, as they rode on?In splendor, two and two;?And the tinkling links of the golden reins?Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains?As the castanets in a dream of Spain's?Intensest gold and blue.
And