New Poems | Page 5

the cages that were set?About the place.
In the tender morning light?All around lay strange and bright?And still and sweet,?And the gray doves unafraid?Went their morning promenade?Along the street.
THIS GLOOMY NORTHERN DAY
THIS gloomy northern day,?Or this yet gloomier night,?Has moved a something high?In my cold heart; and I,?That do not often pray,?Would pray to-night.
And first on Thee I call?For bread, O God of might!?Enough of bread for all, -?That through the famished town?Cold hunger may lie down?With none to-night.
I pray for hope no less,?Strong-sinewed hope, O Lord,?That to the struggling young?May preach with brazen tongue?Stout Labour, high success,?And bright reward.
And last, O Lord, I pray?For hearts resigned and bold?To trudge the dusty way -?Hearts stored with song and joke?And warmer than a cloak?Against the cold.
If nothing else he had,?He who has this, has all.?This comforts under pain;?This, through the stinging rain,?Keeps ragamuffin glad?Behind the wall.
This makes the sanded inn?A palace for a Prince,?And this, when griefs begin?And cruel fate annoys,?Can bring to mind the joys?Of ages since.
THE WIND IS WITHOUT THERE AND HOWLS IN THE TREES
THE wind is without there and howls in the trees,?And the rain-flurries drum on the glass:?Alone by the fireside with elbows on knees?I can number the hours as they pass.?Yet now, when to cheer me the crickets begin,?And my pipe is just happily lit,?Believe me, my friend, tho' the evening draws in,?That not all uncontested I sit.
Alone, did I say? O no, nowise alone?With the Past sitting warm on my knee,?To gossip of days that are over and gone,?But still charming to her and to me.?With much to be glad of and much to deplore,?Yet, as these days with those we compare,?Believe me, my friend, tho' the sorrows seem more?They are somehow more easy to bear.
And thou, faded Future, uncertain and frail,?As I cherish thy light in each draught,?His lamp is not more to the miner - their sail?Is not more to the crew on the raft.?For Hope can make feeble ones earnest and brave,?And, as forth thro' the years I look on,?Believe me, my friend, between this and the grave,?I see wonderful things to be done.
To do or to try; and, believe me, my friend,?If the call should come early for me,?I can leave these foundations uprooted, and tend?For some new city over the sea.?To do or to try; and if failure be mine,?And if Fortune go cross to my plan,?Believe me, my friend, tho' I mourn the design?I shall never lament for the man.
A VALENTINE'S SONG
MOTLEY I count the only wear?That suits, in this mixed world, the truly wise,?Who boldly smile upon despair?And shake their bells in Grandam Grundy's eyes.?Singers should sing with such a goodly cheer?That the bare listening should make strong like wine,?At this unruly time of year,?The Feast of Valentine.
We do not now parade our "oughts"?And "shoulds" and motives and beliefs in God.?Their life lies all indoors; sad thoughts?Must keep the house, while gay thoughts go abroad,?Within we hold the wake for hopes deceased;?But in the public streets, in wind or sun,?Keep open, at the annual feast,?The puppet-booth of fun.
Our powers, perhaps, are small to please,?But even negro-songs and castanettes,?Old jokes and hackneyed repartees?Are more than the parade of vain regrets.?Let Jacques stand Wert(h)ering by the wounded deer -?We shall make merry, honest friends of mine,?At this unruly time of year,?The Feast of Valentine.
I know how, day by weary day,?Hope fades, love fades, a thousand pleasures fade.?I have not trudged in vain that way?On which life's daylight darkens, shade by shade.?And still, with hopes decreasing, griefs increased,?Still, with what wit I have shall I, for one,?Keep open, at the annual feast,?The puppet-booth of fun.
I care not if the wit be poor,?The old worn motley stained with rain and tears,?If but the courage still endure?That filled and strengthened hope in earlier years;?If still, with friends averted, fate severe,?A glad, untainted cheerfulness be mine?To greet the unruly time of year,?The Feast of Valentine.
Priest, I am none of thine, and see?In the perspective of still hopeful youth?That Truth shall triumph over thee -?Truth to one's self - I know no other truth.?I see strange days for thee and thine, O priest,?And how your doctrines, fallen one by one,?Shall furnish at the annual feast?The puppet-booth of fun.
Stand on your putrid ruins - stand,?White neck-clothed bigot, fixedly the same,?Cruel with all things but the hand,?Inquisitor in all things but the name.?Back, minister of Christ and source of fear -?We cherish freedom - back with thee and thine?From this unruly time of year,?The Feast of Valentine.
Blood thou mayest spare; but what of tears??But what of riven households, broken faith -?Bywords that cling through all men's years?And drag them surely down to shame and death??Stand back, O cruel man, O foe of youth,?And let such men as hearken not thy voice?Press freely up the road to truth,?The King's