Poems of Sentiment | Page 5

too sad for tears,
A crushed,

desponding Magdalene appears.
One, with a hungering heart unsatisfied,
Mourns for imagined joys
that were denied.
The other, pierced by recollected sin,
Broods o'er the scars of
pleasures that have been.
EASTER MORN
A truth that has long lain buried
At Superstition's door,
I see, in the dawn uprising
In all its strength once more.
Hidden away in the darkness,
By Ignorance crucified,
Crushed under stones of dogmas -
Yet lo! it has not died.
It stands in the light transfigured,
It speaks from the heights above,
"EACH SOUL IS ITS OWN
REDEEMER;
THERE IS NO LAW BUT LOVE."
And the spirits of men are gladdened
As they welcome this Truth re-born
With its feet on the grave of
Error
And its eyes to the Easter Morn.
BLIND
Whatever a man may think or feel

He can tell to the world and it hears aright;
But it bids the woman
conceal, conceal,
And woe to the thoughts that at last ignite.
She may serve up gossip
or dwell on fashion,
Or play the critic with speech unkind,
But alas for the woman who
speaks with passion!
For the world is blind--for the world is blind.
It is woman who sits with her starved desire,
And drinks to sorrow in cups of tears;
She reads by the light of her
soul on fire
The secrets of love through lonely years:
But out of all she has felt or
heard
Or read by the glow of her soul's white flame,
If she dare but utter
aloud one word -
How the world cries shame!--how the world cries shame!
It cannot distinguish between the glow
Of a gleaming star, in the sky of gold,
Or a spent cigar in the dust
below -
'Twixt unclad Eve or a wanton bold;
And ever if woman speaks what
she feels
(And feels consistent with God's great plan)
It has cast her under its
juggernaut wheels,
Since the world began--since the world began.
THE YELLOW-COVERED ALMANAC

I left the farm when mother died and changed my place of dwelling
To daughter Susie's stylish house right on the city street: And there was
them before I came that sort of scared me, telling
How I would find the town folks' ways so difficult to meet; They said
I'd have no comfort in the rustling, fixed-up throng,
And I'd have to wear stiff collars every week-day, right along.
I find I take to city ways just like a duck to water;
I like the racket and the noise and never tire of shows; And there's no
end of comfort in the mansion of my daughter,
And everything is right at hand and money freely flows;
And hired
help is all about, just listenin' to my call -
But I miss the yellow almanac off my old kitchen wall.
The house is full of calendars from attic to the cellar,
They're painted in all colours and are fancy like to see, But in this one
particular I'm not a modern feller,
And the yellow-coloured almanac is good enough for me.
I'm used to
it, I've seen it round from boyhood to old age,
And I rather like the jokin' at the bottom of the cage.
I like the way its "S" stood out to show the week's beginning,
(In these new-fangled calendars the days seem sort of mixed), And the
man upon the cover, though he wa'n't exactly winnin',
With lungs and liver all exposed, still showed how we are fixed; And
the letters and credentials that was writ to Mr. Ayer
I've often on a rainy day found readin' pretty fair.

I tried to buy one recently; there wa'n't none in the city!
They toted out great calendars, in every shape and style. I looked at 'em
in cold disdain, and answered 'em in pity -
"I'd rather have my almanac than all that costly pile."
And though I
take to city life, I'm lonesome after all
For that old yellow almanac upon my kitchen wall.
THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE
Somebody's baby was buried to-day -
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the
morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the
walk while it crossed on its way,
And a shadow seemed drawn o'er the sun's golden tract.
Somebody's baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,
And the soft little hands
were crossed over the breast,
And those hands and the lips and the
eyelids were pressed
With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.
Somebody saw it go out of her sight,
Under the coffin lid--out through the door;
Somebody finds only
darkness and blight
All through the glory of summer-sun light;
Somebody's baby will waken no more.
Somebody's sorrow is making me weep:
I know not her name, hut I echo her cry,
For the dearly bought baby

she longed so to keep,
The baby that