Songs for a Little House | Page 3

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 AMERICA,
1917 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 ON VIMY
RIDGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
HAY FEVER, AND OTHER LITERARY POLLEN
HAY FEVER, IF RUDYARD KIPLING HAD IT . . . . . . . . . . 93
HAY FEVER, IF AMY LOWELL HAD IT . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 HAY
FEVER, IF HILAIRE BELLOC HAD IT . . . . . . . . . . 96 HAY

FEVER, IF EDGAR LEE MASTERS HAD IT . . . . . . . . . 97
HYMN TO THE DAIRYMAIDS ON BEACON STREET . . . . . . . .
98 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO A SUBWAY
EXCAVATION . . . . . . . 100 BALLAD OF NEW
AMSTERDAM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
CASUALTY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 AT THE WOMEN'S
CLUBS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A
COUNTRY COAL-BIN . . . . . . . . . . 105 MOONS WE SAW AT
SEVENTEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 AT THE DOG
SHOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 THE OLD
SWIMMER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110 TO ALL MY
FRIENDS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 A GRUB STREET
RECESSIONAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
SONGS FOR A LITTLE HOUSE
BAYBERRY CANDLES
Dear sweet, when dusk comes up the hill,
The fire leaps high with
golden prongs;
I place along the chimneysill
The tiny candles of my
songs.
And though unsteadily they burn,
As evening shades from grey to
blue
Like candles they will surely learn
To shine more clear, for
love of you.
SECRET LAUGHTER
"I had a secret laughter."
--Walter de la Mare.
There is a secret laughter
That often comes to me,
And though I go
about my work
As humble as can be,
There is no prince or prelate

I envy--no, not one.
No evil can befall me--
By God, I have a
son!

A CHARM
For Our New Fireplace,
To Stop Its Smoking
O wood, burn bright; O flame, be quick;
O smoke, draw cleanly up
the flue--
My lady chose your every brick
And sets her dearest
hopes on you!
Logs cannot burn, nor tea be sweet,
Nor white bread turn to crispy
toast,
Until the charm be made complete
By love, to lay the sooty
ghost.
And then, dear books, dear waiting chairs,
Dear china and mahogany,

Draw close, for on the happy stairs
My brown-eyed girl comes
down for tea!
SIX WEEKS OLD
He is so small, he does not know
The summer sun, the winter snow;

The spring that ebbs and comes again,
All this is far beyond his
ken.
A little world he feels and sees:
His mother's arms, his mother's knees;

He hides his face against her breast,
And does not care to learn the
rest.
THE YOUNG MOTHER
Of what concern are wars to her,
Or treaties broken on the seas?
Or
all the cruelties of men?
She has her baby on her knees.
In blessed singleness of heart,
What heed has she for nations' wrath?

She sings a little peaceful hymn
As she prepares the baby's bath.
As in a dream, she hears the talk
Of mine, torpedo, bomb and gun--

She shudders, but her thoughts are all
Encradled with her little son.

PETER PAN
"The boy for whom Barrie wrote Peter Pan--the original of Peter
Pan--has died in battle."
--New York Times.
And Peter Pan is dead? not so!
When mothers turn the lights down
low
And tuck their little sons in bed,
They know that Peter is not
dead....
That little rounded blanket-hill;
Those prayer-time eyes, so deep and
still--
However wise and great a man
He grows, he still is Peter
Pan.
And mothers' ways are often queer:
They pause in doorways, just to
hear
A tiny breathing; think a prayer;
And then go tiptoe down the
stair.
THE 5:42
Lilac, violet, and rose
Ardently the city glows;
Sunset glory, purely
sweet,
Gilds the dreaming byway-street,
And, above the Avenue,

Winter dusk is deepening blue.
(Then, across Long Island meadows,
Darker, darker, grow the
shadows:
Patience, little