Songs for a Little House | Page 5

cocoa and animals once more for tea!
THE WAKEFUL HUSBAND
How blue the moonlight and how still the night.
Silent I ramble
through the whole dear house
Setting aright in happy ownership

Whatever may lie out of its due place.
Books in the living room I
rearrange,
Then in the dining room my pewter mugs,
And put her
little brown nasturtium bowl
Where she can see it when she
telephones.
Up in my den the papers are a-sprawl
And litter up my
desk: these too I sort
Thinking, to-morrow I will rise betimes
And
do my work neglected.... Tiptoe then
I pass into the Shrine. She is
asleep,
Dark hair across the moon-blanched pillow slip.
Her eyes
are sealed with peace, but as I touch
The girlish cheek, her lips are
tremulous
With secret knowing smiles. In her boudoir
(Her "sulking
room" I call it: did you know
It means that?) I wind up the tiny clock

And stand at her Prayer Window where the fields
Lie listening to
the crickets and the stars....
Alas, I only hear the throb of pain
That
echoes from the moonlit fields of France.
Into our kitchen, too, I love to go,
Straighten the spoons against our
break of fast,
Share secrets with our dog, the drowsy-eyed,
Surprise
the kitten with some midnight milk.
The pantry cupboard, full of
pleasant things,
Attracts me: there I love to place in line
The
packages of cereals, or fill up
The breakfast sugar bowl; and empty

out
The icebox pan into the singing night.
Then, as I fixed the cushions on the porch,
I wondered whether God,
while wandering
Through his big house, the World, householderwise,

Does also quietly set things aright,
Gives sleep to sleepless wives
in Germany
And gently smooths the battlefields of France?
Dear
Father God, the children in their play
Have tossed their toys in
saddest disarray--
Wilt Thou not, like a kindly nurse at dusk,
Pass
through the playroom, make it neat again?
_September_, 1914.
LIGHT VERSE
At night the gas lamps light our street,
Electric bulbs our homes;

The gas is billed in cubic feet,
Electric light in ohms.
But one illumination still
Is brighter far, and sweeter;
It is not
figured in a bill,
Nor measured by a meter.
More bright than lights that money buys,
More pleasing to discerners,

The shining lamps of Helen's eyes,
Those lovely double burners!
FULL MOON
The moon is but a silver watch
To tell the time of night;
If you
should wake, and wish to know
The hour, don't strike a light.
Just draw the blind, and closely scan
Her dial in the blue:
If it is
round and bright, there is
A deal more sleep for you.
She runs without an error,
Not too slow nor too quick,
And better
than alarum clocks--
She doesn't have to tick!
MY WIFE
Pure as the moonlight, sweet as midnight air,
Simple as the primrose,
brave and just and fair,
Such is my wife. The more unworthy I
To

kiss the little hand of her by whom I lie.
New words, true words, need I to make you see
The gallantry, the
graciousness, that she has brought to me; How humble and how
haughty, how quick in thought and deed, How loyally she comrades me
in every time of need.
To-night she is not with me. I kiss her empty dress.
Here I kneel
beside it, not ashamed to bless
Each dear bosom-fold of it that bears a
breath of her,
Makes my heart a house of pain, and my eyes a blur.
Here I kneel beside it, humble now to pray
That God will send her
back to me on the morrow day.
New words, true words, only such could praise
The blessed, blessed
magic of her dear and dauntless ways.
WASHING THE DISHES
When we on simple rations sup
How easy is the washing up!
But
heavy feeding complicates
The task by soiling many plates.
And though I grant that I have prayed
That we might find a
serving-maid,
I'd scullion all my days, I think,
To see Her smile
across the sink!
I wash, She wipes. In water hot
I souse each dish and pan and pot;

While Taffy mutters, purrs, and begs,
And rubs himself against my
legs.
The man who never in his life
Has washed the dishes with his wife

Or polished up the silver plate--
He still is largely celibate.
One warning: there is certain ware
That must be handled with all care:

The Lord Himself will give you up
If you should drop a willow
cup!

THE FURNACE
At night I opened
The furnace door:
The warm glow brightened

The cellar floor.
The fire that sparkled
Blue and red,
Kept small toes cosy
In their
bed.
As up the stair
So late I stole,
I said my prayer:
_Thank God for
coal!_
THE CHURCH OF UNBENT KNEES
As I went by the church to-day
I heard the organ cry;
And goodly
folk were on their knees,
But I went striding by.
My minster hath a roof more vast:
My aisles are oak trees high;
My
altar-cloth is on the hills,
My organ is the sky.
I see my rood upon the clouds,
The winds, my chanted choir;
My
crystal windows, heaven-glazed,
Are stained with sunset fire.
The stars, the thunder, and the rain,
White sands and purple seas--

These are His pulpit