Songs for a Little House

Excerpt

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 waiting lass!
        Laggard minutes slowly pass;
        Patience, laughs the yellow fire:
        Homeward bound is heart's desire!)

Hark, adown the canyon street
Flows the merry tide of feet;
High the golden buildings loom
Blazing in the purple gloom;
All the town is set with stars,
Homewardchant the Broadway cars...!