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 blueLike 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 laughterThat often comes to me,And though I go about my workAs 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 brickAnd 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 completeBy love, to lay the sooty ghost.And then, dear books, dear waiting chairs,Dear china and mahogany,Draw close, for on the happy stairsMy brown-eyed girl comes down for tea! SIX WEEKS OLD He is so small, he does not knowThe 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—theoriginal of Peter Pan—has died in battle." —New York Times. And Peter Pan is dead? not so!When mothers turn the lights down lowAnd 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 manHe grows, he still is Peter Pan.And mothers' ways are often queer:They pause in doorways, just to hearA tiny breathing; think a prayer;And then go tiptoe down the stair. THE 5:42 Lilac, violet, and roseArdently 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 streetFlows the merry tide of feet;High the golden buildings loomBlazing in the purple gloom;All the town is set with stars,Homeward chant the Broadway cars...!