What, you ask, is James
Whitcomb Riley's kenotic poetry? It is the poetry upon which his claim as
America's greatest poet most firmly stands. The term derives from the Greek
"kenos" or "empty" and stands for a poetry of humility or of
experience "emptied" of ground for boast or pride.
Riley's kenotic poetry is nothing
less than poetry that participates in the mind of a humble God situated on a
cross noting human events. Such writing requires dialectical or "koine"
(as it is called today) expression. No other American writer before or
since has proven Riley's equal. Much of its power derives from Riley's fervent
and pioneer Methodist roots but also much comes from Riley's experiences in
life.
Riley's kenotic
poetry is the poetry of the humble American folk, citizen-strugglers and
wandering wayfarers living estranged lives. The following poetry stands as a body of Riley's representative kenotic
poetry.
RILEY'S KENOTIC
POETRY: To My Old
Friend, William Leachman, The Old Swimmin'
Hole, Out to Old Aunt Mary's, Nothin'
to Say, When the Frost Is On the
Punkin', On the Death of
Little Mahala Ashcraft, Hope, Old
Fasioned Roses, Dot Leedle Boy of Mine,
The Hoss, Our Kind of Man,
A Phantom, We Must Get Home,
The Prayer Perfect.
TO MY OLD FRIEND,
WILLIAM LEACHMAN
Fer forty year and better you have
been a friend to me,
Through days of sore afflictions and
dire adversity,
You allus had a kind word of counsul
to impart,
Which was like a healin' 'intment to
the sorrow of my hart.
When I buried my first womern, William
Leachman, it was you
Had the only consolation that I could
listen to -
Fer I knowed you had gone through it
and had rallied from the blow
And when you said I'd do the same, I
knowed you'd ort to know.
But that time I'll long remember; how
I wundered here and thare -
Through the settin'-room and kitchen,
and out in the open air -
And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin',
and the fields a frozen glare,
And the neghbors' sleds and wagons
congergatin' ev'rywhar.
I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but
the sun was hid away;
I turned my eyes to'rds earth again,
but all was cold and gray;
And the clock, like ice a-crackin',
clickt the icy hours in two -
And my eye's never thawed out ef it
hadn't been for you!
We set thare by the smoke-house - me
and you out thare alone -
Me a-thinkin' - you a-talkin' in a
soothin' undertone -
You a-talkin' of - me a thinkin' of
the summers long ago,
And a-writin "Marthy - Marthy"
with my finger in the snow!
William Leachmna, I can see you jest
as plane as I could then;
And your hand is on my shoulder, and
you rouse me up again;
And I see the tears a-drippin' from
your own eyes, as you say:
"Be rickonciled and bear it - we
but linger fer a day!"
At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we
went j'intly, you and me -
Your hosses and my wagon, as you
wanted it to be;
And sence I can remember, from the
time we've neghbored here,
In all sich friendly actions you have
double-done your sheer.
It was better than the meetin' too,
that nine-mile talk we had
Of the times when we first settled
here and travel was so bad;
When we had to go on hoss-back, and
sometimes on "Shanks's mare,"
And "blaze" a road fer them
behind that had to travel thare.
And now we was a-trottin' `long a
level gravel pike,
In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as
easy as you like -
Two of us on the front seat, and our
wimmern-folks behind,
A-settin' in theyr Winsor-cheers in
perfect peace of mind!
And we pinted out old landmarks,
nearly faded out of sight: -
Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach;
thare Gash Morgan had the fight
With the old stag-deer that pronged
him - how he battled fer his life,
And lived to prove the story by the
handle of his knife.
Thare the first griss-mill was put up
in the Settlement, and we
Had tuck our grindin' to it in the
Fall of Forty-three -
When we tuck our rifles with us,
techin' elbows all the way,
And a-stickin' right together ev'ry
minute, night and day.
Thare ust to stand the tavern that
they called the "Travelers' Rest,"
And thare, beyent the covered
bridge, "The Counterfitters' Nest" -
Whare they claimed the house was
ha'nted - that a man was murdered thare,
And burried underneath the floor, er
`round the place somewhare.
And the old Plank-road they laid along
in Fifty-one er two -
You know we talked about the times
when the old road was new;
How "Uncle Sam" put down
that road and never taxed the State
Was a problum, don't you rickollect,
we couldn't dimonstrate?
Ways was devius, William Leachman,
that me and you has past;
But as I found you true at first, I
find you true at last;
And, now the time's a-comin' might
nigh our jurney's end,
I want to throw wide open all my soul
to you, my friend,
With the stren'th of all my bein', and
the heat of hart and brane,
And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in
artery and vane,
I love you and respect you, and I
venerate your name,
Fer the name of William Leachman and
True Manhood's jest the same!
THE OLD SWIMMIN' HOLE
OH! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy-days
When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o'fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
There the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wounded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,
The scene was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be -
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.
OUT TO OLD AUNT MARY'S
Wasn't it pleasant. O brother mine,
In those old days of the lost sunshine
Of youth - when the Saturday's chores were through,
And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen, too,
And we went visiting, "me and you,"
Out to Old Aunt Mary's? -
"Me and you" - And the morning fair,
With the dewdrops twinkling, everywhere;
The scent of the cherry-blossoms blown
After us, in the roadway lone,
Our capering shadows onward thrown -
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
It all comes back so clear to-day!
Though I am as bald as you are gray, -
Out by the barn-lot and down the lane
We patter along in the dust again,
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
The few last houses of the town;
Then on, up the high creek-bluffs and down;
Past the squat toll-gate, with its well-sweep pole,
The bridge, and the "the old 'baptizin'-hole,'"
Loitering, awed, o'er pool and shoal,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
We crossed the pasture, and through the wood,
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,
Where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry,
And the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing"-sky
And lolled and circled, as we went by
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Or, stayed by the glint of the redbird's wings,
or the glitter of song that the bluebird sings,
All hushed we feign to strike strange trails,
As the "big braves" do in the Indian tales,
Till again our real quest lags and fails -
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. -
And the woodland echoes with yells of mirth
That make old war-whoops of minor worth!...
Where such heroes of war as we? -
With bows and arrows of fantasy,
Chasing each other from tree to tree
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
And then in the dust of the road again;
And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
And the long highway, with sunshine spread
As thick as butter on country bread,
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. -
For only, now, at the road's next bend
To the right we could make out the gable-end
Of the fine old Huston homestead - not
Half a mile from the sacred spot
Where dwelt our Saint in her simple cot -
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Why, I see her now in the open door
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er
The clapboard roof! - And her face - ah, me!
Wasn't it good for a boy to see -
And wasn't it good for a boy to be
Out to Old Aunt Mary's? -
The jelly - the jam and marmalade,
And the cherry and quince "preserves" she made! And the
sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,
With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare! -
And the more we ate was the more to spare,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
Ah! was there, ever, so kind a face
And gentle as hers, or such a grace
Of welcoming, as she cut the cake
Or the juicy pies that she joyed to make
Just for the visiting children's sake -
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
The honey, too, in its amber comb
One only finds in an old farm-home;
And the coffee, fragrant and sweet, and ho!
So hot that we gloried to drink it so,
With spangles of tears in our eyes, you know -
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And the romps we took, in our glad unrest! -
Was it the lawn that we loved the best,
With its swooping swing in the locust trees,
Or was it the grove, with its leafy breeze,
Or the dim haymow, with its fragrancies -
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Far fields, bottom-lands, creek-banks - all,
We ranged at will. - Where the waterfall
Laughed all day as it slowly poured
Over the dam by the old mill-ford,
While the tail-race writhed, and the mill-wheel roared -
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
But home, with Aunty in nearer call,
That was the best place, after all! -
The talks on the back porch, in the low
Slanting sun and evening glow,
With the voice of counsel that touched us so,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And then, in the garden - near the side
Where the beehives were and the path was wide, -
The apple-house - like a fairy cell -
With the little square door we knew so well,
And the wealth inside, but our tongues could tell -
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And the old spring-house, in the cool green gloom
Of the willow trees, - and the cooler room
Where the swinging shelves and the crocks were kept,
Here the cream in a golden languor slept,
While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept -
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And as many a time have you and I -
Barefoot boys in the days gone by -
Knelt, and in tremulous ecstasies
Dipped our lips into sweets like these, -
Memory now is on her knees
Out to Old Aunt Mary's -
For, O my brother so far away,
This is to tell you - she waits to-day
To welcome us: - Aunt Mary fell
Asleep this morning, whispering, "Tell
The boys to come"...And all is well
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
NOTHIN' TO SAY
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, giner'ly has their way!
Yer mother did, afore you, when her folks objected to me -
Yit here I am and here you air! and yer mother - where is she?
You look lots like yer mother; purty much same in size;
And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:
Like her, too, about livin' here, because she couldn't stay;
It'll `most seem like you was dead like her! - but I hain't
got nothin' to say!
She left you her little Bible -writ yer name acrost the page -
And left her ear-bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age;
I've alluz kep' `em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away -
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
You don't rickollect her, I reckon? No: you wasn't a year old
then!
And now yer - how old air you? W'y child, not
"twenty"! When?
And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married
that day?
I wisht yer mother was livin'! - but I hain't got nothin' to
say!
Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found!
There's a straw ketched on to yer dress there - I'll bresh it
off - turn round.
(Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away.)
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
shock1,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-
cock
And the clackin' of the guineys2, and the cluckin' of the
hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful
rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the
stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here -
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the
haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock -
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries - kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below - the clover overhead! -
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is
through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and
saussage, too! ...
I don't know how to tell it - but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me
-
I'd want to 'commodate 'em - all the whole-indurin' flock -
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
shock!
ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the
tree;
"Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!"
moans the
bee;
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the killdeer at twilight;
And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all
the night.
The sunflowers and the hollyhawks droops over the garden
fence;
The old path down the garden walks still holds her
footprints' dents;
And the well-sweep's swingin' bucket seems to wait fer her to
come
And start it on its wortery errant down the old beegum.
The beehives all is quiet; and the little Jersey steer,
When any one comes night i, acts so lonesome-like and queer;
And tjhe little Banty chickens kindo' cutters faint and low,
Like the hand that now was feedin' em was one they didn't know
They's sorrow in the waivin' leaves of all the apple trees;
And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and sorrow in the breeze;
And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 'round the shed;
And all the song her redbird sings is "Little Haly's
Dead!"
The medder "pears to miss her, and the pathway through
the grass,
Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little bare feet as she
passed;
And the old pin in the gate-post seems to kindo-sorto' doubt
That Haly's little sunburnt hands'll ever pull it out.
Did her father er her mother ever love her more'n me,
Er her sisters er her brother prize her love more tendurly?
I question - and what answer? - only tears, and tears alone,
And ev'ry neighbor's eyes is full o' tear-drops as my own.
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the
tree;
"Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!"
moans the
bee;
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the killdeer at twilight;
And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all
the night.
HOPE
Hope, bending o'er me one time, snowed the flakes
Of her white touches on my folded sight,
And whispered, half rebukingly, "What makes
My little girl so sorrowful to-night?"
O scarce did I unclasp my lids, or lift
Their tear-glued fringes, as with blind embrace
I caught within my arms the mother-gift,
And with wild kisses dappled all her face.
That was a baby dream of long ago:
My fate is fanged with frost and tongued with flame:
My woman-soul, chased make through the snow,
Stumbles and staggers on without an aim,
And yet, here in my agony, sometimes
A faint voice reaches down from some far height,
And whispers through a glamouring of rhymes, -
"What makes my little girl so sad to-night?"
OLD FASHIONED ROSES
They ain't no style about 'em,
And they're sort o' pale and faded
Yit the doorway here without 'em
Would be lonesomer, and shaded
With a good 'eal blacker shadder
Than the morning-glories makes
And the sunshine would look sadder
Fer their good old-fashion' sakes.
I like 'em 'cause they kind o'
Sort o' make a feller like 'em!
And I tell you, when I find a
Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em,
It allus sets me thinkin'
O' the ones 'at used to grow
And peek in through the chinkin'
O' the cabin, don't you know!
And then I think o' mother,
And how she ust to love 'em -
When they wuzn't any other,
'Less she found 'em up above 'em!
And her eyes, afore she shut 'em,
Whispered with a smile and said
We must pick a bunch and putt 'em
In her hand when she wuz dead.
But, as I wuz a-sayin',
They ain't no style about 'em
Very gaudy er displayin',
But I wouldn't be without 'em, -
'Cause I'm happier in these posies,
And hollyhawks and sich,
Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses
In the roses of the rich.
DOT LEEDLE BOY OF MINE*
Ot's a leedle Gristmas story
Dot I told der leedle folks
Und I vant you stop dot laughin'
Und grackin' funny jokes! -
So help me Peter-Moses!
Ot's no time for monkey-shine,
Ober I vast told you somedings
Of dot leddle boy of mine!
Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder,
Ven der snow vas all about -
Dit you have to chop der hatchet
Eef you got der sauerkraut!
Und der cheekens on der hind leg
Vas standin' in der shine
Der sun shmile out dot morning
On dot leedle boy of mine,
He vas yoost a leedle baby
Not bigger as a doll
Dot time I got acquaintet -
Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall! -
I grackys! dot's der moosic
Ot make me feel so fine
Ven first I vas been marriet -
Oh, dot leedle boy of mine!
He look yoost like his fader! -
So, ven der vimmen said,
"Vot a purty leedle baby!"
Katrina shake der head...
I dink she must 'a' notice
Dot der baby vas a-gryin',
Und she cover up der blankets
Of dot leedle boy of mine.
Vel, ven he vas got bigger,
Dot he grawl und bump his nose,
Und make der table over,
Und molasses on his glothes -
Dot make 'im all der sveeter, -
So I say to my Katrine,
"Better you vas quit a-shpankin'
Dot leedle boy of mine!"
No more he vas older
As about a dozen months
He speak der English language
Und der German - bote at vonce!
Und he dringk his glass of lager
Like a Londsman fon der Rhine -
Und I klingk my glass togeder
Mit dot leedle boy of mine!
I vish you could 'a' seen id -
Ven he glimb up on der chair
Und shmash der lookin'-glasses
Ven he try to comb is hair
Mit a hammer! - Und Katrina
Say, "Dot's an ugly sign!"
But I laugh und vink my fingers
At dot leedle boy of mine.
But vonce, dot Vinter morning,
He shlip out in der snow
Mitout no stockin's on 'im. -
He say he "vant to go
Und fly some mit der birdies!"
Und ve give 'im medi-cine,
Ven he catch der "parrygoric" -
Dot leedleboy of mine!
Und so I set und nurse 'im,
Vile der Gristmas vas come roun',
Und I told 'im 'bout "Kriss Kringle,"
How he come der chimbly down:
Und I ask 'im eef he love 'im
Eef he bring 'im someding fine?
"Nicht besser as mein fader,"
Say dot leedle boy of mine. -
Und he put his arms aroun' me
Und hug so close und tight,
I hear der gclock a-tickin'
All der balance of der night!...
Someding make me feel so funny
Ven I say to my Katrine,
"Let us go und fill der stockin's
Of dot leedle boy of mine."
Vell - Ve buyed a leedle horses
Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring,
Und a leedle fancy jay-bird -
Eef you vant to hear 'im sing
You took 'im by der topknot
Und yoost blow in behine -
Und dot make much spectakel
For dot leedle boy of mine!
Und gandies, nuts und raizens -
Und I buy a leedle drum
Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle
Ven der Gristmas morning come!
Und a leedle shmall tin rooster
Dot vould crow so loud und fine
Ven he sqveeze 'im in der morning,
Dot leedle boy of mine!
Und - vile ve vas a-fixin' -
Dot leedle boy vake out!
I t'ought he been a-dreamin'
"Kriss Krinle" vas about, -
For he say - "Dot's him! - I see 'im
Mit der shtars dot make der shine!"
Und he yoost keep on a-grying' -
Dot leedle boy of mine, -
Und gottin' vorse und vorser -
Und tumble on der bed!
So- ven der doctor seen id,
He kindo' shake his head,
Und feel his pulse - und visper,
"Der boy is a-dyin."
You dink I could believe id? -
Dot leedle boy of mine?
I told you, friends - dot's someding,
Der last time dot he speak
Und say, "Goot-by, Kriss Kringle!"
- dot make me feel so veak
O yoost kneel down und drimble,
Und bur-sed out a-gryin',
"Mein Gott, mein Gott in Himmel! -
Dot leedle boy of mine!"
Der sun don't shine dot Gristmas!
...Eef dot leedle boy vould liff'd -
No deefer-in! for Heaven vas
His leedle Gristmas gift!
Und der rooster, und der gandy,
Und me - und my Katrine -
Und der jay-bird - is a-vaiting
For dot leedle boy of mine.
*A poem written in the Hoosier Deutsch dialect and one of the
few writings which document the speech of this now lost dialect.
THE HOSS
The hoss he is a splendud beast;
He is man's friend, as heaven designed,
And, search the world from west to east,
No honester you'll ever find.
Some calls the hoss `a pore dumb brute,' And yit,
like Him who died fer you,
I say, as I theyr charge refute,
`Fergive; they know not what they do!'
No wiser animal makes tracks
Upon these earthly shores, and hence
Arose the axium, true as facts,
Extoled by al, as `Good hoss-sense!'
The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th, -
You hitch him up a time er two
And last him, and he'll go his en'th
And kick the dashboard out fer you!
But treat him allus good and kind,
And never strike him with a stick,
Ner aggervate him, and you'll find
He'll never do a hostile trick.
A hoss whose master tends him right
And worters him with daily care,
Will do your biddin' with delight,
And act as docile as you air.
He'll paw and prance to hear your praise,
Because he's learnt to love you well;
And, though you can't tell what he says,
He'll nicker all he wants to tell.
He knows you when you slam the gate
At early dawn, upon your way
Unto the barn, and snorts elate,
To git his corn, er oats, er hay.
He knows you, as the orphant knows
The folks that loves her like theyr own
And raises her and "finds" her clothes,
And "schools" her tel a womern-grown!
I claim no hoss will harm a man,
Ner kick, ner run away, cavort,
Stump-suck, er balk, er `catamaran,'
Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort.
But when I see the beast abused,
And clubbed around as I've saw some,
I want to see his owner noosed,
And jest yanked up like Absolum!
Of course they's differunce in stock, -
A hoss that has a little yeer,
And slender build, and shaller hock,
Can beat his shadder, mighty near!
Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist
And big in leg and full in flank,
That tries to race, I still insist
He'll have to take the second rank.
And I have jest laid back and laughed,
And rolled and wallered in the grass
At fairs, to see some heavy-draft
Lead out at first, yit come in last!
Each hoss has his appinted place, -
The heavy hoss should plow the soil; -
The blooded racer, he must race
And win big wages fer his toil.
I never bet - ner never wrought
Upon my feller man to bet -
And yit, at times, I've often thought
Of my convictions with regret.
I bless the hoss from hoof to head -
From head to hoof, and tale to man! -
I bless the hoss, as I have said,
From head to hoof, and back again!
I love my God the first of all,
Then Him that perished on the cross,
And next, my wife, - and then I fall
Down on my knees and love the hoss.
OUR KIND OF MAN*
The kind of man for you and me!
He faces the world unflinchingly,
And smites, as long as the wrong resists,
With a knuckled faith and force like fists;
He lives the life he is preaching of,
And loves where most is the need of love;
His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears,
And his face sublime through the blind man's tears;
The light shines out where the clouds were dim,
And the widow's prayer goes up for him;
The latch is clicked at the hovel door
And the sick man sees the sun once more,
And out o'er the barren fields he sees
Springing blossoms and waving trees,
Feeling as only the dying may,
That God's own servant has come that way,
Smoothing the path as it still winds on
Through the golden gate where his love have gone.
II
The kind of a man for me and you!
However little of worth we do
He credits full, and abides in trust
That time will teach us how more is just.
He walks abroad, and he meets all kinds
Of querulous and uneasy minds,
And, sympathizing, he shares the pain
Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain;
And, knowing this, as we grasp his hand,
We are surely coming to understand!
He looks on sin with pitying eyes -
E'en as the Lord, since Paradise, -
Else, should we read, Though our sins should glow
As scarlet, they shall be white as snow? -
And, feeling still, with a grief half glad,
That the bad are as good as the good are bad,
He strikes straight out for the Right - and he
Is the kind of a man for you and me!
*A poem written in honor of Rev. Myron Reed.
A PHANTOM
Little baby, you have wandered far away,
And your fairy face comes back to me to-day,
But I can not feel the strands
Of your tresses, nor the play
Of the dainty velvet-touches of your hands.
Little baby, you were mine to hug and hold;
Now your arms cling not about me as of old -
O my dream of rest come true,
And my richer wealth than gold,
And the surest hope of Heaven that I know!
O for the lisp long silent, and the tone
Of merriment once mingled with my own -
For the laughter of your lips,
And the kisses plucked and thrown
In the lavish wastings of your finger-tips!
Little baby, O as then, come back to me,
And be again just as you used to be,
For this phantom of you stands
All to cold and silently,
And will not kiss nor touch me with its hands.
WE MUST GET HOME
We must get home! How could we stray like this? -
So far from home, we know not where it is, -
Only in some fair, apple-blossomy place
Of children's faces - and the mother's face -
We dimly dream it, till the vision clears
Even in the eyes of fancy, glad with tears.
We must get home -for we have been away
So long, it seems forever and a day!
And O so very homesick we have grown,
The laughter of the world is like a moan
In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain, -
We must get home - we must get home again!
We must get home! With heart and soul we yearn
To find the long-lost pathway, and return!...
The child's shout lifted from the questioning band
Of old folks, faring weary, hand in hand,
But faces brightening, as if clouds at last
Were showering sunshine on us as they passed.
We must get home: It hurts so, staying here,
Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear,
And where to wear wet lashes means, at best,
When most our lack, the least our hope of rest -
When most our need of joy, the more our pain -
We must get home - we must get home again!
We must get home - home to the simple things -
The morning-glories twirling up the strings
And bugling color, as they blared in blue -
And-white o'er garden-gates we scampered through;
The long grape-arbor, with its undershade
Blue as the green and purple overlaid.
We must get home: All is so quiet there:
The touch of loving hands on brow and hair -
Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild -
The lost love of the mother and the child
Restored in restful lullabies of rain, -
We must get home - we must get home again!
The rows of sweetcorn and the China beans
Beyond the lettuce-beds where, towering, leans
The giant sunflower in barbaric pride
Guarding the barn-door and the land outside;
The honeysuckles, midst the hollyhocks,
That clamber almost to the martin-box.
We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse,
Time humors us and tiptoes through the house,
And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise,
With dreams - not tear-drops - brimming our clenched eyes, -
Pure dreams that know not taint nor earthly stain -
We must get home - we must get home again!
We must get home! There only may we find
The little playmates that we left behind, -
Some racing down the road; some by the brook;
Some droning at their desks, with wistful look
Across the fields and orchards - further still
Where laughs and weeps the old wheel at the mill.
We must get home! The willow-whistle's call
Trills crisp and liquid as the waterfall -
Mocking the trillers in the cherry-trees
And making discord of such rhymes as these,
That know not lilt nor cadence but the birds
First warbled - then all poets afterwards.
We must get home; and, unremembering there
All gain of all ambition otherwhere,
Rest - from the feverish victory, and the crown
Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down. -
Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain -
We must get home - we must get home again!
We must get home again - we must - we must! -
(Our rainy faces pelted in the dust)
Creep back from the vain quest through endless strife
To find not anywhere in all of life
A happier happiness than blest us then...
We must get home - we must get home again!
THE PRAYER PERFECT Dear
Lord! kind Lord! Gracious Lord I pray, Thou
will look on all I love, Tenderly today! Weed
their hearts of weariness, Scatter every care Down
a wake of angel wings Winnowing the air. Bring
unto the sorrowing All release from pain; Let
tyhe lips of laughter Overflow again; And with
all the needy O divide, I pray, This vast
treasure of content That is mine to-day!
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