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Title: Rain and roses Author: Jeannette Fraser Henshall Release date: October 4, 2020 [eBook #63373] Most recently updated: October 18, 2024 Language: English Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAIN AND ROSES *** RAIN AND ROSES [Illustration: Portrait of the author.] RAIN AND ROSES _By_ JEANNETTE FRASER HENSHALL _To My Daughter_ BEULAH [Illustration: colophon] 1923 THE STRATFORD CO., PUBLISHERS Boston, Massachusetts Copyright, 1923 The STRATFORD CO., Publishers Boston, Mass. The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. Contents Page Inadequate 1 Old Masonry 2 Hymn of Adoration 4 Sweet Distress 5 The Chastening 6 The Four Winds of Heaven 8 Friend 9 Humility 10 Shadows 11 Two Roads 12 The Reason 14 When June Comes 15 Through Loving Eyes 17 Worship 18 Evermore 20 A City Guest 22 Reminders 24 Soul 25 Farewell 26 Rainbow Ribbons 28 My Neighbor’s Roses 30 The Long Twilight 31 A Lone Walk 33 A Death Blow 35 The Breath of Life 36 A Day in Spring 38 Autumn 39 Little Girl 40 My Old House and The Weather 42 Blue Stone River, W. Va. 44 Sea Hunger 46 Tree Sounds 47 A Wish 48 Middle Creek, W. Va. 49 Endie 50 In Our Old Street 52 Honey 54 Moon Dazzle 55 To Friends 56 To a Meadow Lark 57 Broken Numbers 58 I’m Going Out 60 Ingleside 62 Friendship 63 This Year 65 Spring Walkers 66 Winter Woods 68 Brother O’ Mine 71 Dream 73 Shine and Shower 75 Lines to Death 76 To the New Year 78 Homesickness 80 To Love 81 Your Friend 82 Draw Close to the Fire 83 What Love Is 84 Inadequate Friend of my heart when you’re away I fashion for my tongue, A thousand things to say to you But dear heart when you come, How needless is my well formed phrase, And my care chosen words, Take swift and sudden flight away, Like small wind-riven birds. And with you here, my full glad heart Can only say, you’ve come. For all your touching, pleading ways But serve to make me dumb. Old Masonry Long, long ago in our old street Back from the busy road, An old deserted stone house stood Breaking beneath its load. Such ruin that remained of peaks Stood out against the skies. And the memory of old things Looked from behind its eyes. In summer time this dead old house Set in its flowery space. One likened to a stranger In a much too friendly place. In winter time its creaking frame With all its falling beams, Was like a sea rocked sailor Grown weary of his dreams. It leaned a little westward. And now I think it knew, And was waiting other voices It long had listened to. Once I was part of this old ruin When I myself were young. Out of pity I must leave you And half the song unsung. Hymn of Adoration I am grown weary for new scenes But not of human make. But O! for hills and long green fields, A splintered, glittering lake. This day I am an intimate With sky and bird and tree. With budding boughs and turbulent streams And God’s immensity. I am enamored with fresh days Drenched with rain and sun. The tho’t of thine omnipotence O! God has made me dumb. Thy goodness is so wide, a thing Beat, for me slower time. I cannot sing so great a song In one short life like mine. Sweet Distress I have known the beauty Of a firegold west. And from the hurt in rainsong I shall never rest. I heard the water running From a green hill’s crest, But what is sweet in sorrow Hearts remember best. The Chastening I see thee now thine innocence Writ on thy soul’s clear skies. Thy laughter loving mouth Thy love provoking eyes. I mark thy soft girl fairness Thy strong young body’s grace, The woman soul that I have nursed Dawning behind thy face. I note with fear thy heedless And unchided turbulence. Unfaltering faith in life and love Thine air of confidence. And then I see as seers might see Even as one’s own God. Thy straight, slim youthfulness Bend to the chastening rod. I writhe to think I may not bear The blows, for thine own sake I can not, tho’ ’tis mine to know How one small heart can ache. In the winds of thy fierce breaking God grant I never see Thy flashing spirit sullen, Or thy lips in mutiny. But rather child, I’d have thee know Even as I the rod, As a tuning fork to bring thy song Back to the harp of God. The Four Winds of Heaven When I hear the north wind It never fails to bring, Reminders of for-get-me-nots And sunny days in spring. And O! the east wind carries Upon its scented sail, The tho’t of pink arbutus In some secluded vale. And how I’d like to gather When winds are in the west, A brace of orange blossoms To hold against my breast. But O! I love the south wind That breathes across the loam, For O! the tender south wind Just whispers dear “come home!” Friend Last night when I was watching shadows lengthen From twilight into deeper, darker lines, The lazy river caught my little boat dear, And swept it in among the clinging vines. And somehow in the mirror of the current I saw your kindly face look back at me. Then I reached my eager hands toward you As one would do to friends across the sea. Friend O! mine, don’t think that I’ve forgotten, Tho’ parted now by many a weary mile. In every little pool I see reflected, Your eyes forever tender with a smile And someday when GOD calls me from my dreaming And draws me from life’s loneliness apart, I’ll carry all these things that I remember-- About you, up to heaven in my heart. Humility I have come a long way Over sea and sod. I found nothing small as me, Nothing great as GOD. God has in his keeping Eternities of time. He hears worlds of trouble But, gives ear to mine. He sways stars and planets, “Keeps the keys of death.” But in his loving kindness Paused to give me breath. I have seen a mountain Sweet flowers, a bird, a tree. God has lovely children Dare he look on me? Shadows I sat with dreams and mated them with shadows Where sunlight flecked the grass and trickled thru Each swaying twig and branch of spruce and elder Adoringly, they somehow spoke of you. I sat tense-eyed, my longing vision sensing, An unseen, art-wise hand begin to trace. With all love’s magic trickery displaying To me; your hair, your pallid waiting face. In all these voiceless years of night and grieving Above thy grave I grasp this gleam of grace. Perhaps sometime, where is no pain or parting I’ll smile again into your waiting face. Two Roads There are two roads near Joppa town And here I doubting stood, For one went winding round the hill The other thru the wood. And if I took the winding road ’Twould lead me thru the mall, Of noise and gossipers for which I have no heart at all. Sweet briar nodded from the hill, The blue bells from the shade. A purple finch decided me, So in the wood I stayed. A brooding bird and restless young, Began to chide and fret. And wonder in bird fashion what I ever came to get. A green snake ran across my path Its eyes were jewel small. A flying squirrel left a tree, That seemed ten paces tall. I picked a fern that had uncurled Itself from out the ground. And O! the wood delighted me, The way it stood around. And there were holy moments when My very soul went still. And sad I was for folks who took The road around the hill. And when I left the sancted place, My arms were loaded down. It cost me not one pang to shun, The road to Joppa town. The Reason When I was but a little girl Mere flotsam on life’s sea, Because of youth a lovely rose Meant, just a rose to me. Before I knew that love was life, And life were all of love. The sky was only atmosphere And God frowned up above. But now I am a woman grown And know love tenderly, I can not tell you dear how much God’s roses mean to me. When June Comes When June comes back again I’ll sit Away back from the road and dip My face and arms in clover blooms, And drink my fill of their perfumes, And steep myself in one great gleam Of sunlight, and I’ll dream, And dream, And dream. I’ll lean back in the grass and sigh And look love at the blue, blue sky. Until my senses reel and reel, Like elm tree branches and a feel-- Of drowsiness oozes between, My eyelids, while I dream, And dream, And dream. A lethargy binds tongue and lips, And creeps down to my fingertips. Troubles, cares and everything, Float out past my remembering. And all the world is one great beam Of gladness, while I dream, And dream, And dream. Through Loving Eyes Like a careless child in the drifts it stood Against the darkness of the wood, Even the path was not cut through Up to the door it led you to. Beauty untarnished, but never a sound Save for the whispering trees around. Its shining eyes on the cold world shone Warm and bright from its snowy comb. Cheer was the word the blue fume wrote As it cleared itself from the chimney’s throat. The drifts that lay on the tent like sheds Were like the covers of untouched beds. A great white garment of snow and frost Was laid on the fence, but the hedge was lost. A-while away the home garden park Divides itself from the woods soft dark. Dear God I said, you had meant to please When giving man such gifts as these. Worship I did not always know ’twas kind Of thee to let me pass, And with my sacrilegious feet Walk lightly thru thy grass. How could I know, when I was young ’Twas one of thine own dreams, To tender me the license of Thy hills and singing streams. How could’st thou take even a part Of thy remotest time, And weld me, poor unworthly link, Into this chain of thine. One day I learned at cost of pain Among the shadows dim, Thy gift of violets, Oh! God Their fragrance cutting in. I set apart one hallowed day Forever dear to me. Because thou taughtest me to love A flowering apple tree. And since I’ve older grown and drawn To solitudes apart, I find I cannot tell the Lord All that is in my heart. Evermore Then I go on from here I’ll take The ever pleasant memory of a lake. I’ll tightly lock within my spirit breast The picture of a grim old mountain’s crest. A little stream’s song running ever clear And all the lonely places I hold dear. A mocking bird, a drenched and dripping tree. O! I shall keep my hunger for the sea. I shall keep my knowledge of the paths I know The gates of many mornings and the glow, Of sunset, on a firegold window pane, The mist on young nasturtiums after rain. Virginia creeper on some quaint old garden wall The sound of dropping nuts, I’ll take them all. The falling leaves, the closing of the year, I’ll not forget, tho’ I go on from here. These tho’ts I shall retain (e’en past the gates of death), Of burnished autumn leaves, a tiny baby’s breath. In my heart I’ll take the Heaven’s most untried height A moon drowned flower, from some star riven night. I shall remember thru great ages of GOD’S time The wind in clover, rain in summer time. Think you I could forget, thru death’s wild fret and pain The look of slim young birches in the rain? A City Guest The wonder never went out of her eyes When she saw the sweep of our wide blue skies, The things we farmers forget in the pain Of sowing and planting and reaping again. Things taken for granted loose the touch Of newness and dazzle we love so much. While she, soft-eyed and with shining face, Found pleasure in all things about the place. She gathered the flowers in wind and rain That we called common and tho’t real plain. From the sweep of our lawn to the poppy bed Flaunting their colors about her head. Till we ourselves looked with glad new eyes On an old, old setting, but a new sunrise. Cold grey days she would rise and sing For she found beauty in everything. Will she ever know in the city street How we think of her when the snow and sleet, Make houses enjoyable things to own, How often we mention her name at home? Can she ever know with her warm flower heart, How she gave us back what we lost in part. How the thought of her when it’s cold with rain, Fills the house and the halls, with herself again. Reminders The sun, the wind, and rain The trees, the flowers and skies, A grosbeak’s note From its flaming throat And my bosom is tossed with sighs. Eyebeams and locks of hair The curve of a white cheek near, Each day of the week Filled full of the sweet Reminders of you, my dear. The crowd and the city street, A hill that is bleak and bare. A fleecy cloud Floating high and proud And I think of my darling’s hair. A voice that is strangely like Your own that I turn to see; A silvery laugh, Convincing me half My dreams have been fooling me. Soul Because, There never was a voice on earth Could soothe its harrowings, That’s why these souls God gave to us Are always lonely things. Because, Life is so short, and death so sure, And worlds uncertain things, And time so fleet and heaven so high Souls have such restless wings. Because, ’Twas fashioned in the heavenly realm Of God’s creative schemes, That’s why a soul goes hungrily From dream to shining dream. Farewell When you are twining wreaths of rose and columbine To soften outlines of a tomb too new, Remember, spring makes little tents all green and cool For soldier boys this old world never knew. When spring comes tripping down the lane once more And children bring you violets of blue, When your tender heart is strained, beyond the breaking Let this be my farewell, dear heart, to you. When spring comes romping, singing, back again, Dressed in her garments fragrant, fresh and new; When once more robins sing among the budding trees All honey sweet, with apple blooms and dew. When you have searched the woods as once you did For specimens of moss and long, dank fern, Remember, that I too have loved the flowers But, look no more, no more for my return. Rainbow Ribbons Bring me rainbow ribbons And a band of blue, Bring me threads of silver From the moonbeams’ hue. Bring a pure cloud fleecy, Snatch a sunbeam bright, Tints from twilight evenings, Matchless and just right, To mate with all her beauty. These amassed will make the dreams Tender, pure and holy Of a girl just turned thirteen. Bring me rainbow ribbons From the sunset too Then a white tho’t from the angels Who are holding hands with you. Bring the rosebud’s fragrance And the apple blossom’s bloom The hushed voice from the morning Then leave a little room, For a thousand transient colors From a God’s infinite dream And you’ll have the soul and fancies Of a girl just turned thirteen. My Neighbor’s Roses My neighbor’s roses always grow In such a tantalizing row, Of fragrance and perfume, A riotous mass of twilight bloom. And I am tempted oftentimes When walking where the stray ones climb, To reach my willing hands out so And clasp each crimson, flaming glow. A breeze steals softly thru the day And brushes them too far away. Christ! make me kind enough to give Of roses while my friends yet live. And if they reach their eager hands, To where my flowers with clinging bands, Are nodding, tempting, from the row. Oh! Christ I pray let breezes blow A thousand fragrant, tender charms Into my neighbor’s outstretched arms. Then keep my burning heart and tho’t, Tender enough to stay them not. The Long Twilight When “Pop” is bald, and my hair is white, And the stage is set, for a long twilight; When we are alone in our little den He with his pipe and I with my pen, ’Twill not be regrets that make us sigh For we will have things that the world can’t buy. For we have snatched from the mirth mad throng A little of love and a deathless song. A few glad dreams and our tho’ts all white, The silence of God, in the long twilight. When “Pop” is bald and my hair is white, And we’re nearing the end of the long twilight, ’Twill not seem cold in the darksome wood For we have been friends with solitude. And often yearned in the shadows cold For the friendly smiles the gods withold. Hearts all the braver for the feel of pain, For a rose grows sweeter every time it rains. A few glad notes from a comrade’s song We’ll sing in the night as we go along. For we carry the blossoms a frost ne’er blights And we’ll have no morning till we’ve said goodnight. A Lone Walk When I had left the city street And lost the open road, I breathed contentedly and deep As one who shifts a load. I wasn’t caring where I went Or where I meant to go. But I was tossing from my path The brown leaves drifted so. When I was wondering aimlessly Just what my quest would bring. I saw a pink arbutus bloom And heard a warbler sing. The sky seemed blue and higher here Than it was back in town. And Oh! the wind delighted me, The way it blew around. And then I sought the grey glen road. Went with it thru the wood. And in its long green isles I walked And worshipfully stood. My neighbor questioned from the fence What I had seen out there? I said I sought adventure And I found it everywhere. A Death Blow He said goodbye, you hobbled out, The Doctor shut the door. From your face I knew he’d told you Things we had guessed before. I saw you slightly tremble But I reached you ere you fell. Your fixèd face said many things More than you cared to tell. One does not receive death warrants As one would a courtesy. After awhile your head went up And you talked it all out with me. Brave little woman I knew you Knew you were never afraid. Not for yourself, You forbid me-- To speak and my questions you staid. All I could give was silence. Your pride forbade me much. Tho’ I longed to bear your burden Even to be your crutch. The Breath of Life I’d like to lift the threads of life And weave them on a loom And make a pattern beautiful, As any day in June. I’d put ten thousand violets And shimmering leaves of green, Around the edge and over it, To hide each vulgar seam. Because, death brushed me with dark wings, Reluctant passed me by, I take the threads of life again And weave and smile and sigh. But if I had a God-like power Omnipotence of mind, To put the tho’t of suffering And death a league behind. Life would be violets to me Much sweeter than a dream. The pattern on my loom would show No raw and ghastly seam. But then methinks it is because Of what the looms disclose. The breath of life is sweeter Than the fragrance of a rose. A Day in Spring Go slow, O! day immaculate; Much slower than the rest. Master of time, mark every hour As tho’ thou were not pressed,-- Or hurried. But more leisurely And gently let them chime. Oh! morn, take off thy wings of speed And let this day be mine. O! day, immaculate and kind, Make no rude haste or speed. But loiter in less trodden paths Walk lightly o’er the mead. Spring and I are holding hands On a green hill’s dazzling crest. Make this day, God, go very slow More slowly than the rest. Autumn I see you now, your autumn gown In wanton fashion hung, Your crimson scarf half rakishly, To trifling breezes flung. I was distressed and sad to think You did not even care. But once your harp sang low and sweet You breathed a solemn prayer. You sang soft broken numbers Sad as your soul’s distress, And I loved you no matter how wanton Or scarlet or scanty your dress. Little Girl From out the calendar of time Grant me one glorious day. And let me follow singing streams, So cool with tossing spray. And riot in their pebbled beds Where willows bend and swirl Their giddy heads, as once they did When I was, “little girl.” And let me feel again the clutch One gets down in the throat From long admiring, silent things Faint sounds and clouds afloat. Let afternoon slip languidly, Tree branches bend and twirl Adoringly: as once they did When I was “little girl.” Give me one riotous unbound day To climb a dizzy hill. Waist deep in laurel, where wood birds Gyrate and mock and trill. Where even timid walkers’ steps Unloose great rocks that hurl, Delightedly, to depths I feared When I was “little girl.” Grant me one free unbounded day Wherein I may explore, The land where dream folks’ houses shed Moon dazzle from the door. Oh! riotous day detain my steps Clasp me from this mist whirl And let me live the dreams I dreamed When I was “little girl.” My Old House and the Weather I grow so very weary Of the city’s crowded street The babbling of voices The restlessness of feet. I often wish my friends would talk Less dexterous and less clever, And let me say a word about My old house and the weather. I long to stop those restless feet And if I only could, I’d still their babbling tongues awhile With back-home quietude. I long to let them know about Birches that stand together, And the hand that threw the blooms around My old house and the weather. But as it is I only take Mere twigs of it to town, The lilacs when they’re on the bush And roses tumbling round. But folks forget so hurriedly And talk of fuss and feather, I think they’d best come out and My old house and the weather. Bluestone River, W. Va. Sometime in my day dreaming Thru’ my half-lidded eyes, I’m seeing old Virginia And Old Virginia skies. The narrow, crooked roadway, The path by which we came, And then I see the river, Bluestone river, in the rain. Then there’s the drooping willows Swaying, swirling, side by side. And the hollyhocks keep nodding To each other in the tide. And the mists we love o’ mornings Puts our dropping tears to shame. When we see it clear the river, Bluestone river, in the rain. And there’s the little homestead Just across the running stream, It beckons from the mountain Like a kind hand in a dream. A soft, mellow light is breaking From each golden window pane, And it shines down on the river, Bluestone river, in the rain. Sea Hunger I’ve languished under many moons And loved them all. Ah me! But now my heart is filled too full Of hunger for the sea. When thinking of the white gulls That ride the creamy foam, I almost hear the brave winds O’er singing seas at home. And when I think of white mists That rise from shore to shore, In utter weariness I weep But cannot see them more. And some day when I leave my dreams These tides in which I’ve striven, I’ll lock their memories in my breast And carry them to heaven. Tree Sounds The forest closed and folded About me like a tent. The tree tops swayed and toppled Rain riven and wind-rent. The old harp in the pine trees Struck cords minor and deep. So in the storm tossed forest I was rocked to sleep. That was long ago, O’ ages, Yet thru these rushing years, The sounds of a wind rent forest Is ever in my ears. A Wish They called me girl, gave me the name Of one I’ll never see. I wish they’d given me instead The name of some nice tree. A tree that rocks with every wind, Fast rooted in the ground, Straining its eager branches up To where God’s looking down. A neighbor to the grass and flowers. A friend to all the skies, A lovely tree that dares to romp With every bird that flies. A spruce, an elm, a tamarack; Dear heaven, how can there be A lovelier name, and how I wish They’d given one to me. Middle Creek, W. Va. I have a longing for a hill A passion for small streams. And there’s a creek that winds itself Among my muted dreams. A tumbling stream, you know the kind, With water running clear, Where birds might bathe between its songs And pilgrims hover near. It twines itself, love-fashion, round A flowering tree, then worms-- And oozes in between the roots, Of sycamores and ferns. Petals float down and mingle with Ribbons of grass while I Am conscious that I am dreaming, And writing while I sigh. Endie I like to visit Endie’s house She’s like a dream herself, She has the books I know and love Upon her reading shelf. And when I go to her we talk About the clouds and wind, And if I drop from clouds to clods Why; Endie doesn’t mind. I like the streams, the singing ones, But Endie likes a fall; And if I disagee with her She doesn’t mind at all. Endie has a thousand things To plant in one small space; When I find it can’t be done Regret is in her face. She often says O! dare we plant, Narcissus in a row? But she agrees and I agree Where hollyhocks should grow. I only need to mention tea And Endie’s soft eyes shine. And then she talks; her language flows More eloquent than mine. Once ambition burned my breast Endie, too, was fired. But here is where I stop to rest For Endie’s getting tired. In Our Old Street We children played in a queer old street That persistently seemed to hide, Itself and us in a kindly way From the great wide world outside. And how we loved in our childishness God’s work on the sea and land. But death was secretive, dark and deep, And never showed us his hand. With awe we gazed on his work, sad work And the flutter of ribbons white, Made us all catch hands, hold our breath and sob In our restless dreams at night. When a baby came to our queer old street So downy and vague and new, We tiptoed out of the soft, dark room, And the mystery grew and grew. But many things we have learned since then For life has a strange sad way, We left the hills and the queer old street Where we used to shout and play. One of the things we have learned is this: Tho’ death rides around rough shod, Back of our births and our deaths and our loves Is the all-kind heart of GOD. Honey His eyes were wide and large and bright As shining drops of dew, In which two violets had drowned Themselves and made them blue. His lips were O! so soft to kiss His smile was quaint and funny; Couldn’t think of any name To call him only Honey. No one ever tho’t that I Was his sister Sue. For my eyes were just as black As his eyes were blue. And my hair was like a crow His so golden sunny. Father ridicules the name But keeps on saying Honey. Moon Dazzle Last night, as tho’ with new washed eyes I looked upon a lake. Something within me sharply stirred An understanding ache. An ardent willow swayed and dipped The cool depths of lagoon. Unstirred miles of grass and dew Lay lonely to the moon. It seemed I’d never seen a night Or such a scene before. The moonbeams stretched a splintered path From shore to shadowed shore. I marveled thus, and wondered how In unveiled hours to come, Could such a pulseless thing like death Make one so eager, dumb. To Friends Last night, when I was wearied to my soul, I was slipping out to dreamland very fast. When I tho’t about you, and the things you did, The help you gave, for which I did not ask. Your unselfishness and kind deeds true, Kept coming up before me like a scroll. I could not count the many things you did, For me, when I was sick, in body and in soul. My undeserving self grew very, very tired. With all the counting of them, and I slept. But, ’twas just to dream again of all these things, And in my restless sleep, I wept, and wept, and wept. To a Meadow Lark And when I saw him stamping over My little patch of shrubs and clover, His steel bright gun held shoulder high I scarce could check, a smothered cry. Because I knew your nest was low So shuddered when I saw him go. A gunshot and I scarce could see You had flown screaming to a tree. O little bird with troubled breast, A miracle has saved your nest. I’m sorry you were frightened so, You should not build your nest so low. Broken Numbers A mystery puzzled and vexed me, Unsolvable, strange and deep. Perplexed and worn out in spirit It followed me into my sleep. Then with eyes that were heavy with dreaming I drifted from darkness to dawn. For the raindrops scattered my shadows With numbers of broken song. I thought of the heavy mystery That troubled me yesterday, It seemed I never could solve it Or drive it completely away. And I thought of the thousands of moments When each, to oneself stands alone, Thrown back on oneself for the answer The answer that never comes home. As I pondered each sad broken number The raindrops made on the pane, The shine came to me, came in bundles, For I heard the song in the rain. Shine is a guest we have often Grief being seldom is great. I have no quarrel with mystery I have no quarrel with fate. I’m Going Out I’m going out where breezes blowing round Make trim kept acres look half country and half town. Where March winds tossed and blew the leaves away Into the fences corner yesterday. Oaks that never dropt last summer’s leaves at all Were coaxed at last today to leave them fall. I’m going out to this street’s very end, Where city atmosphere and country spaces blend, And hear the whirring wings of lonely larks, That circle like burnt embers o’er the park. I’ll have my hair in torrents blowing wild About my pallid features like some child, That had its romping days of childish fun Most strangled e’er they ever had begun. I’d like to walk around a field that’s barr’d From other pleasant places winter scarr’d. Where drifts have filled the corners there I know Is still a faint suggestion of late snow. So when your luncheon hour and mine comes round, I will have gone beyond the edge of town. Ingleside The road that goes to Ingleside Can’t be described at all, ’Tis sweet beyond the telling And the trees are paces tall. Spring o’ year at Ingleside Is pungent sweet of breath. And for its rainfilled, tumbling streams I’m homesick unto death. Confusing flowers fill the wood Like nodding plumes of flame. The like of which one’s never seen And no one knows the name. The hills that look on Ingleside Are emerald to the brow. And I would give a thousand dreams If I could see them now. Friendship Once on a time there was a road Went winding by my door. And fain I was to travel it In search of golden store. And O! how oft with heavy heart The weary miles I trod, And many a sorry tale I learned Upon the open road. Often times I was made glad And oft my heart was sore. For folk who traveled on the road That winded by my door. Adventure came, aye many a time, And even now I sigh. And sorry am to count the times The false gods caught my eye. But now I keep a little spot Just off the busy road, And there I patient, wise-eyed wait Those of the heavy load. And kindly then I draw them in While warm heart talks to heart. And when night darkens I have found We’re sorry for to part. This happened too once on a time When I was weak and sore. I drew a jewel from the road That winded by my door. But then I very often find Two roads so different meet, And many a friend I’ve found and kept For whom I did not seek. This Year This year’s breezes gently toss A fern uncurling from the moss; Arbutus trailing lengths along; Brown thrush thrilling with his song. The grosbeak sings a song of cheer, “Ain’t” things beautiful this year? The dandelions are here again Amongst the grass like golden rain. A hawthorn raining petals white, Whilst dripping with the dews of night. A mocker’s notes, round, sweet and clear. “Ain’t” things beautiful this year? So thankful that old winter’s gone Fond hearts beat a tender song. The meadow lark in circles high, Sings songs of faith against the sky. While in my heart I greatly fear, Things are too beautiful this year. Spring Walkers Isn’t there just a hint in the air That spring’s hiding out in the garden somewhere? Remember the place where the violets grew? Let’s all go and see if they’ve been stirring too. That sounded like wings, O! look it’s a bird. How did he know that the mosses had stirred. Before we can really think it is spring He’s here on his faith, and started to sing. Someone’s been here, the leaves have been tossed As if one were looking for things that were lost. And ruthlessly left to the late April snow The pale slender necks of the first buds below. Let’s cover them up, it doesn’t seem fair To leave them like this, see that birch over there? We’ll remember the place and come back again, When the sun is some warmer, and there’s been a rain. Let’s walk thru the wood, and come back this way I dislike to go home, I wish it were May. Here’s a place I adore, this tender dark wood. It’s a source of delight, and if one only could Just come here and visit awhile every day, ’Twould charm every heartache one has quite away. This path has surprises at every bend. This log has been here since I can’t tell you when. We just walk around or climb over this way, ’Twould spoil the whole scene if they took it away. This tree has been tired standing up long ago ’Twas March, the old roughneck, gave it the last blow. It looks like a man-contrived arch o’er a drive, The vines will cling round it and keep it alive. I’m tired. Let’s go back, we’ve come a long way I dislike to go home, I wish it were May. Winter Woods Would you like to walk to Elm Court Now that winter’s here? Yes it is a little chilly, But you’ll like it, never fear. I’d like to see that little path, The one you sketched, you know, After last night’s storm it surely Must be rimmed around with snow. The grey grouse slept I’m certain Beneath the patches white, The hills protrude a dazzling crest Into the dawn’s cold light. If attempts were made to climb Up to its softened blue, Every time we stepped up one We’d slip back more than two. But now, we’ll just go thru this woods And this deep snow, my dear, Will make a worth while picture For it’s beautiful this year. Let us plow thru this deep snow drift To that small half frozen stream, We’ll see nicer ferns I’ll wager Than a summer’s ever seen. Ferns in winter? yes there’s plenty. Will you only just look here How frost fashions from plain water Things so beautiful and queer. Wait awhile! here’s beauty, This stream bank’s frozen dirt Boasts an edge as sweet and dainty As a lady’s underskirt. In summer this is lovely But old winter has its charms When these tender little trees stand round With ice clothes on their arms. It’s very quiet, but lonely never, You can push these twigs apart And in the softened stillness Almost feel and hear God’s heart. And one may feel this darkness Like soft velvet one unrolls, Its very quiet is soothing, To a city weary soul. See these bushes! all the edges Have a perfect picot hem, Like women’s restless fingers Had picked up now and then. We must find the pathway back When the sun comes stealing thru, Like old magic, all these wonders Will be dripping from our view. I prefer to keep this picture Just as we have seen it here, This lovely morning, to my fancy Is too beautiful, I fear. Brother O’ Mine Do you remember the cardinal’s call, Brother O’ mine? The hills that we climbed, be they ever so tall, With never a fear for a hurt or a fall, Wondering ever if skies did fall, Brother O’ mine. Many a hill we’ve climbed since then, Brother O’ mine. Been pelted with roses and rinsed with the rain Of our sorrowing teardrops time and again; Despair in our hearts and a clutch of pain, Brother O’ mine. And there were pebbles that hurt our feet Brother O’ mine. But the dust of the highway seemed velvet sweet Tho’ many a cross and trials we’d meet, With daisies and graves at our very feet, Brother O’ mine. Father we had in the bygone days, Brother O’ mine. And mother to wipe all our tears away. Tho’ sodden the sky, and shadows be grey God will speak clear of the mist some day, Brother O’ mine. Dream The flowers upon my lady’s hat, Kept bobbing so this way then that, Until the Church seemed faint and blurred The morning Psalms I scarcely heard. Unless I see I cannot hear, So, I just admired that flower so near. ’Twas unlike any bloom that blows On trees or waves in garden rows, Where clings the morning glory vine Or beds of phlox or columbine, Like nothing in the drowsy south With love songs oozing from its mouth, In all the languorous, summer noons Or riotous breaths of all perfumes, Like nothing in my garden bed Of flowers washed blue or drenched red; Peculiarly designed it sat And nodded on my lady’s hat. I summoned all my powers to wit But could not find a name for it. I sought my couch with troubled breast, I could not from my memory wrest The name of that tormenting bloom, Till wearied tossing, then I swooned Into forgetfulness and dreamed Of lands beyond where sunlight streamed, In gardens where an angel talked In soft glad whispers as he walked. And touched each blossoming bud and bell With pride and love ineffable. But one he loved beyond compare; He stooped and kissed the petals rare. With eagerness I did persist To see the flower the angel kissed. And there it grew a thing intact, The flower upon my lady’s hat. It stood a straight slim tossing flame And I had yet to learn its name. With this in mind I tried to talk, But the angel only sped his walk. I could have cried for very shame, Then someone called me by my name. The room was pink with morning light, Because dreams vanish with the night; And things are not what they seem, I called the little flower “dream.” Shine and Shower It’s the cross that makes the triumph A glorious thing to share, It’s the sweet behind the bitter Makes the burden light to bear. It’s the shine past all the raining Of the heart-break and the tear, It’s the faith in dim tomorrow’s Clears the mist from yesteryears. So I’ll take my shine and shower The bitter with the sweet, And I’ll make a friend of sorrow Every time we chance to meet. Give me triumph with disaster And my share of gain and loss And I’ll not be asking angels For a sweeter, gentler cross. Lines to Death The harp like strings of destiny Stretched taut awhile, then broke, So life gives o’er the battle To death’s relentless stroke. What’s wealth with all its glitter When the sands of life are spent? It cannot unfold the curtain Of that solitary tent. Fame is just a tempting bauble That comes when least we call, And fate stands thus dividing Rain and roses ’mongst us all. Life is just a few short summers, Breath of roses and a prayer. Then a little tent to sleep in When we grow too tired to care. The high, the low, the haughty, The humble, too, meet here. And share like common brothers The sorrow and the tear. But life must have its raining For the master wills it so; And broken harps are mended, After death has struck the blow. To the New Year This morning when I saw you Looking into my bedroom window, I thought that I disliked you very much, For all I could see You very much resembled other days Spotless and so wholesome, With all your tinsel bright, But, your beauty touched me not at all. But I decided to put up with you As one would with strange, unwelcome guests. I turned you around and about many, many times, As a child would a new toy. You were a lovely sight, And yet I felt a bit depressed, Till of a sudden I thought I saw you smile. Or was it only fancy? Then I gave you my profoundest thought For a short while. And way down in your remotest depths Great possibilities looked out at me, And I thought of all the things you might do For this restless world. So I fell in love with you, Before you were a half hour old. Homesickness The folks whom we visit, but once in a while Those friends who are far, far away, May be thoughtful and generous indeed to a fault And kindness itself every day. Not even the hills with the mist on the top And the sun shooting flames ’cross the loam, Can make me forget, nor still the wild fret In my heart for the place I call home. The valleys like Eden are misty and deep: They are washed with the dews of the morn. They but serve to depress me and make me a prey To longings both sad and forlorn. The lilt of the trees and the song of the birds Once so cheery have sobered their tone, For my heartstrings are tied, to a little fireside In a place that I love to call home. To Love Tho’ I am slow of speech, it matters not, For this I know you feel and understand. Tho’ break I at your nearness, yet I draw apart, With wonder at the touches of your hand. Your eager eyes, so near my drooping lids Appraise my flushes, and you understand How fain I am to go, yet do draw near, And tremble at the touches of your hands. Tho’ death should come and seal my eyelids shut, And tho’ I tremble at his cold commands, I could be drawn away e’en from the tomb, methinks If then, dear, you would touch me with your hands. Your Friend Tho’ you’re a heathen to the core And cause him untold pain, He knows everything about you But loves you just the same. You need not always seek him For he’s often seeking you. He has a welcome for the stranger But a warmer heart for you. He is rather scarce on talking But at listening he is good. You love to be around him But respect his solicitude. He is tactful of your failings, Well acquainted with your whim; And there’s nothing in this wide, wide world You would not do for him. Draw Closer to the Fire The summer sweets have faded, The hedge, the vine, and briar, Come, put your hand in mine, my friend, Draw closer to the fire. From footstools let us view the heights To which great minds aspire; Here’s Riley, Keats and Emerson, Draw closer to the fire. A brave refrain from unknown bards And Byron’s brave satire, Frank Stanton’s tears and tenderness, Draw closer to the fire. Tho’ cold the winds and fierce the blast, And thwarted our heart’s desire, We’ve Robert Frost to cheer the hearth, Draw closer to the fire. Give me your hand, my steadfast friend; The words that friends require Stay with me thru the dying year, Draw closer to the fire. What Love Is Love is a magnetism That enables two people To see one another as No one else can see them, A compelling unresisting element Drawing them into each other’s arms. Love is an unselfish devotion, Giving service without reward, Sacrifice without compensation, Suffering without alleviation. It is a power, a force, The fundamental principle of life, Without which, the mere act of living Becomes a farce and a mockery. Love is the foundation of every Unselfish act, in this grey old world. It is the rosy amber hearthstone Of earth’s flaming paradise, and A stepping stone to a better world called heaven. End of Project Gutenberg's Rain and roses, by Jeannette Fraser Henshall *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAIN AND ROSES *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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