Only one link is to us all A never-failing bond, Only one thought of time’s recall Makes all the world respond. Dear ties there are that knit us close As parent, friend or brother; But God a universal chose In the dear name of “Mother!” Only one face no stranger is Sometime at every side, Only one love whose holy kiss To few has been denied; And whether we it treasure up Or its affection smother, Yet still the world’s communion-cup Is the dear name of “Mother!” Only one touch of nature makes Us feel alike at best, Only one gift for our sakes Outbalances the rest; And whether good or evil, we Are human to each other When our most sacred memory Is the dear name of “Mother!” CHATTERBOXMiss Chatterbox, come here and tell Me all about the fairies’ spell So new to you but strange to me Till you revive its mystery! I, too, delight in Summer bowers But you bewitch the birds and flowers; I, too, rejoice in sunny nooks But you make music of the brooks! Miss Chatterbox, the secret share Of all the magic of the air! How comes the woodland’s passing breeze To be the whisper of the trees? How come the echoes through their screen To be the pranks of elves unseen?— The bushy tails and beadlike eyes The wizard and the kewpie spies? Miss Chatterbox, the riddle read Of yonder fence-side hearts that bleed, Of yonder riot in the field Where buttercups to daisies yield; Where drowsy sprites sip clover-sweets And bobolink with Cupid meets; Where brownies over on the knoll The puff-balls of the pasture roll. Miss Chatterbox, how happens it That you in all this witchcraft fit; That in your feet the fairies dance And from your eyes the sun-sprites glance; That in your curls are elfin kinks And in your cheek a cupid winks; The wood-nymphs clap their hands with thine And thou art nature’s countersign? LITTLE STOCKINGCunningly, patiently I knit you, Little stocking, Counting the stitches the while; Lovingly in thought I fit you While rocking Back and forth, back and forth, with a smile, On the baby-feet I kiss Or in slumber absent miss, Dreams flocking, little stocking, Like this. Skilfully, wistfully I weave you, Interlocking The strands in and out and around; Tenderly in mind I leave you, Little stocking, As the woolen thread’s unwound, And I think of baby feet You will cover when complete, Half-mocking, little stocking, So sweet. Artfully I toe and heel you, Little stocking, Clicking the needle ends; Fondly I fashion and feel you, Heart a-talking As the tapering fabric spends; Will the baby-feet be true To the dreams I wove in you? Little stocking, little stocking, Adieu! ELFIN FACESRound me gather Rosycheeks, Clean and fresh as peaches, Smiling daughters of the Greeks, Golden-tongued with speeches. “Papa, tell your little girls All about the fairies!” Bless my soul! they all had curls And Cupid-lips like cherries. Yes, indeed, and starry eyes And merry little dimples Something like a sly surprise Hid in cunning wimples. Yes, and twinkling baby-feet Dancing midst the flowers, Gathering the honey sweet Through the morning hours. But at twilight is the time Each becomes a brownie, Murmuring a sleepy rhyme, Growing soft and downy Till—say, I declare there springs Up from either shoulder Fluffy little angel-wings That at first enfold her,— Then I have to rub my eyes All alert and scarey, For right out the window flies Every single fairy And I’m left there all alone, Peering in the corners. Little elfin-faces gone Leave behind them mourners. SWEET ’STEENLittle outgrown pinafore Hanging there behind the door, Seldom seen, Sprigged all over full of buds Like the yesterdays whose suds Only partly washed you out— What d’you mean By reviving such a time Like a phantom put to rout Till it runs to rue and rhyme? Ah, ’tis sad to think of it— Missy that you used to fit Till between Top and bottom was a glance, Now is wearing styles of France; For alas, she’s grown to be Sweet sixteen, With young ladyship’s conceit And its sprouting vanity— Sixteen, pinafore, and sweet! BOYBoy, thou art the work of ages, Disporting by creation’s glades and streams— Laughing at the sages And filling all the pages Of time eternal with thy hopes and dreams! Boy, thou art the work of nature, Commingling of earth and air and fire— In consciousness and feature A juvenescent creature With active mind and limbs that never tire. Boy, thou art the work of gladness And meant to fill the world with lusty shout, With laughter, not with sadness, With goodness, not with badness, With eager confidence and not with doubt! Boy, thou art the work of Heaven, A thought to give the world a bonnie heir— A living joyous leaven, A spirit nobly driven To try the future and divinely dare! A CHILD’S LIFTED CROSSHow are we taught by childhood’s simple plea Our greatest need and poor deformity When such a child each vesper hour could pray, “Lord, make me well and take my cross away! “That I may share in joy and love return, That I may live to labor and to learn And that to-morrow may redeem to-day, Lord, make me well and take my cross away!” The help came down not as the cry went up, Not as the thirst the giving of the cup; Poor little one, if only we could say God made him well and took his cross away! ’Tis thus we bring our own distorting grief To our beloved Physician for relief; And as our burden at thy feet we lay, Lord, say ’tis well and take our cross away! Thus too we bring our sin-misshapen soul To our great Healer, who can make us whole, And there beside His cross, not ours, we pray, “Lord, make me well and take my sins away!” Ah, time may hold surcease from pain and care; Who knows what is the answering of prayer Or why the Potter breaks the faulty clay? Lord, make us beautiful in Thine own way! THE BOY MILLIONAIREBoy, I’m worth a hundred million And I’m sixty seasons old, But you’re worth about a billion In another kind of gold! I’ve the money, you’ve the treasure, You’ve the future, I’ve the past, I’ve the power, you’ve the pleasure, Mine is fleeting, yours will last. When you whistle through the clover, Capturing the bumble-bee, When the brook is running over And the trout-line craftily Feels the eddy—who can offer You a kingdom more divine? I’ve an overflowing coffer But would trade it all for thine. A LULLABYLittle birdie, fold thy wings, Snuggle in thy nest; While the wind thy cradle swings, Baby-birdie, rest! Oh, so wee and warm and near To thy mamma’s breast! Oh, so free from harm and fear! Go to rest, go to rest! Little flower, hide thy face, For ’tis eventide! In the sleepy night’s embrace, Little flower, hide! Oh, so wee and fair and still On thy mamma’s breast! Oh, so free from care and ill! Be at rest, be at rest! Little baby, close thine eyes; Fairies come for thee From the land of lullabys, Where my baby’ll be Oh, so blissful while she sleeps On her mamma’s breast! And I kiss her smiling lips; She’s at rest, she’s at rest! THE LAST SONGJust one more little song, mother, Before I go to sleep; For thou hast often hushed my heart To slumber soft and deep. Before ’tis dark I long, mother, For thy dear voice, which seems To make thy gentle face a part Of childhood’s golden dreams. Just one more little song, mother, Before I sink to rest; For thou hast often stilled my fears Upon thy tender breast. Thy love so great was strong, mother, With childhood’s safe repose On lips that kissed away its tears, In arms that held it close. Just one more little song, mother, Before I dream of skies Where stars and flowers smile and shine And angel-harps surprise. But not in Heaven’s throng, mother, Is there a dearer face, A sweeter song or soul than thine The Gloryland to grace. YOUTHA vision of morning, A sparkle of dew, With roses adorning Life’s pilgrimage through; All joy and no sorrow, No trouble to borrow, An endless to-morrow, And love ever true. |
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