Jean Blewett: Verses about Joy

Here's a song of cheer
For the whole long year:
We've only to do our best,
Take up our part
With a strong, true heart-
The Lord will do all the rest.

O Radiance of life's morning! O gold without alloy!
O love that lives through all the years! O full, O perfect joy!
The hills of earth touch heaven, the heaven of blue and gold,
And angel voices swell the song of love and peace untold!

O radiance of life's morning!
The dew within the rose,
The fragrance fresh from Eden
That freights each breeze that blows!

Dear Christ, the wine of Cana pour out in rich supply,
These hearts keep young with gladness while all the years go by!

O radiance of life's morning!
O gold without alloy!
O love that lives through all the years,
O full, O perfect joy!

A red rose in my lady's hair,
A white rose in her fingers,
A wild bird singing low, somewhere,
A song that pulses, lingers.
The sound of dancing and of mirth,
The fiddle's merry chiming,
A smell of earth, of fresh, warm earth,
And honeysuckle climbing;
My lady near, yet far away-
Ah, lonely June of yesterday!

A big white night of velvet sky,
And Milky Way a-gleaming,
The fragrant blue smoke drifting by
From camp-fire brightly beaming;
The stillness of the Northland far-
God's solitudes of splendor-
My road a trail, my chart a star.
Wind, 'mong the balsams slender,
Sing low: O glad June of to-day,
My lady's near, though far away!

One summer's morning I heard a lark
Singing to heaven, a sweet-throated bird;
One winter's night I was glad in the dark
Because of the wondrous song I had heard.

The joy of life, I have heard you say,
Is my love, my laughter, my smiles and tears;
When I have gone on the long, strange way,
Let these stay with you through all the years-

These be the lark's song. What is love worth
That cannot crowd, in the time that's given
To two like us on this gray old earth,
Such bliss as will last till we reach heaven?

Dear one, think oft of the full, glad years,
And, thinking of them, forget to weep.
Whisper: 'Remembrance holds no tears!'
And kiss my mouth when I fall on sleep.

The harvest sun lay hot and strong
On waving grain and grain in sheaf,
On dusty highway stretched along,
On hill and vale, on stalk and leaf.

The wind which stirred the tasseled corn
Came creeping through the casement wide,
And softly kissed the babe new born
That nestled at its mother's side.

That mother spoke in tones that thrilled:
'My firstborn's cradled in my arm,
Upon my breast his cry is stilled,
And here he lies so dear, so warm.'

To her had come a generous share
Of worldly honors and of fame,
Of hours replete with gladness rare,
But no one hour seemed just the same

As that which came when, white and spent
With pain of travail great, she lay,
Thrilled through with rapture and content,
And love and pride, that August day.

The fairest picture of the past-
Life's tenderest page till all is done-
A glad young mother holding fast
God's wondrous gift-her little son.

FATE says, and flaunts her stores of gold,
'I'll loan you happiness untold.
What is it you desire of me?'
A perfect hour in which to be
In love with life, and glad, and good,
The bliss of being understood,
Amid life's cares a little space
To feast your eyes upon a face,
The whispered word, the love-filled tone,
The warmth of lips that meet your own,
To-day of Fate you borrow;
In hunger of the heart, and pain,
In loneliness, and longing vain,
You pay the debt to-morrow!

Prince, let grim Fate take what she will
Of treasures rare, of joys that thrill,
Enact the cruel usurer's part,
Leave empty arms and hungry heart,
Take what she can of love and trust,
Take all life's gladness, if she must,
Take meeting smile and parting kiss–
The benediction and the bliss.
What then? The fairest thing of all
Is ours, O Prince, beyond recall–
Not even Fate would dare to seize
Our store of golden memories.

'Tis noon, the meadow stretches in the sun,
And every little spear of grass uplifts its slimness to the glow
To let the heavy-laden bees pass out.

A stream comes at a snail's pace through the gloom
Of shrub and fern and brake,
Leaps o'er a wall, goes singing on to find
The coolness of the lake.

A wild rose spreads her greenness on a hedge,
And flings her tinted blossoms in the air;
The sweetbriar neighbors with that porcupine
Of shrubs, the gooseberry; with parasol
Of white the elderberry shades her head
And dreams of purple fruit and wine-press chill.

From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,
A bird flies with a call of love and joy
That wins an answer straight
From that brown thing of gladness on a bough,
Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,
The proud and watchful mate.

The wind comes heavy freighted from the wood,
With jasmine, honeysuckle, iris, phlox,
And lilies red and white;
The blue lake murmurs, and the world seems all
A garden of delight.

'Dawn!' laughs the bow, and we straight see the sky,
Crimson, and golden, and gray,
See the rosy cloudlets go drifting by,
And the sheen on the lark as, soaring high,
He carols to greet the day.

Fast moves the bow o'er the wonderful strings-
We feel the joy in the air-
'Tis alive with the glory of growing things,
With wild honeysuckle that creeps and clings,
Rose of the briar bush-queen of the springs-
Anemones frail and fair!

We listen, and whisper with laughter low,
'It voices rare gladness, that ancient bow!'

Then, sad as the plaint of a child at night-
A child aweary with play-
The falling of shadows, a lost delight,
The moaning of watchers counting the flight
Of hours 'twixt the dark and day.

It echoes the cry of a broken heart,
It grieves o'er a 'might have been,'
It holds all the passionate tears that start
When our heaven and our earth drift far apart,
And the way lies dark between.

It stills all our laughter, and whispers low-
'Tis heart-strings it plays on, that ancient bow!

'O last days of the year!' she whispered low,
'You fly too swiftly past. Ah, you might stay
A while, a little while. Do you not know
What tender things you bear with you away?

'I'm thinking, sitting in the soft gloom here,
Of all the riches that were mine the day
There crept down on the world the soft New Year,
A rosy thing with promise filled, and gay.

'But twelve short months ago! a little space
In which to lose so much-a whole life's wealth
Of love and faith, youth and youth's tender grace-
Things that are wont to go from us by stealth.

'Laughter and blushes, and the rapture strong,
The clasp of clinging hands, the ling'ring kiss,
The joy of living, and the glorious song
That drew its sweetness from a full heart's bliss.

'O wealth of tenderness! O gladness great!
That crowned me, covered me a year ago!
A bankrupt, I-gone faith, gone warm caress
Gone love, gone youth, gone all!'
She whispered low.

'Oh, last days of the year, you take away
The riches that I held so close and dear.
Go not so swiftly, stay a little, stay
With one poor bankrupt,
Last days of the year.'

Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean
Pipe their gladness-sweeter, shriller-one would think the world was green.
O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!
See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!
Mark the warm October haze!
Mark the splendor of the days!
And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;
If you listen you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low-
'We are naked,' so the fields say, 'stripped of all our golden dress.'
'Heed it not,' October answers, 'for I love ye none the less.
Share my beauty and my cheer
While we rest together here,
In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.'

All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime's light and grace,
All the riches of the harvest, crown her head and light her face;
And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,
While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass.
O the warm October haze!
O the splendor of the days!
O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

You sing of winter gray and chill,
Of silent stream and frozen lake,
Of naked woods, and winds that wake
To shriek and sob o'er vale and hill.

And straight we breathe the bracing air,
And see stretched out before our eyes
A white world spanned by brooding skies,
And snowflakes drifting everywhere.

You sing of tender things and sweet,
Of field, of brook, of flower, of bush,
The lilt of bird, the sunset flush,
The scarlet poppies in the wheat.

Until we feel the gleam and glow
Of summer pulsing through our veins,
And hear the patter of the rains,
And watch the green things sprout and grow.

You sing of joy, and we do mark
How glad a thing is life, and dear;
Of sorrow, and we seem to hear
The sound of sobbing in the dark.

The subtle power to sway and move,
The stamp of genius strong and true,
This, friend, was heaven's gift to you,
This made you great and won you love.

Your song goes ringing clear and sweet-
Though on earth's bosom, bare and brown,
All willingly you laid you down,
The music is not incomplete.

Sleep on, it is not by the years
We measure life when all is done;
Your rest is earned, your laurels won;
Sleep, softly sleep, we say with tears.

You miss the touch of her dear hand,
Her laughter gay and sweet,
The dimpled cheek, the sunny smile,
The patter of her feet.

The loving glances she bestowed,
The tender tales she told-
The world, since she has gone away,
Seems empty, drear and cold.

Dear, oft you prayed that God would give
Your darling joy and grace,
That pain or loss might never dim
The brightness of her face.

That her young heart might keep its trust,
Its purity so white,
Its wealth of sweet unselfishness,
Her eyes their radiant light,

Her fair, soft face its innocence
Of every guile and wrong,
And nothing touch to mar the joy
And gladness of her song.

God heard the prayer; His answer came-
Now, cease thy murmuring, cease-
'Come, little one, come home,' He said,
'Unto the Land of Peace!'

You sheltered her upon your breast,
The child so quaint and wise,
To-day, where sorrow is unknown,
She walks in paradise.

Her eyes have learned the mystery,
Her feet the vale have crost,
But, friend of mine, you'll find again
The treasure you have lost.

Your arms will surely clasp once more
The little fair-haired girl
Who waits for you within the gates
Of jasper and of pearl.

The Golden Rule-the blessed creed
That shelters frail humanity,
The tender thought for those in need,
The charity of word and deed,
Without which all is vanity-

This, friend, you made your very own,
And yours the satisfying part
To pluck the rose of love full blown,
To reap the gladness you had sown
With open hand and kindly heart.

Simplicity, the jewel rare,
Whose gleam is ever true and warm-
That thing of worth beyond compare
Which none but truly great may wear-
Adorned your life with power and charm.

Yours the sincerity that grips
Fast hold of natures strong and wise;
It thrilled you to your finger-tips,
It set its seal on brow and lips,
And shone within your dark, true eyes.

The throng knew not how rich the store
Of sympathy and trust you had;
Knew not you were, till life was o'er,
God's almoner among His poor,
God's comforter to sick and sad.

Too soon you went-we miss the cheer,
The kindliness vouchsafed to all;
The world seems strangely lone and drear
When one whom many hearts hold dear
Fares heavenward ere the shadows fall.

Too soon you went, and yet, maybe,
Your work well done, your task complete,
The soul of you turned longingly
Toward gates of pearl and jasper sea
And fields of Eden rarely sweet.

I can see her in the kitchen,
Apron on and sleeves rolled up,
Measurin' spices in a teaspoon,
Figs and raisins in a cup.

Now she's throwin' apple quarters
In that wooden bowl of hers,
'Long with lemon peel and orange,
An' she stirs, an' stirs, an' stirs.

Then she takes her knife an' chops it,
Chops so fast her hand jest flies.
Now I know what ma is up to-
Makin' mincemeat for the pies.

I smell Christmas in our kitchen,
An' my heart gets big an' glad,
An' I, somehow, fall to wishin',
That I wasn't quite so bad.

An' I tell myself I'll never
Cheat at marbles any more,
Nor make faces at my teacher,
Nor hang round the corner store

'Stead of goin' on my errands;
Never touch the cookie pail,
Nor play hooky an' go skatin',
Nor tie cans on Rover's tail;

Never let ma think it's spellings
When it's only Robin Hood.
With the gladness comes the wishin'
To be, oh, just awful good!

'Bout this time of year it takes me-
Pa, he doesn't understand,
Always says: 'You sly young codger,
You know Christmas is at hand.'

But it isn't that, it's something-
Can't explain it very well-
Takes me when ma fills the kitchen
With this juicy Christmas smell.

When she chops the spice an' raisins,
With the peels an' Northern Spies,
Sleeves rolled up above her elbows,
Makin' mincemeat for the pies.

Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled,
The sunshine falling on her golden hair;
The moaning of a soul with hurt unhealed
Was her low-breathed and broken cry of prayer.

'Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand!
I pray Thee, lay it on this heart of mine-
This heart so sick with grief it cannot stand
Aught heavier than this tender touch of Thine.

'Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let it press
Here, where the hurt is hardest, where the pain
Throbs fiercest, and the utter emptiness
Mocks at glad memories and longings vain!

'Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago
Slept by Thy mother's side in Bethlehem!
Think of her cradling arms, her love-song low,
And pity me when Thou dost think of them.

'My baby girl, my pretty dear, I miss
Morning and noon and night-her ways so wise,
The patting of her soft, warm hands, the kiss,
The cooing voice, the sunshine of her eyes.

'I sleep, and dream she nestles close, my own,
Her red mouth on my breast; I wake and cry.
She sleeps out yonder in the dark, alone-
My arms are empty and my bosom dry.

'Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, will surely bring
Healing for this great anguish that I bear!
A nursing babe, a little dimpled thing,
God might have left her to her mother's care!

'Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let me feel
Its touch to-day, and past all doubting prove
Thou hast not lost Thine ancient power to heal-
Press out the bitterness, fill up with love!

'O Babe that in the manger rude did sleep!
O Prince of Peace, Thy tender wounded palm
Still holds the oil of joy for those that weep!
Still holds the comforting, the Gilead's balm!'

Would you be glad of heart and good?
Would you forget life's toil and care?
Come, lose yourself in this old wood
When May's soft touch is everywhere.

The hawthorn trees are white as snow,
The basswood flaunts its feathery sprays,
The willows kiss the stream below
And listen to its flatteries:

'O willows supple, yellow, green,
Long have I flowed o'er stock and stone,
I say with truth I have not seen
A rarer beauty than your own!'

The rough-bark hickory, elm, and beech
With quick'ning thrill and growth are rife;
Oak, maple, through the heart of each
There runs a glorious tide of life.

Fresh leaves, young buds on every hand,
On trunk and limb a hint of red,
The gleam of poplars tall that stand
With God's own sunshine on their head.

The mandrake's silken parasol
Is fluttering in the breezes bold,
And yonder where the waters brawl
The buttercups show green and gold.

The slender grape-vine sways and weaves,
From sun-kissed sward and nook of gloom
There comes the smell of earth and leaves,
The breath of wild-flowers all abloom.

Spring's gleam is on the robin's breast,
Spring's joy is in the robin's song:
'My mate is in yon sheltered nest;
Ho! love is sweet and summer long!'

While full and jubilant and clear,
All the long day, from dawn till dark,
The trill of bobolink we hear,
Of hermit thrush and meadowlark.

Sit here among the grass and fern
Unmindful of the cares of life,
The lessons we have had to learn,
The hurts we've gotten in the strife.

There's youth in every breath we take,
Forgetfulness of loss and tears,
Within the heart there seems to wake
The gladness of the long past years.

Peace keeps us company to-day
In this old fragrant, shadowy wood;
We lift our eyes to heaven and say:
The world is fair and God is good.

Did you send your song to the gates of gold
In the days of long ago?
A song of sweetness and gladness untold,
Till fain was my lady to have and to hold-
Ah! my lady did not know.

'Tis love and joy make the soul of a song,
If we only understood.
Can each strain be tender, and true, and strong,
When the days stretch out so weary and long,
Dear little bird of the wood?

The sun came so boldly into your cell-
'Tis the springtime, pretty bird-
And full sweet the story he had to tell
Of doings in meadow and wood and dell,
Till your longing grew and stirred.

This cage of my lady's has silver bars,
And my lady's voice is mild,
But oh, to sail 'twixt the earth and stars,
Forget the hurt of the prison bars
In the gladness of freedom wild!

To soar and circle o'er shadowy glade
Where dewdrops hide from the sun!
O fields where the blossoming clover swayed!
O voices familiar that music made
Till the full, glad day was done!

Ah, then you sang, little bird of the wood,
And you stilled the laughing throng.
To make passionate longing understood
You took the height and depth of your mood
And flung them into a song!

These guests of my lady's did listen, I know,
When out through the silver bars
You sent forth a measure, liquid and low
As laughter of waters that ebb and flow
Under the shimmering stars.

You sang of the sweetest, gladdest, and best
Your longing heart held in store,
Till into the careless listener's breast
There flashed a sudden and vague unrest,
That grew into something more.

Eyes saw for a few brief moments' space
The heights that were never trod,
And, seeing, grew dim for the swift, bold race
That was planned in the hours when youth and grace
Came fresh from the hand of God.

Only a homesick bird of the field
Trilling a glorious note!
Only a homesick bird of the wood
With heaven in your full throat!

You cannot take from out my heart the growing,
The green, sweet growing, and the vivid thrill.
'O Earth,' you cry, 'you should be old, not glowing
With youth and all youth's strength and beauty still!'

Old, and the new hopes stirring in my bosom!
Old, and my children drawing life from me!
Old, in my womb the tender bud and blossom!
Old, steeped in richness and fertility!

Old, while the growing things call to each other,
In language I alone can understand:
'How she doth nourish us, this wondrous mother
Who is so beautiful and strong and grand!'

Old, while the wild things of the forest hide them
In my gray coverts, which no eye can trace!
Hunted or hurt, 'tis my task to provide them
Healing and soothing and a hiding place.

And then, my human children, could you listen
To secrets whispered in the stillness deep
Of noonday, or when night-dews fall and glisten-
'Tis on my bosom that men laugh and weep.

Some tell me moving tales of love and passion,
Of gladness all too great to be pent in-
The sweet, old theme which does not change its fashion-
Another cries out brokenly of sin.

While others filled with sorrow, fain to share it,
Hide tear-wet faces on my soft brown breast,
Sobbing: 'Dear Mother Earth, we cannot bear it,
Grim death has stolen all that we loved best!'

The old familiar cry of loss and sorrow
I hear to-day-I heard it yesterday-
Ay, and will hear in every glad to-morrow
That ye may bring to me, O Century.

I answer mourner, penitent, and lover,
With quick'ning stir, with bud and leaf and sap:
'Peace, peace,' I say, 'when life's brief day is over
Ye shall sleep soundly in your mother's lap.'

The loss, the longing of mankind I'm sharing,
The hopes, the joys, the laughter and the tears,
And yet you think I should be old, uncaring,
The barren, worn-out plaything of the years!

Past centuries have not trodden out my greenness
With all their marches, as you well can see,
Nor will you bring me withered age or leanness.
March on-what are your hundred years to me

While life and growth within me glow and flourish,
While in the sunshine and the falling rain
I, the great Mother, do bring forth and nourish
The springtime blossom and the harvest grain?

March on, O Century, I am safe holden
In God's right hand, the garner-house of truth-
The hand that holds the treasure rare and golden
Of life, and sweetness, and eternal youth!

O! He was the boy of the house, you know,
A jolly and rollicking lad;
He never was sick, he never was tired,
And nothing could make him sad.

If he started to play at sunrise,
Not a rest would he take at noon;
No day was so long from beginning to end,
But his bed-time came too soon.

Did someone urge that he make less noise,
He would say, with a saucy grin:
'Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir-
O sakes! I wish I was a twin.

'There's two of twins, and it must be fun
To go double at everything;
To holler by twos, and whistle by twos,
To stamp by twos, and to sing!'

His laugh was something to make you glad,
So brimful was it of joy;
A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
But it never troubled the boy.

You met him out on the garden path,
The terrier at his heels,
And knew by the shout he hailed you with
How happy a youngster feels.

The maiden auntie was half distraught
With his tricks as the days went by;
'The most mischievous child in all the world!'
She said with a shrug and a sigh.

His father owned that her words were true,
His mother declared each day
He was putting wrinkles into her face,
And turning her brown hair gray.

His grown-up sister referred to him
As 'a trouble,' 'a trial,' 'a grief';
The way he ignored all rules, she said,
Was something beyond belief!

It never troubled the boy of the house,
He revelled in racket and din,
Had only one regret in the world-
He hadn't been born a twin!

* * * * *

There's nobody making a noise to-day,
There's nobody stamping the floor,
'Tis strangely silent upstairs and down-
White ribbons upon the door.

The terrier's whining out in the sun:
'Where's my comrade?' he seems to say.
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog,
There's no frolic for you to-day.

The freckle-faced girl from the house next door
Is sobbing her young heart out.
Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forget
The laugh and the merry shout.

The grown-up sister is kissing his face,
And calling him 'angel' and 'sweet,'
And the maiden aunt is nursing the boots
He wore on his restless feet.

So big, so solemn the old house seems-
No uproar, no racket, no din,
No shrill peal of laughter, no voice shrieking out,
'O sakes! I wish I was a twin!'

A man and a woman white with grief
Watch the wearisome moments creep-
Oh! the loneliness touches everything,
The boy of the house is asleep!

As 'Peace on earth!' the glad world sings one glorious Christmas morn,
'Peace, peace on earth! Good-will to men! Peace, peace! the Christ is born!'
As through the courts, the wondrous courts, of heaven hosannas ring,
As harpers strike their harps of gold and 'Glory! Glory!' sing,
Upon the City's threshold fair
A woman steps, and lingers there.

The eyes she turns on Peter's face with unshed tears are dim,
'Tell Christ,' she says, 'a mother waits who fain would speak with Him.'
Through all the music, far above the highest, grandest note
Of triumph, and of joy and praise, her soft voice seems to float;
And hearing it, straight from His throne
Comes down to her the Kingly One
With shining face and eyes that hold
Such wealth of love and peace,
She feels her trembling heart grow bold,
Her doubt and grieving cease.
'Dear Lord!' she cries, and lowly kneels, 'I have a prayer to make;
O do Thou hear and answer it for Thine own mercy's sake,
Since heaven will not seem fair to me
If one dear face I may not see.

'Dear Christ, a mother's love is great
To shield, to guide, to watch, to wait.
The last kiss that I gave on earth was to my wayward son,
Whose soul, though deeply stainèd by sin, may yet by love be won
To penitence, to higher walk, to purer, holier way;
O wilt Thou let me to go to him and guard him night and day?

'Thou wert a babe in Bethlehem, a mother guarded Thee.
I pray Thee now, for her dear sake, to hearken unto me!
Remember how she held Thee close, and crooned Thee, sweet and low,
The lullabies that mothers sang long centuries ago,
And bared her snowy breast to Thee,
And stroked Thy forehead tenderly.

'And kissed Thee oft, and told herself, again and yet again,
To hold Thee thus one hour outweighed the travail and the pain!
Dear Christ, this city is most fair; its glories thrill and move;
O doth it grieve Thee that my heart cleaves to an earthly love?
That on mine eyes heaven's beauties dim
Because my heart is back with him?

'With him-the wandering son of mine, the wayward one-whose need
Of patient love and guiding hand is very great indeed!
Think not I love Thee not, dear Lord, nor long for heaven's rest;
'Tis only that the mother-heart throbs fiercely in my breast.
On this glad morning of Thy birth,
O grant me leave to visit earth!'

Lo! on her head she feels the touch of tender wounded hand,
'Fear not,' she hears, 'a love like thine the Christ can understand.
No mother prays in vain to Me on this day of the year,
For when the faltering words she speaks fall on My waiting ear,
I do remember that My cheek
Lay on a bosom warm,
I do remember Bethlehem,
And Mary's cradling arm.'

When Mary found fault with me that day the trouble was well begun.
No man likes being found fault with, no man really thinks it fun
To have a wisp of a woman, in a most obnoxious way,
Allude to his temper as beastly, and remark that day by day
He proves himself so careless, so lacking in love, so mean,
Then add, with an air convincing, she wishes she'd never seen
A person who thinks so little of breaking a woman's heart,
And since he is-well, what he is-'tis better that they should part.

Now, no man enjoys this performance-he has his faults, well and good,
He doesn't want to hear them named-this ought to be understood.

Mary was aggravating, and all because I'd forgot
To bring some flowers I'd promised-as though it mattered a lot;
But that's the way with a woman, your big sins she may forgive,
But little things, not worth mention, you hear of as long as you live.

A few sweet peas and carnations to start a tempest, forsooth!
For Mary got in a temper-I did the same, of a truth.
I said things that weren't gentle; she pretended not to mind-
But answered back in a manner that left me away behind.

It ended up in our saying good-bye for the rest of our days,
Both vowing we'd be happier going our different ways.
And I strode out in the garden where the trees were pink and white,
Where bobolinks scolded sparrows, and robins, wild with delight,
Chirped and called and fluttered in the blossoming trees above,
Where Nature was busy teaching her lessons of joy and love.

I made a bed of the soft, warm earth, stretched me out in the sun.
Vext and weary, I fell asleep, and slept till the day was done.
The voice of my brother waked me, crying, 'Quickly arise and come;
Bear up like a man, Heaven help you! Death has suddenly entered your home!'

'Twas Mary, my own sweet Mary! The eyelashes slept on her cheek,
The lips had a half-smile on them, as though they were going to speak
Some of the old-time tender words, witty rejoinder or jest,
Or ask the question they'd asked so oft, 'Jim, who do you love the best?'

But the small hands gave no pressure when I took them in my own,
And bending down to kiss her face, I found it cold as a stone.
And it came to me I could never-never, since Mary was dead-
Say, 'Dear one, I didn't mean them, the bitter words that I said.'
Never see the tears go from her sweet, dark eyes, and
the brightness take their place,
Never watch the joy and gladness come back to my darling's face.

Not a fault could I remember-she'd been perfect all her days,
With her sweetness and her laughter, her tender womanly ways.
Dead-dead in her fresh young beauty-oh, I had an anguished heart
At thought of the quarrel ending in our agreeing to part!

When two people love each other, I'll tell you the wisest way,
'Tis to think before speaking harshly, for there surely will come a day
When one will sleep on so soundly that he or she will not wake,
The other sit in the stillness and cry with a great heart-break.
It is to ears all unheeding our tenderest words are said-
The love that the living long for we waste it upon the dead.
We say this life is so dreary, talk much of heaven, I know,
But if we were good to each other we'd have our heaven below.
'Mary,' I whispered, 'my Mary, no flowers to you I gave,
But I'll heap them on your coffin and plant them over your grave.'

A bird sang sweetly and shrilly in the blossoms over-head,
And I awoke, awoke, awoke-I'd dreamed that Mary was dead!
I woke in the golden sunshine, the birds were singing aloud.
There was no still form beside me, nor any coffin or shroud,
But just a slip of a woman with her brown eyes full of tears-
Oh, that blessed, blessed waking I've remembered through all the years.
I told the story to Mary, who hasn't let me forget
That dream in the blossoming orchard-I hear of it often yet.
If I neglect to bring flowers, it's: 'Oh, you're going to save
Your roses to heap on my coffin, your pansies to plant on my grave?'

And if I lose my temper-a common weakness of men-
The sweetest voice in the world says: 'You'll have to get dreaming again.'