The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Little Window

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Little WindowThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A Little WindowAuthor: Jean M. SnyderRelease date: September 16, 2007 [eBook #22637]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from scans of public domain material produced byMicrosoft for their Live Search Books site.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE WINDOW ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: A Little WindowAuthor: Jean M. SnyderRelease date: September 16, 2007 [eBook #22637]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from scans of public domain material produced byMicrosoft for their Live Search Books site.)

Title: A Little Window

Author: Jean M. Snyder

Release date: September 16, 2007 [eBook #22637]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from scans of public domain material produced byMicrosoft for their Live Search Books site.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE WINDOW ***

A LITTLE WINDOW

VERSES BY

JEAN M. SNYDER

“In good sooth, my masters this is no door, yet it is a little window that looketh upon a great world.”

FOSTER & STEWARTPUBLISHING CORPORATIONBuffalo, New York

All but two of the verses in this volume originally appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, and are reprinted by permission.

The two exceptions are “Joy” (page46) and “Triumph” (page49), which are also copyrighted and reprinted by permission.

Have you walked in the woodsWhen twilight wraps a veil of mistAround the gray-green treesIn early spring?It is then the snow-white trilliumGleam like stars from the carpetOf last year’s leaves:And tall white violets glowLike clouds of nebulæ along the path.And flecked, like points of lightIn the quiet pools of waterAmong the gray-green boles,Are the stars of heaven.

Curling and humming its cadences,It slips past me under the rim of the gorge,As I peer down through the scarlet sumacs.Sparkling in the sunlight,Shimmering in the moonlight,On and on it goes,A silvery sheet of song.

I sawA spray of orange berries etched against the silver of a stone wall:A scarlet vine encircling a golden sapling;On the ground, a carmine robe that had slipped from the shoulders of a maple.A sweep of meadow,A curve of bronzy hill,A glow of ruby and amethystAnd the evergreens making deep quiet spots in it.

I saw

A spray of orange berries etched against the silver of a stone wall:

A scarlet vine encircling a golden sapling;

On the ground, a carmine robe that had slipped from the shoulders of a maple.

A sweep of meadow,A curve of bronzy hill,A glow of ruby and amethystAnd the evergreens making deep quiet spots in it.

Silent, I stood in the forest—Lured by the liquid songOf a thrush.Clear, it was, then fadingAnd softly echoed,As he slipped into the embraceOf the night.So pure, so holy, was his songThat my heart was calmedAnd I was filledWith serenity.

The beaten silver waters cutBy the prow of our ship,Send off stars of phosphorousTo vie with the stars overhead.Nothing but sky and the starlight,And a stretch of limitless sea,Nothing but peace and dominion,—Silence, immensity.

Moonlight is not cold!It is tender and benignant,Softening all it touches,Hiding the roughness,Covering the coarseness,With a glow of silver splendorAnd a lucent floodOf beauty.

There come to the flowersIn my gardenButterflies, golden-spotted tawny,Blue-spangled and sulphur;Glistening dragon-flies, zooming bumble bees,Droning honey-bees.Softly whirring comesThe vivid humming-bird,Sipping, sipping all day long.At nightfall I hear the flutter of theLuna’s wings, asShe caresses the velvet cheekOf the lily.

There come to the flowersIn my gardenButterflies, golden-spotted tawny,Blue-spangled and sulphur;Glistening dragon-flies, zooming bumble bees,Droning honey-bees.

Softly whirring comesThe vivid humming-bird,Sipping, sipping all day long.At nightfall I hear the flutter of theLuna’s wings, asShe caresses the velvet cheekOf the lily.

I love to tread a winding pathThrough the woods,And, world weary, pause upon it.The trees bend and enclose meIn brooding calm;I feel the presence of Deity.I hear the cadence of the stillness—A stillness so alive.The whisper of the leaves,The song of the brook over golden stoneThe whir of a bird’s wings;And I know the presence of Deity.

I love to tread a winding pathThrough the woods,And, world weary, pause upon it.The trees bend and enclose meIn brooding calm;I feel the presence of Deity.

I hear the cadence of the stillness—A stillness so alive.The whisper of the leaves,The song of the brook over golden stoneThe whir of a bird’s wings;And I know the presence of Deity.

An upcurving lane, hedged high,An ancient stile,A rambling path,A brook,And musk,—Golden bells of fragrance,Fusing all the odorsOf English earth.

Robin, robin,Shouting your song,Your throat swellingWith joy!Yes, I hear, I knowWhat you say.For I, too,Would singMy praise andGratitudeTo God!

When I drive throughThe villages and the countrysideIn early evening,And see people sitting in gardensOr at their doorsIn peace and contentment,I long to stop and speak to them.They might tell me of a loved oneDoing some great workIn a big city,Or of a deep sorrow,And I might say a wordTo help lighten it.They might show me treasured chinaOr a bit of lace, handmade;Once some one did.And I could talk with the children.I long to do this,But it always seemsThat there is a hurryTo get to the next place.

Into Niagara’s abyss of blackness,Into its cavernous chaos,I saw birds wing.Sweeping downThrough the mistOf its mighty waters,Undaunted by the roar,Unmindful of the churning,Of the terror of its power,On sure pinionsAnd happy in flightThey dipped and soared andMounted, upward and upward.Into the lightAnd the rainbowAbove them.

In spring my hemlockDances gayly in flouncesOf jade green lace.In summer moonlightWhen a soft wind stirsShe dances with a delicate sapling.They sway and bend in the wind,And bow to the trees encircling.I hear the laughter of their leaves.In autumn she dancesWith beech leaves in her hair,But in winter I have found her still,Crouching under a blanket of snow.

In spring my hemlockDances gayly in flouncesOf jade green lace.

In summer moonlightWhen a soft wind stirsShe dances with a delicate sapling.They sway and bend in the wind,And bow to the trees encircling.I hear the laughter of their leaves.

In autumn she dancesWith beech leaves in her hair,

But in winter I have found her still,Crouching under a blanket of snow.

There is a spot in the woodsThat is “forever England” to me.A clump of beech treesSteeped in silence,Whose shade and solitudeShuts me in with my dreams.The sunshine slants throughTheir limpid leavesAnd turns them to translucent jade,Just as it does in an English spring.Violets are there, and I pluck them,Remembering the bluebellsIn the beech woodAt Sevenoaks.

Down among the docks and elevators and railroad tracksOn the way out of the city,I pass a tiny cottage so ricketyThat its neighbors crowd closeTo hold it up. But there it is,Its one window shining clean, and glowingWith a plant in a tin can and pure white curtains.Hanging over the fence and filling the whole placeWith its beauty and almost hiding the cottageIs a peach tree in full bloom.In the doorway I glimpse a girlIn a purple dress.But what matters the smoke and the noise and the fogTo the peach tree?

Atop Aries hill am I,The lone flyer, throbbingAgainst the sunsetIs higher.He sees more than I,But he cannot hearWhat I hear.I hear the wood-thrushAnd the veery,Answer each other.I hear the voicesOf happy childrenAnd the baying of houndsFloat up from the valley;The chirp of the cricketAt my feet, and, then,The silence of nightfall.He sees more than I,But he cannot hearWhat I hear.

Atop Aries hill am I,The lone flyer, throbbingAgainst the sunsetIs higher.He sees more than I,But he cannot hearWhat I hear.

I hear the wood-thrushAnd the veery,Answer each other.I hear the voicesOf happy childrenAnd the baying of houndsFloat up from the valley;The chirp of the cricketAt my feet, and, then,The silence of nightfall.

He sees more than I,But he cannot hearWhat I hear.

In the ash treeThere is a soft rustling,Lingering, likeA silken whisper,Quite differentThan sound the other trees;As if the bronzy leavesHad much to sayBefore they part,And were loathTo bid farewell.

When I linger in my gardenAnd see black swallowtails hoveringOver white phlox and orange zinnias,And morning glories, in a heavenly blue massSurge upward on their trellis;When I watch the scintillating humming-birdSip from the trumpet blossoms across my doorway,I feel no urge of travel to beholdMore of earth’s beauty.Here in my little garden I have it all—And here I am content.

Firelight, and strains of a symphonyWafting in.Outside, bare treesAgainst leaden skiesWeave their own musicThat throbs with the rhythmOf the orchestra.The wind moans, andStrong, black branchesSway slowly,Mark the beat,Then stop.The wind hums,Delicate, lacelike topsQuiver and rippleWith the quick responseOf the violins.With the shriek of the windThey writhe and toss,Measuring the crescendoOf the brasses.

In an old world palace,Room after roomIs filled with treasures—Old masters, jewels, glass.Yet all I rememberIs the stark whiteness of a gardeniaBlowing against a wall,And the fairy music of a fountainIn the patio.

I needed the dawn, butMy eyes beheld only cloudsAnd a valley filled with mistsAnd a mountain shutting out the east.I needed the dawn, soI could but wait.Surely,SlowlyThrough the cloudsThe light came,Like a presenceDispelling mist and cloud:Even the mountainCould not hide it.My eyes beheld all clear,And in the roseate glow,Like a diamond,Hung the morning star.

There was emptinessWhen the birds left in the fall.But to fill it came late butterflies,Dawdling flocks of brilliant thingsIn clouds of scintillating beauty,Covering every bush and flower.As silently as they came did they disappearAnd in their place came the musicOf the katydid and the cricket.Day and night the cheerful songsOf these tiny insects were our company.An early blizzardBuried every green blade and bent to earthGreat trees and slender saplingsUnder a thick weight of snow.To our door came the thrushesThat we thought were gone,—Shy thrushes, that had turned their backsUpon us in summer and slippedInto the depth of the woods,—And whitethroats and tree sparrows,Unafraid, waiting for food.Even now the stillness is aliveWith the memory of these friendly folk.

An early blizzardBuried every green blade and bent to earthGreat trees and slender saplingsUnder a thick weight of snow.To our door came the thrushesThat we thought were gone,—Shy thrushes, that had turned their backsUpon us in summer and slippedInto the depth of the woods,—And whitethroats and tree sparrows,Unafraid, waiting for food.Even now the stillness is aliveWith the memory of these friendly folk.

When the storm rushes upon the deep woods,It lets down curtains of mistAnd sheets of rain, that dripCrystal beads among the trees.Way above, the branches lash and moanAnd weave. Below, it is still,Still as the undersea.Soft fern and feathery brackenLoom through the mistLike branching coral,And drifting leaves float downLike snowy fishes,Lazily moving.

Down beneath the office windowsIn a chestnut clump,A robin sings all day long,“Joyously, joyously!”Above the whir of traffic,The bands and the sirens,Floats his song all day,“Joyously, joyously!”The lilting song brings to me,The peace of field and merry brook,And I myself, sing all day, too,“Joyously, joyously!”

Down beneath the office windowsIn a chestnut clump,A robin sings all day long,“Joyously, joyously!”

Above the whir of traffic,The bands and the sirens,Floats his song all day,“Joyously, joyously!”

The lilting song brings to me,The peace of field and merry brook,And I myself, sing all day, too,“Joyously, joyously!”

Some say that it is ugly and hurry on through,But I love these impressive symbolsOf man’s ingenuity.Here are the great grain elevators, loomingIn tones and shades of grey, veiledIn the clouds of black smoke from theTugs at their feet;Puffing engines shifting strings of cars,And huge ships nosed in against each otherOr riding at anchor, and canal boatsIn straight lines at the docks.Farther on, across a slip, there areMountains of ore in reds and brown,And pile upon pile of gravel and slag,And sand in soft saffron hues,Heaped up for the steel mills to devour;Those gigantic mills whose tall stacksBelch varicolored gases, againstThe deep blue of the inner harbor,Where the waves pound inOver the sea wall.All this cupped by the toweringCity skyscrapers, and outlined againstThe peaceful Eden hills,Miles to the south.And when I wait for the big bridge to liftFor a freighter with its important tugs,I pull out of line, off to the side,And let the other cars go by,And look, and look.I never seem to get enough.

Once, before dawn,In the Mohawk valley,Dots of light flashedAnd floated offInto the blackness,Like sparks of flameBlasted from the engine.Then more and more,Mile after mile,Almost never ending—Millions of fire-flies,Like tiny torches,Dancing over swamp landsIn the night air.

Mountains,Veiled in shifting vapors,Mountains,Bleak, foreboding,Mountains,Stark and overpowering.Torrents,Tumbling, crashing,Dragging bouldersIn their rushing,Lakes,Forlorn and lonesomeHeatherIn magenta patches,Sheep, and cattleBlack and somber,Winding roadsThrough massive passes.Rain,Sun,Flowers,Mist,Rain,—Loved Scotland!

Across the lakeLying calm and blackUnder the night,Floats the wailOf the pipes:And beyond, loomLangdale Pikes, dim,Shadowy sentinels.Over all, the stars,Like friends, faithfulAnd changeless.

Stretched on the ground beneath the Hawthorn,The perfume of its blossoms mingled with falling petals, floats down to me.Winged things alight there on the blanket of fragrance above,—a bunting, blue as the sky, a warbler, all gold, an Admiral, wings banded with crimson,Make a poem of color of the Hawthorn tree.

One warm June eveningI sat in the churchyardOf old Trinity. I sat there for hoursOn an ancient stone, forgetting time.The Avon, as silent as the centuries it had known,Glided past, carrying me on with its memories.From the lush meadow across the river came the bleating of lambs,And from the limes floated the song of blackbirds.All about the scent of roses hung heavy.Then, over the roof of Trinity, the moon arose.Shakespeare saw the Avon, thus, and loved it,—Winding on in the moonlight.

How simple life can be!A cabin,Mountains, afar and near,A brook,Deer, blowing at night.Perchance,Rain on the roof,Then,The loved books,A fire on the hearth,And endless timeTo think.How simple life is!

Would you chooseThe formal gardenWith lilac hedgesAnd vistas of velvet lawnAnd marble fountainShining pool andMarble bench o’er-toppedBy drooping willow;Massed color in trim beds,And stately garden houseFestooned with wisteriaAnd guarded by strutting peacock?Or,The wood’s garden,The wild garden,Tumbling over itselfWith pale Jacks, and violets—Blue and gold, andBaby ferns, tuckedWithin sheltering gnarled roots!And mossy mounds, starredWith Trillium and Crane’s bill;And patches of lavender sunlight,(No, it’s wild Phlox,In the flickering light)—And fire-flies and flapping owls,At twilight, and furry rabbits,Bobbing ahead up the path.Which would you choose?

Or,

The wood’s garden,The wild garden,Tumbling over itselfWith pale Jacks, and violets—Blue and gold, andBaby ferns, tuckedWithin sheltering gnarled roots!And mossy mounds, starredWith Trillium and Crane’s bill;And patches of lavender sunlight,(No, it’s wild Phlox,In the flickering light)—And fire-flies and flapping owls,At twilight, and furry rabbits,Bobbing ahead up the path.

Which would you choose?

When you were a little girlAnd you went driving with Grandfather,If it rained, didn’t he braid up the horse’s tailBinding it round with a bright silver band,And fasten on the side curtains of the carriageAnd pull the rubber “boot” over the dashboard?And do you remember how the horse’s feetWent “Plop, plop,” in and out of the mud,And you felt the mist blow in on your faceWhen you managed to peer out over the curtain?And didn’t you snuggle up close to GrandfatherAnd hug the Fairy Tale bookWhich he was going to listen toWhen the rain stopped and you lunchedBeside the road?Didn’t your Grandfather always drive overTo the cheese factory, and bring outThe fresh cheese curd to you?Can’t you remember the taste, even now?And sometimes, when it stormed hard, and thunderedAnd lightened, and the crashing made the horseWant to run, wouldn’t your Grandfather always say:“Steady there, now, boy! Steady, boy!” so gently,That neither you nor the horse were afraid after thatBecause Grandfather said everything was all right,And he knew. And wasn’t your GrandmotherWaiting in the doorway, watching a bit anxiously,Until you turned into the yard?Mine was.

Didn’t your Grandfather always drive overTo the cheese factory, and bring outThe fresh cheese curd to you?Can’t you remember the taste, even now?And sometimes, when it stormed hard, and thunderedAnd lightened, and the crashing made the horseWant to run, wouldn’t your Grandfather always say:“Steady there, now, boy! Steady, boy!” so gently,That neither you nor the horse were afraid after thatBecause Grandfather said everything was all right,And he knew. And wasn’t your GrandmotherWaiting in the doorway, watching a bit anxiously,Until you turned into the yard?Mine was.

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