The Project Gutenberg eBook ofNantucket windowsThis 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: Nantucket windowsAuthor: Edwina Stanton BabcockRelease date: August 11, 2024 [eBook #74230]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: Nantucket Island: The Inquirer and Mirror Press, 1924Credits: Chuck Greif & The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NANTUCKET WINDOWS ***
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: Nantucket windowsAuthor: Edwina Stanton BabcockRelease date: August 11, 2024 [eBook #74230]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: Nantucket Island: The Inquirer and Mirror Press, 1924Credits: Chuck Greif & The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
Title: Nantucket windows
Author: Edwina Stanton Babcock
Author: Edwina Stanton Babcock
Release date: August 11, 2024 [eBook #74230]
Language: English
Original publication: Nantucket Island: The Inquirer and Mirror Press, 1924
Credits: Chuck Greif & The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NANTUCKET WINDOWS ***
BYEdwina Stanton BabcockAuthor of“Greek Wayfarers,” “The Flying Parliament,” etc.The Inquirer and Mirror PressNantucket Island, Mass.1924Copyright, 1924, Edwina Stanton Babcock
By whose fireside an Off-Islander first learned to love the charm and grace of Nantucket hospitalityAppreciation is expressed to The National Magazine,the Nantucket Historical Society Bulletin, theNantucket Inquirer and Mirror, andother publications, for permissionto reprint some of these verses
Out on the night they glimmer, Island houses,Casements of orange lustre on the moors;Dune-hidden panes where winter sea carousesShine on the roads that wind past farmhouse doors.The Island windows gleam, and all the sorrowOf human life is lanterned into Dream;The fishers’ huts are splashed, the grey shacks borrowRed from the sun and weltered moonlight gleam.Out on the dark, gold patches on the stable,Light-stippled wharves; ruby and malachite;Sharp, slanting roofs with witchlike peak and gable,Plaqued in warm squares of ruddy window light.Thin blocks of amber in the misty weather,Oblongs of white translucence on the down;Dim, tawny lights beyond pine hidden heather,Clear coastward lights fringing the steepled town.The grey owl flaps across the heaving hollow,The chimneyed house sinks in the commons’ wave;The cottage lights a hundred starlights follow,The Island windows shine ... the road is brave!
Out on the night they glimmer, Island houses,Casements of orange lustre on the moors;Dune-hidden panes where winter sea carousesShine on the roads that wind past farmhouse doors.The Island windows gleam, and all the sorrowOf human life is lanterned into Dream;The fishers’ huts are splashed, the grey shacks borrowRed from the sun and weltered moonlight gleam.Out on the dark, gold patches on the stable,Light-stippled wharves; ruby and malachite;Sharp, slanting roofs with witchlike peak and gable,Plaqued in warm squares of ruddy window light.Thin blocks of amber in the misty weather,Oblongs of white translucence on the down;Dim, tawny lights beyond pine hidden heather,Clear coastward lights fringing the steepled town.The grey owl flaps across the heaving hollow,The chimneyed house sinks in the commons’ wave;The cottage lights a hundred starlights follow,The Island windows shine ... the road is brave!
Out on the night they glimmer, Island houses,Casements of orange lustre on the moors;Dune-hidden panes where winter sea carousesShine on the roads that wind past farmhouse doors.
The Island windows gleam, and all the sorrowOf human life is lanterned into Dream;The fishers’ huts are splashed, the grey shacks borrowRed from the sun and weltered moonlight gleam.
Out on the dark, gold patches on the stable,Light-stippled wharves; ruby and malachite;Sharp, slanting roofs with witchlike peak and gable,Plaqued in warm squares of ruddy window light.
Thin blocks of amber in the misty weather,Oblongs of white translucence on the down;Dim, tawny lights beyond pine hidden heather,Clear coastward lights fringing the steepled town.
The grey owl flaps across the heaving hollow,The chimneyed house sinks in the commons’ wave;The cottage lights a hundred starlights follow,The Island windows shine ... the road is brave!
Limp in his chair atilt against a shackAn old man broods o’er newspaper and smokeWhere shingle-quilted pent roofs back to backChecker from grey of ash to black of coke;Dim squares of window, opal-paned, baroque,Waver on water, pearling it to deepWeedwafted droop of shifting shadow cloakWhere swirls of silver imagery sweep.Slow ribboning to the surface serpent ringsOf mast reflections quiver into greyUpon the incoming tide that softly bringsOne high-peaked sail along the buoyant wayWhere questing water tentatively stealsFingering mossy spiles and undulant keels.The steam boat dock’s a stage where nightly speakThe actors in some ribald skit of TradeHere serried barrels screen a jester’s freakAnd piles of trunks made pirate ambuscade.Red lanterns slackly swung and lights of jadeAccent accordions’ pert canzonette;Or furry trawls along the string piece laidTrip oil-skinned fisherman’s hulking silhouette.A massive barge like enigmatic tombToward a sea-scented land of dark drifts down;Dim on the East the sandy headlands loomTill dawn rings up green trees and steepled town.Then like applause in broken scattering soundThe motor boats speed to the clamming ground.
Limp in his chair atilt against a shackAn old man broods o’er newspaper and smokeWhere shingle-quilted pent roofs back to backChecker from grey of ash to black of coke;Dim squares of window, opal-paned, baroque,Waver on water, pearling it to deepWeedwafted droop of shifting shadow cloakWhere swirls of silver imagery sweep.Slow ribboning to the surface serpent ringsOf mast reflections quiver into greyUpon the incoming tide that softly bringsOne high-peaked sail along the buoyant wayWhere questing water tentatively stealsFingering mossy spiles and undulant keels.The steam boat dock’s a stage where nightly speakThe actors in some ribald skit of TradeHere serried barrels screen a jester’s freakAnd piles of trunks made pirate ambuscade.Red lanterns slackly swung and lights of jadeAccent accordions’ pert canzonette;Or furry trawls along the string piece laidTrip oil-skinned fisherman’s hulking silhouette.A massive barge like enigmatic tombToward a sea-scented land of dark drifts down;Dim on the East the sandy headlands loomTill dawn rings up green trees and steepled town.Then like applause in broken scattering soundThe motor boats speed to the clamming ground.
Limp in his chair atilt against a shackAn old man broods o’er newspaper and smokeWhere shingle-quilted pent roofs back to backChecker from grey of ash to black of coke;Dim squares of window, opal-paned, baroque,Waver on water, pearling it to deepWeedwafted droop of shifting shadow cloakWhere swirls of silver imagery sweep.Slow ribboning to the surface serpent ringsOf mast reflections quiver into greyUpon the incoming tide that softly bringsOne high-peaked sail along the buoyant wayWhere questing water tentatively stealsFingering mossy spiles and undulant keels.
The steam boat dock’s a stage where nightly speakThe actors in some ribald skit of TradeHere serried barrels screen a jester’s freakAnd piles of trunks made pirate ambuscade.Red lanterns slackly swung and lights of jadeAccent accordions’ pert canzonette;Or furry trawls along the string piece laidTrip oil-skinned fisherman’s hulking silhouette.A massive barge like enigmatic tombToward a sea-scented land of dark drifts down;Dim on the East the sandy headlands loomTill dawn rings up green trees and steepled town.Then like applause in broken scattering soundThe motor boats speed to the clamming ground.
I had always felt contented about that ghost,There in her vine-shrouded house aside of the road;I knew that the rag-stuffed panes were her special boast,That she liked the tumble-down chimney of her abode;She liked that old hat that hung in the tree in the lane,And the scarecrow leaves that dribbled around in the rain;The ivy that muffled the sills, a ghost would adore,And she revelled in cobwebs the twisted staircase wore.“The dear, mild thing,” I thought, “she’s the only oneIn this glittering, piece-work world that can run a home;No wonder the birds to her leaf-hung windows come,No wonder the black mole tunnels the garden loam;And there is revelry under her knotted boardsWhere wild kittens hide and the grey squirrels rattle their hoards.”But some eager, figeting, worldlings came one day,Moved into the house on a heavenly morning in May;Of course the ghost could do nothing but move away....Lord, the cutting and hammering, planing and scrubbing and suds,Lord, the paint and the polish, the grates and the curtains and duds!The new-new beds, the cleanness and trimness and all,I looked for the ghost in the mirror that shone in the hall;I looked for her round the curve of the varnished stair,I searched and called for her, wistfully, everywhere....“And what will you do, dear ghost,” was my whispered cry,“And where will you live your shadowed revery?Where do ghosts go when no longer they have a home,Do they pile their effects in a van and begin to roam?Shall you take to a haystack or sleep in the church’s dome?”Whether she heard me and thought it could not be true,Or guessed that she might not trust me, the ghost made no ado;Though the pale grey thing may really have cared that I knew,At all events, she moved ... and her shadowy storeOf belongings exists for the world no more....That house by the road, more correct, I think, than most,Has lost its chief charm.... It no longer has a ghost.
I had always felt contented about that ghost,There in her vine-shrouded house aside of the road;I knew that the rag-stuffed panes were her special boast,That she liked the tumble-down chimney of her abode;She liked that old hat that hung in the tree in the lane,And the scarecrow leaves that dribbled around in the rain;The ivy that muffled the sills, a ghost would adore,And she revelled in cobwebs the twisted staircase wore.“The dear, mild thing,” I thought, “she’s the only oneIn this glittering, piece-work world that can run a home;No wonder the birds to her leaf-hung windows come,No wonder the black mole tunnels the garden loam;And there is revelry under her knotted boardsWhere wild kittens hide and the grey squirrels rattle their hoards.”But some eager, figeting, worldlings came one day,Moved into the house on a heavenly morning in May;Of course the ghost could do nothing but move away....Lord, the cutting and hammering, planing and scrubbing and suds,Lord, the paint and the polish, the grates and the curtains and duds!The new-new beds, the cleanness and trimness and all,I looked for the ghost in the mirror that shone in the hall;I looked for her round the curve of the varnished stair,I searched and called for her, wistfully, everywhere....“And what will you do, dear ghost,” was my whispered cry,“And where will you live your shadowed revery?Where do ghosts go when no longer they have a home,Do they pile their effects in a van and begin to roam?Shall you take to a haystack or sleep in the church’s dome?”Whether she heard me and thought it could not be true,Or guessed that she might not trust me, the ghost made no ado;Though the pale grey thing may really have cared that I knew,At all events, she moved ... and her shadowy storeOf belongings exists for the world no more....That house by the road, more correct, I think, than most,Has lost its chief charm.... It no longer has a ghost.
I had always felt contented about that ghost,There in her vine-shrouded house aside of the road;I knew that the rag-stuffed panes were her special boast,That she liked the tumble-down chimney of her abode;She liked that old hat that hung in the tree in the lane,And the scarecrow leaves that dribbled around in the rain;The ivy that muffled the sills, a ghost would adore,And she revelled in cobwebs the twisted staircase wore.
“The dear, mild thing,” I thought, “she’s the only oneIn this glittering, piece-work world that can run a home;No wonder the birds to her leaf-hung windows come,No wonder the black mole tunnels the garden loam;And there is revelry under her knotted boardsWhere wild kittens hide and the grey squirrels rattle their hoards.”
But some eager, figeting, worldlings came one day,Moved into the house on a heavenly morning in May;Of course the ghost could do nothing but move away....Lord, the cutting and hammering, planing and scrubbing and suds,Lord, the paint and the polish, the grates and the curtains and duds!
The new-new beds, the cleanness and trimness and all,I looked for the ghost in the mirror that shone in the hall;I looked for her round the curve of the varnished stair,I searched and called for her, wistfully, everywhere....
“And what will you do, dear ghost,” was my whispered cry,“And where will you live your shadowed revery?Where do ghosts go when no longer they have a home,Do they pile their effects in a van and begin to roam?Shall you take to a haystack or sleep in the church’s dome?”
Whether she heard me and thought it could not be true,Or guessed that she might not trust me, the ghost made no ado;Though the pale grey thing may really have cared that I knew,At all events, she moved ... and her shadowy storeOf belongings exists for the world no more....
That house by the road, more correct, I think, than most,Has lost its chief charm.... It no longer has a ghost.
The black-alder berries are thick this year,(It’s going to be cold);Their scarlet trinkets, their necklaces boldHang on the shivering wind-swept year,(It’s going to be cold).Now, the Commons are bare and the leaves whirl around,(It’s going to be cold);Like little brown sparrows flicked over the around(It’s going to be cold);But the black alder-berries like rubies embeadedString out on the heath where the milkweed has seeded,(It’s going to be cold).Now the wind feels the blind and the roads look severe,(It’s going to be cold);And the locust tree’s horned pods rattle and shake,And the small bony branches grow brittle and break ...But vitality lingers in reindeer moss,And near the holm holly the thorn-berries toss,The bright alder-berries gleam saucy and bold,Pile up your wood-fires—who cares if it’s cold?
The black-alder berries are thick this year,(It’s going to be cold);Their scarlet trinkets, their necklaces boldHang on the shivering wind-swept year,(It’s going to be cold).Now, the Commons are bare and the leaves whirl around,(It’s going to be cold);Like little brown sparrows flicked over the around(It’s going to be cold);But the black alder-berries like rubies embeadedString out on the heath where the milkweed has seeded,(It’s going to be cold).Now the wind feels the blind and the roads look severe,(It’s going to be cold);And the locust tree’s horned pods rattle and shake,And the small bony branches grow brittle and break ...But vitality lingers in reindeer moss,And near the holm holly the thorn-berries toss,The bright alder-berries gleam saucy and bold,Pile up your wood-fires—who cares if it’s cold?
The black-alder berries are thick this year,(It’s going to be cold);Their scarlet trinkets, their necklaces boldHang on the shivering wind-swept year,(It’s going to be cold).
Now, the Commons are bare and the leaves whirl around,(It’s going to be cold);Like little brown sparrows flicked over the around(It’s going to be cold);But the black alder-berries like rubies embeadedString out on the heath where the milkweed has seeded,(It’s going to be cold).
Now the wind feels the blind and the roads look severe,(It’s going to be cold);And the locust tree’s horned pods rattle and shake,And the small bony branches grow brittle and break ...But vitality lingers in reindeer moss,And near the holm holly the thorn-berries toss,The bright alder-berries gleam saucy and bold,Pile up your wood-fires—who cares if it’s cold?
In those eyes, dark as pools, the morning starMust have lain long; on that calm breadth of browMust have been set some nobleness of vowTo distance and to space and all things far.A little narrow street enshrines her now,But through the world her planet pathways areBlazed with her name; the constellate gates un-pbarTo those who, following, her star-cairns know.Woman, who walked with Science to mark the lightsAlong dark ways, thy luminous steps are dim;Rapt on ethereal roads of satellites:Art gazing still through space beyond the brimOf sparkling nebula meadows to the nightsOf some New Radiance o’er still farther Rim?
In those eyes, dark as pools, the morning starMust have lain long; on that calm breadth of browMust have been set some nobleness of vowTo distance and to space and all things far.A little narrow street enshrines her now,But through the world her planet pathways areBlazed with her name; the constellate gates un-pbarTo those who, following, her star-cairns know.Woman, who walked with Science to mark the lightsAlong dark ways, thy luminous steps are dim;Rapt on ethereal roads of satellites:Art gazing still through space beyond the brimOf sparkling nebula meadows to the nightsOf some New Radiance o’er still farther Rim?
In those eyes, dark as pools, the morning starMust have lain long; on that calm breadth of browMust have been set some nobleness of vowTo distance and to space and all things far.A little narrow street enshrines her now,But through the world her planet pathways areBlazed with her name; the constellate gates un-pbarTo those who, following, her star-cairns know.Woman, who walked with Science to mark the lightsAlong dark ways, thy luminous steps are dim;Rapt on ethereal roads of satellites:Art gazing still through space beyond the brimOf sparkling nebula meadows to the nightsOf some New Radiance o’er still farther Rim?
Don’t tell, but I think there’s a miracle today;The Old North Church is full of Western light,And the bush near by is afire; very brightShine the windows in the tower, for the last half hourSome starlings have ranged there whistling and calling,The barometer is falling,It’s Underground Moon this week, you know;(Don’t tell anybody I said so,But I think there’s a miracle today.)Somewhere on the Island something’s going to happen;Don’t ask me, I don’t know anything about it.Whatever I say I’d just as lief shout it,(But there’s going to be a miracle today!)If there’s any pass at all a-going your way,Better say(There’s going to be a miracle today.)Don’t tell them who said so—they wouldn’t like it, hey?(But there’s going to be a miracle today!)I know it for sure, for I’ve stood for one hourWatching those starlings in the North Church Tower.So if you want a gam,It’s sure I amThat there’s going to be a miracle today.So that’s the drift,Though maybe they’ll be miffed—“He hasn’t got the run of it,” they’ll say,But—there’s going to be a miracle today!
Don’t tell, but I think there’s a miracle today;The Old North Church is full of Western light,And the bush near by is afire; very brightShine the windows in the tower, for the last half hourSome starlings have ranged there whistling and calling,The barometer is falling,It’s Underground Moon this week, you know;(Don’t tell anybody I said so,But I think there’s a miracle today.)Somewhere on the Island something’s going to happen;Don’t ask me, I don’t know anything about it.Whatever I say I’d just as lief shout it,(But there’s going to be a miracle today!)If there’s any pass at all a-going your way,Better say(There’s going to be a miracle today.)Don’t tell them who said so—they wouldn’t like it, hey?(But there’s going to be a miracle today!)I know it for sure, for I’ve stood for one hourWatching those starlings in the North Church Tower.So if you want a gam,It’s sure I amThat there’s going to be a miracle today.So that’s the drift,Though maybe they’ll be miffed—“He hasn’t got the run of it,” they’ll say,But—there’s going to be a miracle today!
Don’t tell, but I think there’s a miracle today;The Old North Church is full of Western light,And the bush near by is afire; very brightShine the windows in the tower, for the last half hourSome starlings have ranged there whistling and calling,The barometer is falling,It’s Underground Moon this week, you know;(Don’t tell anybody I said so,But I think there’s a miracle today.)Somewhere on the Island something’s going to happen;Don’t ask me, I don’t know anything about it.Whatever I say I’d just as lief shout it,(But there’s going to be a miracle today!)If there’s any pass at all a-going your way,Better say(There’s going to be a miracle today.)Don’t tell them who said so—they wouldn’t like it, hey?(But there’s going to be a miracle today!)I know it for sure, for I’ve stood for one hourWatching those starlings in the North Church Tower.So if you want a gam,It’s sure I amThat there’s going to be a miracle today.So that’s the drift,Though maybe they’ll be miffed—“He hasn’t got the run of it,” they’ll say,But—there’s going to be a miracle today!
Skies pebbled with stars,Sea, breathing like a sleeping animal,Wind nuzzling wet shagginess of moors.The coarse bright strains of an accordion,Perversely stretched and shrunkenAgainst a wall of dark.Brown faces, high cheekbones,Polyglot sea-words;A cold, dark swiftness;Hardness of diligenceFor shrewd, tight-fisted gain.The Cranberry Pickers dance gravelyIn squalid shacks on the moors,And the greasy bottles passFrom old lips to young;Rough doorways blurt out light;White teeth, dark eyes shine.There is chattering wharf talkAnd garbled dock yard French;Clamdiggers, Scallopers,Fondle their dirty rollsOf smoky dollar billsAnd stride in booted ease.Out of the moorland nightShe, saucily, slips in,Thistledown on her hair;Little, slim, ear-ringed, scarlet-bloused,Her feet and impertinent breasts four mischievous mongrel wordsIn a universal language;Her mouth gleams like berries,Swamp-light in her eyes—Someone clasps, someone curses—Then screams; a knife....The sea, like an animal panting;The sands, scared and white,Broken barrels of cranberriesStrewn like unholy rosaries;A man, stripped and bleeding,Thrown overboard at midnightWhere the tide runs strong.On a small brown neckA long gold chainTo match new earrings!
Skies pebbled with stars,Sea, breathing like a sleeping animal,Wind nuzzling wet shagginess of moors.The coarse bright strains of an accordion,Perversely stretched and shrunkenAgainst a wall of dark.Brown faces, high cheekbones,Polyglot sea-words;A cold, dark swiftness;Hardness of diligenceFor shrewd, tight-fisted gain.The Cranberry Pickers dance gravelyIn squalid shacks on the moors,And the greasy bottles passFrom old lips to young;Rough doorways blurt out light;White teeth, dark eyes shine.There is chattering wharf talkAnd garbled dock yard French;Clamdiggers, Scallopers,Fondle their dirty rollsOf smoky dollar billsAnd stride in booted ease.Out of the moorland nightShe, saucily, slips in,Thistledown on her hair;Little, slim, ear-ringed, scarlet-bloused,Her feet and impertinent breasts four mischievous mongrel wordsIn a universal language;Her mouth gleams like berries,Swamp-light in her eyes—Someone clasps, someone curses—Then screams; a knife....The sea, like an animal panting;The sands, scared and white,Broken barrels of cranberriesStrewn like unholy rosaries;A man, stripped and bleeding,Thrown overboard at midnightWhere the tide runs strong.On a small brown neckA long gold chainTo match new earrings!
Skies pebbled with stars,Sea, breathing like a sleeping animal,Wind nuzzling wet shagginess of moors.The coarse bright strains of an accordion,Perversely stretched and shrunkenAgainst a wall of dark.
Brown faces, high cheekbones,Polyglot sea-words;A cold, dark swiftness;Hardness of diligenceFor shrewd, tight-fisted gain.
The Cranberry Pickers dance gravelyIn squalid shacks on the moors,And the greasy bottles passFrom old lips to young;Rough doorways blurt out light;White teeth, dark eyes shine.
There is chattering wharf talkAnd garbled dock yard French;Clamdiggers, Scallopers,Fondle their dirty rollsOf smoky dollar billsAnd stride in booted ease.
Out of the moorland nightShe, saucily, slips in,Thistledown on her hair;Little, slim, ear-ringed, scarlet-bloused,Her feet and impertinent breasts four mischievous mongrel wordsIn a universal language;Her mouth gleams like berries,Swamp-light in her eyes—
Someone clasps, someone curses—Then screams; a knife....The sea, like an animal panting;The sands, scared and white,Broken barrels of cranberriesStrewn like unholy rosaries;A man, stripped and bleeding,Thrown overboard at midnightWhere the tide runs strong.
On a small brown neckA long gold chainTo match new earrings!
Sauntering narrow lanesLed by the weather vanesSee beneath narrow panesNantucket gardensWhere little fruit trees leanOn old walls grey and greenDappling ivies screenNantucket Gardens.All that is best and fairLike old scent lingers thereShrubs, herbs and ramblers shareThe sweet disorders;Tall tapered holly hocksFoxglove and purple phloxDemure mints, frilly stocksSpike the box borders.Yet—past the rose hung doorsCalled by the tangled moorsBouncing Bet left them.On new strange roadways boundWas the career she foundWhen she bereft them.Ragged pink wilful thing—You had to have your flingWith weeds to roisterYou could not breathe the airOf mignonette, nor careFor sweet peas cloister.Only, these have a nameTheirs is the garden fameThey are traditioned;Out on the dusty waysBouncing Bet weary straysQuite ill-conditioned.Yet I have heard the cryGo up from passers-by,Young, therefore tragicEscaped—the little wordTo them is not absurdThey know its magic!Therefore dear Bouncing BetYou may have honor yetYours may be winningBut in your saucy prideThough you would not abideGates, gardens, walls, beside;Were your beginning.
Sauntering narrow lanesLed by the weather vanesSee beneath narrow panesNantucket gardensWhere little fruit trees leanOn old walls grey and greenDappling ivies screenNantucket Gardens.All that is best and fairLike old scent lingers thereShrubs, herbs and ramblers shareThe sweet disorders;Tall tapered holly hocksFoxglove and purple phloxDemure mints, frilly stocksSpike the box borders.Yet—past the rose hung doorsCalled by the tangled moorsBouncing Bet left them.On new strange roadways boundWas the career she foundWhen she bereft them.Ragged pink wilful thing—You had to have your flingWith weeds to roisterYou could not breathe the airOf mignonette, nor careFor sweet peas cloister.Only, these have a nameTheirs is the garden fameThey are traditioned;Out on the dusty waysBouncing Bet weary straysQuite ill-conditioned.Yet I have heard the cryGo up from passers-by,Young, therefore tragicEscaped—the little wordTo them is not absurdThey know its magic!Therefore dear Bouncing BetYou may have honor yetYours may be winningBut in your saucy prideThough you would not abideGates, gardens, walls, beside;Were your beginning.
Sauntering narrow lanesLed by the weather vanesSee beneath narrow panesNantucket gardensWhere little fruit trees leanOn old walls grey and greenDappling ivies screenNantucket Gardens.
All that is best and fairLike old scent lingers thereShrubs, herbs and ramblers shareThe sweet disorders;Tall tapered holly hocksFoxglove and purple phloxDemure mints, frilly stocksSpike the box borders.
Yet—past the rose hung doorsCalled by the tangled moorsBouncing Bet left them.On new strange roadways boundWas the career she foundWhen she bereft them.
Ragged pink wilful thing—You had to have your flingWith weeds to roisterYou could not breathe the airOf mignonette, nor careFor sweet peas cloister.
Only, these have a nameTheirs is the garden fameThey are traditioned;Out on the dusty waysBouncing Bet weary straysQuite ill-conditioned.
Yet I have heard the cryGo up from passers-by,Young, therefore tragicEscaped—the little wordTo them is not absurdThey know its magic!
Therefore dear Bouncing BetYou may have honor yetYours may be winningBut in your saucy prideThough you would not abideGates, gardens, walls, beside;Were your beginning.
On Sundays when the church bells ringTheir island-towered summoningI see the Nineties goGravely around the narrow cornered wayAs they have gone for many a changing daySteady and slow.At twilight before window lights are litI see them, whitehaired, backward musing, sitBeside their narrow paneAnd then to me who wander through the streetsThe new life with their olden living meetsAnd they are young again.And always, by the great hearth’s roaring fireOr in the spring-lit street, or by the doorI hear their sober speech, with them live o’erOld days, see the stiff backs that bowUnder the life so hard upon them now;Yet frugal, busy, gathering up the PastFor memories that serve them to the lastBinding their faggots slowOf what they know.If e’er the turbulent world can settle down to liveIf e’er we learn to suffer and forgiveTo work hard with few pleasures and great faithsWe shall invoke these tottering, smiling wraithsAnd we shall smile and whisper softly “trueIt was the Old, who knew.”
On Sundays when the church bells ringTheir island-towered summoningI see the Nineties goGravely around the narrow cornered wayAs they have gone for many a changing daySteady and slow.At twilight before window lights are litI see them, whitehaired, backward musing, sitBeside their narrow paneAnd then to me who wander through the streetsThe new life with their olden living meetsAnd they are young again.And always, by the great hearth’s roaring fireOr in the spring-lit street, or by the doorI hear their sober speech, with them live o’erOld days, see the stiff backs that bowUnder the life so hard upon them now;Yet frugal, busy, gathering up the PastFor memories that serve them to the lastBinding their faggots slowOf what they know.If e’er the turbulent world can settle down to liveIf e’er we learn to suffer and forgiveTo work hard with few pleasures and great faithsWe shall invoke these tottering, smiling wraithsAnd we shall smile and whisper softly “trueIt was the Old, who knew.”
On Sundays when the church bells ringTheir island-towered summoningI see the Nineties goGravely around the narrow cornered wayAs they have gone for many a changing daySteady and slow.
At twilight before window lights are litI see them, whitehaired, backward musing, sitBeside their narrow paneAnd then to me who wander through the streetsThe new life with their olden living meetsAnd they are young again.
And always, by the great hearth’s roaring fireOr in the spring-lit street, or by the doorI hear their sober speech, with them live o’erOld days, see the stiff backs that bowUnder the life so hard upon them now;Yet frugal, busy, gathering up the PastFor memories that serve them to the lastBinding their faggots slowOf what they know.
If e’er the turbulent world can settle down to liveIf e’er we learn to suffer and forgiveTo work hard with few pleasures and great faithsWe shall invoke these tottering, smiling wraithsAnd we shall smile and whisper softly “trueIt was the Old, who knew.”
Note. One year when summer residents returned to Nantucket they were informed that there had been “a great falling off among the nineties” that winter; and it was noted that much vivacity and charm had gone from the island social gatherings.
Note. One year when summer residents returned to Nantucket they were informed that there had been “a great falling off among the nineties” that winter; and it was noted that much vivacity and charm had gone from the island social gatherings.
They have taken the old houses,Lovingly they have taken them;Bound up their wounds, bandaged their aching sides,Made them soft friendships of pretty paintAnd kindnesses of mortar....They’ve made little paths this wayAnd little paths that wayAnd cosseted and crooned and coaxed and cared,Till the old houses, the very old houses,Stand up quite proudly with a dear and ancient pride.All day long—all day long they meditate,In spite of all the pretty paints;In spite of all their mended ceilings, do they meditateOn the old houses, the very old housesThat they were when they died.And so I suppose with the old ideas,Rickety old ideas,Heart-broken shapes that stand in field and sky;Cleverly we re-paint them,Cleverly decorate and give them quite new hinges,And open them up and brick them in and hold them,All that is good in them, away from ruin....Yet, all year long the old ideas are walking,All year long the old ideas are talking,Talking through our every act and glance,In spite of all our efforts to be new and useful,In spite of all our efforts, we go actingBy the rickety old ideas,The shapeless, bulged ideas,The mildewed, damp ideasThat have died.
They have taken the old houses,Lovingly they have taken them;Bound up their wounds, bandaged their aching sides,Made them soft friendships of pretty paintAnd kindnesses of mortar....They’ve made little paths this wayAnd little paths that wayAnd cosseted and crooned and coaxed and cared,Till the old houses, the very old houses,Stand up quite proudly with a dear and ancient pride.All day long—all day long they meditate,In spite of all the pretty paints;In spite of all their mended ceilings, do they meditateOn the old houses, the very old housesThat they were when they died.And so I suppose with the old ideas,Rickety old ideas,Heart-broken shapes that stand in field and sky;Cleverly we re-paint them,Cleverly decorate and give them quite new hinges,And open them up and brick them in and hold them,All that is good in them, away from ruin....Yet, all year long the old ideas are walking,All year long the old ideas are talking,Talking through our every act and glance,In spite of all our efforts to be new and useful,In spite of all our efforts, we go actingBy the rickety old ideas,The shapeless, bulged ideas,The mildewed, damp ideasThat have died.
They have taken the old houses,Lovingly they have taken them;Bound up their wounds, bandaged their aching sides,Made them soft friendships of pretty paintAnd kindnesses of mortar....They’ve made little paths this wayAnd little paths that wayAnd cosseted and crooned and coaxed and cared,Till the old houses, the very old houses,Stand up quite proudly with a dear and ancient pride.All day long—all day long they meditate,In spite of all the pretty paints;In spite of all their mended ceilings, do they meditateOn the old houses, the very old housesThat they were when they died.
And so I suppose with the old ideas,Rickety old ideas,Heart-broken shapes that stand in field and sky;Cleverly we re-paint them,Cleverly decorate and give them quite new hinges,And open them up and brick them in and hold them,All that is good in them, away from ruin....
Yet, all year long the old ideas are walking,All year long the old ideas are talking,Talking through our every act and glance,In spite of all our efforts to be new and useful,In spite of all our efforts, we go actingBy the rickety old ideas,The shapeless, bulged ideas,The mildewed, damp ideasThat have died.
He, who is far from home, knows when the snowGives way before the sunny urge of Spring,When the first ecstasies of bluebirds goThrough blossomed loops and boughs bee-murmuring,When brier roses starrily composeUpon the scented spray—he, homesick, knows.He, that is far from love, knows when the faceThat knew his face is raised to summer stars;He, like that other, hungers in his place,And, like that other, grips his prison bars—And when that upturned face can no more smile,He knows; and whispers comfort, mile on mile.He, who feels far from God, knows when the WordComes light upon a golden-shadowed hill;On his dim path the radiance has stirred,Deep in a dream he shrines his knowledge; stillKeeping his thorny ways, intent he goes,Knowing the Hidden that infinitely knows!
He, who is far from home, knows when the snowGives way before the sunny urge of Spring,When the first ecstasies of bluebirds goThrough blossomed loops and boughs bee-murmuring,When brier roses starrily composeUpon the scented spray—he, homesick, knows.He, that is far from love, knows when the faceThat knew his face is raised to summer stars;He, like that other, hungers in his place,And, like that other, grips his prison bars—And when that upturned face can no more smile,He knows; and whispers comfort, mile on mile.He, who feels far from God, knows when the WordComes light upon a golden-shadowed hill;On his dim path the radiance has stirred,Deep in a dream he shrines his knowledge; stillKeeping his thorny ways, intent he goes,Knowing the Hidden that infinitely knows!
He, who is far from home, knows when the snowGives way before the sunny urge of Spring,When the first ecstasies of bluebirds goThrough blossomed loops and boughs bee-murmuring,When brier roses starrily composeUpon the scented spray—he, homesick, knows.
He, that is far from love, knows when the faceThat knew his face is raised to summer stars;He, like that other, hungers in his place,And, like that other, grips his prison bars—And when that upturned face can no more smile,He knows; and whispers comfort, mile on mile.
He, who feels far from God, knows when the WordComes light upon a golden-shadowed hill;On his dim path the radiance has stirred,Deep in a dream he shrines his knowledge; stillKeeping his thorny ways, intent he goes,Knowing the Hidden that infinitely knows!
When I am cowardly, sick of the fight,Dumb for the right word, nerveless for deeds that dare,Blaze up in my heart, square little Brant Point Light;Light me a broad path starred with a burnished flare!If I am tossing on a sea of doubt,And have no harbor, no fair shore to know,Sankaty, like an angel, spread your great wings out,Headland and coastward light, give me your glow!If I am lost and waves go over me,Tossing, engulfing hollows o’er my head;Thou, Great Point Light, will surely cover me,And by thy strong white clue I shall be led!When I am caught in foam of treacherous beach,And all the darkness presses like a wall,Blaze, Island lights, beyond the Island reach;Beacon me to the Utmost Light of all!
When I am cowardly, sick of the fight,Dumb for the right word, nerveless for deeds that dare,Blaze up in my heart, square little Brant Point Light;Light me a broad path starred with a burnished flare!If I am tossing on a sea of doubt,And have no harbor, no fair shore to know,Sankaty, like an angel, spread your great wings out,Headland and coastward light, give me your glow!If I am lost and waves go over me,Tossing, engulfing hollows o’er my head;Thou, Great Point Light, will surely cover me,And by thy strong white clue I shall be led!When I am caught in foam of treacherous beach,And all the darkness presses like a wall,Blaze, Island lights, beyond the Island reach;Beacon me to the Utmost Light of all!
When I am cowardly, sick of the fight,Dumb for the right word, nerveless for deeds that dare,Blaze up in my heart, square little Brant Point Light;Light me a broad path starred with a burnished flare!
If I am tossing on a sea of doubt,And have no harbor, no fair shore to know,Sankaty, like an angel, spread your great wings out,Headland and coastward light, give me your glow!
If I am lost and waves go over me,Tossing, engulfing hollows o’er my head;Thou, Great Point Light, will surely cover me,And by thy strong white clue I shall be led!
When I am caught in foam of treacherous beach,And all the darkness presses like a wall,Blaze, Island lights, beyond the Island reach;Beacon me to the Utmost Light of all!
The growing’s finished.Down the garden waysThe Gardener comes, slow-trundling his barrow.He brings a load of curious loamy mulch,Brings tools that cut and stab the earth,That lop the boughs from off full-blooded trees.Under the falling leaves the Gardener stands,Unshocked to see the tulip and the rose,Red haw, brown seed-pod, lily staff and leaf—All lying dead, extinguished, passionless.The Gardener smiles to see the adventurous beeLying cold-killed under a broken stalk;Smiles on a battered moth with frosted wing.He spreads black clods of compost on the beds,Sifts ashes all around the roots of trees,Lops off, cuts back, prunes, digs away and kills.Knowing how, out of the ruin and wreck,Pure glowing things will come; new winged forms,Trees that shall say new things to listening souls.O Unseen Gardener of the World-tree, boughsRipe with strange star-fruit dropping in the fieldsOf vast Space-gardens—give, Thou, me to learnIn simple ways, how, after this life’s dreamI may accept new growth, even to lossOf this life-consciousness—to help Thy plan!Become, for Thee, a dried-up flower cup,A butterfly unwingéd, broken-plumed,Even a blinded, helpless, light-killed moth—So that I nourish forth new growing thingsIn the star branchéd garden of deep Time!Grant that this brain, that dares to dream of Thee,As Father, Friend—taught of the sentient flowers,Shall dream—dream on to some far endless end!
The growing’s finished.Down the garden waysThe Gardener comes, slow-trundling his barrow.He brings a load of curious loamy mulch,Brings tools that cut and stab the earth,That lop the boughs from off full-blooded trees.Under the falling leaves the Gardener stands,Unshocked to see the tulip and the rose,Red haw, brown seed-pod, lily staff and leaf—All lying dead, extinguished, passionless.The Gardener smiles to see the adventurous beeLying cold-killed under a broken stalk;Smiles on a battered moth with frosted wing.He spreads black clods of compost on the beds,Sifts ashes all around the roots of trees,Lops off, cuts back, prunes, digs away and kills.Knowing how, out of the ruin and wreck,Pure glowing things will come; new winged forms,Trees that shall say new things to listening souls.O Unseen Gardener of the World-tree, boughsRipe with strange star-fruit dropping in the fieldsOf vast Space-gardens—give, Thou, me to learnIn simple ways, how, after this life’s dreamI may accept new growth, even to lossOf this life-consciousness—to help Thy plan!Become, for Thee, a dried-up flower cup,A butterfly unwingéd, broken-plumed,Even a blinded, helpless, light-killed moth—So that I nourish forth new growing thingsIn the star branchéd garden of deep Time!Grant that this brain, that dares to dream of Thee,As Father, Friend—taught of the sentient flowers,Shall dream—dream on to some far endless end!
The growing’s finished.Down the garden waysThe Gardener comes, slow-trundling his barrow.
He brings a load of curious loamy mulch,Brings tools that cut and stab the earth,That lop the boughs from off full-blooded trees.
Under the falling leaves the Gardener stands,Unshocked to see the tulip and the rose,Red haw, brown seed-pod, lily staff and leaf—All lying dead, extinguished, passionless.
The Gardener smiles to see the adventurous beeLying cold-killed under a broken stalk;Smiles on a battered moth with frosted wing.
He spreads black clods of compost on the beds,Sifts ashes all around the roots of trees,Lops off, cuts back, prunes, digs away and kills.
Knowing how, out of the ruin and wreck,Pure glowing things will come; new winged forms,Trees that shall say new things to listening souls.
O Unseen Gardener of the World-tree, boughsRipe with strange star-fruit dropping in the fieldsOf vast Space-gardens—give, Thou, me to learnIn simple ways, how, after this life’s dreamI may accept new growth, even to lossOf this life-consciousness—to help Thy plan!
Become, for Thee, a dried-up flower cup,A butterfly unwingéd, broken-plumed,Even a blinded, helpless, light-killed moth—So that I nourish forth new growing thingsIn the star branchéd garden of deep Time!
Grant that this brain, that dares to dream of Thee,As Father, Friend—taught of the sentient flowers,Shall dream—dream on to some far endless end!