The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems, Vol. IVThis 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: Poems, Vol. IVAuthor: Hattie HowardRelease date: August 23, 2006 [eBook #19109]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Joseph R. Hauser and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, VOL. IV ***
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: Poems, Vol. IVAuthor: Hattie HowardRelease date: August 23, 2006 [eBook #19109]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Joseph R. Hauser and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: Poems, Vol. IV
Author: Hattie Howard
Author: Hattie Howard
Release date: August 23, 2006 [eBook #19109]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Joseph R. Hauser and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, VOL. IV ***
[Illustration]
In Celestial realms where knowledge hath no end.HARRY HOWARD,STUDENT."Blessed are the pure in heart."
Happy whoever writes a bookOn which the world shall kindly look,And who, when many a year has flown—The volume worn, the author gone—Revere, admire, and still read on.
"We find these poems of sentiment by Hattie Howard entirely natural, spontaneous, direct, rhythmical, and free from ambitious pretense. Many of the fanciful verses have a laugh at the end; and the collection has altogether a sunny, hopeful spirit and will be welcome in this time of generally morbid expression.""This author's verse shows a hearty, wholesome,humanspirit, sometimes overflowing into downright fun, and a straightforward directness always. It is a pleasant book, sure to be welcomed by all.""These garnered gems reveal a genuine poetic faculty, and are worthy their attractive setting. We give the book a hearty welcome.""Many of the poems abound in playful humor or tender touches of sympathy which appeal to a refined feeling, and love for the good, the true, and the beautiful.""This poet's ear is so attuned to metric harmony that she must have been born within sound of some osier-fringed brook leaping and hurrying over its pebbly bed. There is a variety of subject and treatment, sufficient for all tastes, and these are poems which should be cherished.""Lovers of good poetry will herald with pleasure this new and attractive volume by the well-known authoress of Hartford. A wooing sentiment and genial spirit seem to guide her in every train of thought. Her book has received, and deserves, warm commendations of the press."
"We find these poems of sentiment by Hattie Howard entirely natural, spontaneous, direct, rhythmical, and free from ambitious pretense. Many of the fanciful verses have a laugh at the end; and the collection has altogether a sunny, hopeful spirit and will be welcome in this time of generally morbid expression."
"This author's verse shows a hearty, wholesome,humanspirit, sometimes overflowing into downright fun, and a straightforward directness always. It is a pleasant book, sure to be welcomed by all."
"These garnered gems reveal a genuine poetic faculty, and are worthy their attractive setting. We give the book a hearty welcome."
"Many of the poems abound in playful humor or tender touches of sympathy which appeal to a refined feeling, and love for the good, the true, and the beautiful."
"This poet's ear is so attuned to metric harmony that she must have been born within sound of some osier-fringed brook leaping and hurrying over its pebbly bed. There is a variety of subject and treatment, sufficient for all tastes, and these are poems which should be cherished."
"Lovers of good poetry will herald with pleasure this new and attractive volume by the well-known authoress of Hartford. A wooing sentiment and genial spirit seem to guide her in every train of thought. Her book has received, and deserves, warm commendations of the press."
FRONTISPIECE.
The salt of the earth—what a meaningful phraseFrom the lips of the Saviour, and one that conveysA sense of the need of a substance salineThis pestilent sphere to refresh and refine,And a healthful and happy condition secureBy making it pure as the ocean is pure.In all the nomenclature known to the race,In all appellations of people or place,Was ever a name so befitting, so trueOf those who are seeking the wrong to undo,With naught of the Pharisee's arrogant airTheir badge of discipleship humbly who wear?Do beings, forsooth, fashioned out of the mold,So secretly, strangely, those elements holdThat may be developed in goodness and graceTo shine in demeanor, in form and in faceTill they, by renewal of heavenly birth,Shall merit their title—the salt of the earth?
The salt of the earth—what a meaningful phraseFrom the lips of the Saviour, and one that conveysA sense of the need of a substance salineThis pestilent sphere to refresh and refine,And a healthful and happy condition secureBy making it pure as the ocean is pure.
In all the nomenclature known to the race,In all appellations of people or place,Was ever a name so befitting, so trueOf those who are seeking the wrong to undo,With naught of the Pharisee's arrogant airTheir badge of discipleship humbly who wear?
Do beings, forsooth, fashioned out of the mold,So secretly, strangely, those elements holdThat may be developed in goodness and graceTo shine in demeanor, in form and in faceTill they, by renewal of heavenly birth,Shall merit their title—the salt of the earth?
To the landsman at home or the sailor at sea,With nausea, scurvy, or canker maybe,'Tis never in language to overexaltThe potent preservative virtue of salt—A crystal commodity wholesome and good,A cure for disease, and a savor for food.Ah, the beasts of the wood and the fowls of the airKnow all of the need of this condiment rare,Know well where the springs and the "salt-licks" abound,Where streams salinaceous flow out of the ground;And their cravings appease by sipping the brineWith more than the relish of topers at wine.Our wants may be legion, our needs are but few,And every known ill hath its remedy true;'Tis ours to discover and give to mankindOf hidden essentials the best that we find;'Tis ours to eradicate error and sin,And help to make better the place we are in.If ever this world from corruption is free,And righteousness reign in the kingdom to be,Like salt in its simple and soluble wayInfusing malodor, preventing decay.So human endeavor in action sublimeMust never relax till the finale of time.
To the landsman at home or the sailor at sea,With nausea, scurvy, or canker maybe,'Tis never in language to overexaltThe potent preservative virtue of salt—A crystal commodity wholesome and good,A cure for disease, and a savor for food.
Ah, the beasts of the wood and the fowls of the airKnow all of the need of this condiment rare,Know well where the springs and the "salt-licks" abound,Where streams salinaceous flow out of the ground;And their cravings appease by sipping the brineWith more than the relish of topers at wine.
Our wants may be legion, our needs are but few,And every known ill hath its remedy true;'Tis ours to discover and give to mankindOf hidden essentials the best that we find;'Tis ours to eradicate error and sin,And help to make better the place we are in.
If ever this world from corruption is free,And righteousness reign in the kingdom to be,Like salt in its simple and soluble wayInfusing malodor, preventing decay.So human endeavor in action sublimeMust never relax till the finale of time.
To thousands discouraged this comforting truthAppeals like the promise of infinite youth:To know, as they labor like bees in the hive,Yet do little more than keep goodness alive—To know that the Master accredits their worthAs blessed disciples—"the salt of the earth."
To thousands discouraged this comforting truthAppeals like the promise of infinite youth:To know, as they labor like bees in the hive,Yet do little more than keep goodness alive—To know that the Master accredits their worthAs blessed disciples—"the salt of the earth."
They are not gone whose lives in beauty so unfoldingHave left their own sweet impress everywhere;Like flowers, while we linger in beholding,Diffusing fragrance on the summer air.They are not gone, for grace and goodness can not perish,But must develop in immortal bloom;The viewless soul, the real self we love and cherish,Shall live and flourish still beyond the tomb.They are not gone though lost to observation,And dispossessed of those dear forms of clay,Though dust and ashes speak of desolation;The spirit-presence—this is ours alway.
They are not gone whose lives in beauty so unfoldingHave left their own sweet impress everywhere;Like flowers, while we linger in beholding,Diffusing fragrance on the summer air.
They are not gone, for grace and goodness can not perish,But must develop in immortal bloom;The viewless soul, the real self we love and cherish,Shall live and flourish still beyond the tomb.
They are not gone though lost to observation,And dispossessed of those dear forms of clay,Though dust and ashes speak of desolation;The spirit-presence—this is ours alway.
If we have lived another yearAnd, counting friends by regimentsWho share our love and confidence,Find no more broken ranks,For this let us give thanks.If, since the last Thanksgiving-time,Have we been blessed with strength and health,And added to our honest wealth,Nor lost by broken banks,For this would we give thanks.If through adversity we trod,Yet with serene and smiling face,And trusted more to saving graceThan charlatans and cranks,For this let us give thanks.If we have somehow worried throughThe ups and downs along life's track,And still undaunted can look backAnd smile at Fortune's pranks,For this would we give thanks.
If we have lived another yearAnd, counting friends by regimentsWho share our love and confidence,Find no more broken ranks,For this let us give thanks.
If, since the last Thanksgiving-time,Have we been blessed with strength and health,And added to our honest wealth,Nor lost by broken banks,For this would we give thanks.
If through adversity we trod,Yet with serene and smiling face,And trusted more to saving graceThan charlatans and cranks,For this let us give thanks.
If we have somehow worried throughThe ups and downs along life's track,And still undaunted can look backAnd smile at Fortune's pranks,For this would we give thanks.
If every page in our accountWith God and man is fairly writ,We care not who examines it,With no suspicious blanks,For this let us give thanks.
If every page in our accountWith God and man is fairly writ,We care not who examines it,With no suspicious blanks,For this let us give thanks.
Upon my smile let none pass complimentIf it but gleam like an enchanting rayOf sunshine caught from some sweet summer day,In atmosphere of rose and jasmine scentAnd breath of honeysuckles redolent,When, with the birds that sing their lives awayIn harmony, the treetops bend and sway,And all the world with joy is eloquent.But in that day of gloom when skies severePortend the tempest gathering overhead,If by my face some token shall appearInspiring hope, dispelling darksome dread,Oh, be the rapture mine that it be said,"Her smile is like the rainbow, full of cheer."
Upon my smile let none pass complimentIf it but gleam like an enchanting rayOf sunshine caught from some sweet summer day,In atmosphere of rose and jasmine scentAnd breath of honeysuckles redolent,When, with the birds that sing their lives awayIn harmony, the treetops bend and sway,And all the world with joy is eloquent.
But in that day of gloom when skies severePortend the tempest gathering overhead,If by my face some token shall appearInspiring hope, dispelling darksome dread,Oh, be the rapture mine that it be said,"Her smile is like the rainbow, full of cheer."
Oh, what a blessed intervalA rainy day may be!No lightning flash nor tempest roar,But one incessant, steady pourOf dripping melody;When from their sheltering retreatGo not with voluntary feetThe storm-beleaguered family,Nor bird nor animal.When business takes a little lull,And gives the merchantmanA chance to seek domestic scenes,To interview the magazines,Convoke his growing clan,The boys and girls almost unknown,And get acquainted with his own;As well the household budget scan,Or write a canticle.When farmer John ransacks the barn,Hunts up the harness old—Nigh twenty years since it was new—Puts in an extra thong or two,And hopes the thing will holdWithout that missing martingaleThat bothered Dobbin, head and tail,He, gentle equine, safe controlledBut by a twist of yarn.When busy fingers may provideA savory repastTo whet the languid appetite,And give to eating a delightUnknown since seasons past;Avaunt, ill-cookery! whose ranksDevelop dull dyspeptic cranksWho, forced to diet or to fast,Ergo, have dined and died.It is a day of rummaging,The closets to explore;To take down from the dusty shelvesThe books—that never read themselves—And turning pages o'erDiscover therein safely laidThe bills forgot and never paid—Somehow that of the corner storeSuch dunning memories bring.It gives a chance to liquidateEpistolary debts;To write in humble penitenceAcknowledging the negligence,The sin that so besets,And cheer the hearts that hold us dear,Who've known and loved us many a year—Back to the days of pantaletsAnd swinging on the gate.It gives occasion to repairUnlucky circumstance;To intercept the ragged ends,And for arrears to make amendsBy mending hose and pants;The romping young ones to re-dressWithout those signs of hole-y-nessThat so bespeak the mendicantsBy every rip and tear.It is a time to gather roundThe old piano grand,Its dulcet harmonies unstirredSince Lucy sang so like a bird,And played with graceful hand;Like Lucy's voice in pathos sweetRepeating softly "Shall we meet?"Is only in the heavenly landSuch clear soprano sound.
Oh, what a blessed intervalA rainy day may be!No lightning flash nor tempest roar,But one incessant, steady pourOf dripping melody;When from their sheltering retreatGo not with voluntary feetThe storm-beleaguered family,Nor bird nor animal.
When business takes a little lull,And gives the merchantmanA chance to seek domestic scenes,To interview the magazines,Convoke his growing clan,The boys and girls almost unknown,And get acquainted with his own;As well the household budget scan,Or write a canticle.
When farmer John ransacks the barn,Hunts up the harness old—Nigh twenty years since it was new—Puts in an extra thong or two,And hopes the thing will holdWithout that missing martingaleThat bothered Dobbin, head and tail,He, gentle equine, safe controlledBut by a twist of yarn.
When busy fingers may provideA savory repastTo whet the languid appetite,And give to eating a delightUnknown since seasons past;Avaunt, ill-cookery! whose ranksDevelop dull dyspeptic cranksWho, forced to diet or to fast,Ergo, have dined and died.
It is a day of rummaging,The closets to explore;To take down from the dusty shelvesThe books—that never read themselves—And turning pages o'erDiscover therein safely laidThe bills forgot and never paid—Somehow that of the corner storeSuch dunning memories bring.
It gives a chance to liquidateEpistolary debts;To write in humble penitenceAcknowledging the negligence,The sin that so besets,And cheer the hearts that hold us dear,Who've known and loved us many a year—Back to the days of pantaletsAnd swinging on the gate.
It gives occasion to repairUnlucky circumstance;To intercept the ragged ends,And for arrears to make amendsBy mending hose and pants;The romping young ones to re-dressWithout those signs of hole-y-nessThat so bespeak the mendicantsBy every rip and tear.
It is a time to gather roundThe old piano grand,Its dulcet harmonies unstirredSince Lucy sang so like a bird,And played with graceful hand;Like Lucy's voice in pathos sweetRepeating softly "Shall we meet?"Is only in the heavenly landSuch clear soprano sound.
It is a time for happy chatEn cercle tête-à-tête;Discuss the doings of the day,The club, the sermon, or the play,Affairs of church and state;Fond reminiscence to exploreThe pleasant episodes of yore,And so till raindrops all abateAs erst on Ararat.Ah, yes, a rainy day may beA blessed interval!A little halt for introspect,A little moment to reflectOn life's discrepancy—Our puny stint so poorly done,The larger duties scarce begun—And so may conscience culpableSuggest a remedy.
It is a time for happy chatEn cercle tête-à-tête;Discuss the doings of the day,The club, the sermon, or the play,Affairs of church and state;Fond reminiscence to exploreThe pleasant episodes of yore,And so till raindrops all abateAs erst on Ararat.
Ah, yes, a rainy day may beA blessed interval!A little halt for introspect,A little moment to reflectOn life's discrepancy—Our puny stint so poorly done,The larger duties scarce begun—And so may conscience culpableSuggest a remedy.
Oh, who in creation would fail to descendThat wonderful hole in the ground?—That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friendIn sinuous fashion, seems never to end;While thunder and lightning abound.Oh, who in creation would dare to go downThat great subterranean hole—The tunnel, the terror, the talk of the town,That gives to the city a mighty renownAnd a shaking as never before?A serpent, a spider, its mouth at the topWhere the flies are all buzzing about;Down into its maw where the populace drop,Who never know where they are going to stop,Or whether they'll ever get out.Why is it, with millions of acres untrodWhere never the ploughshare hath been,That man must needs burrow miles under the sod,As if to get farther and farther from God,And deeper and deeper in sin?
Oh, who in creation would fail to descendThat wonderful hole in the ground?—That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friendIn sinuous fashion, seems never to end;While thunder and lightning abound.
Oh, who in creation would dare to go downThat great subterranean hole—The tunnel, the terror, the talk of the town,That gives to the city a mighty renownAnd a shaking as never before?
A serpent, a spider, its mouth at the topWhere the flies are all buzzing about;Down into its maw where the populace drop,Who never know where they are going to stop,Or whether they'll ever get out.
Why is it, with millions of acres untrodWhere never the ploughshare hath been,That man must needs burrow miles under the sod,As if to get farther and farther from God,And deeper and deeper in sin?
O Dagos and diggers, who can't understandThat the planet you'll never get through—Why, there is three times as much water as land,And but for the least little seam in the sandYour life is worth less than asou.Come up out of Erebus into the day,There's plenty of room overhead;No boring or blasting of rocks in the way,No stratum of sticky, impervious clay—All vacuous vapor instead.Oh, give us a transit, a tube or an "el—",Not leagues from the surface below;As if we were never in Heaven to dwell,As if we were all being fired to—well,The place where we don't want to go!
O Dagos and diggers, who can't understandThat the planet you'll never get through—Why, there is three times as much water as land,And but for the least little seam in the sandYour life is worth less than asou.
Come up out of Erebus into the day,There's plenty of room overhead;No boring or blasting of rocks in the way,No stratum of sticky, impervious clay—All vacuous vapor instead.
Oh, give us a transit, a tube or an "el—",Not leagues from the surface below;As if we were never in Heaven to dwell,As if we were all being fired to—well,The place where we don't want to go!
Has ever a tree from the earth upsprungAround whose body have children clung,Whose bounteous branches the birds amongHave pecked the fruit, and chirped and sung—Was ever a tree, or shall there be,So hardy, so sturdy, so good to see,So welcome a boon to the family,Like the pride of the farmer, the apple tree?How he loves to be digging about its root,Or grafting the bud in the tender shoot,The daintiest palate that he may suitWith the fairest and finest selected fruit.How he boasts of his Sweetings, so big for size;His delicate Greenings—made for pies;His Golden Pippins that take the prize,The Astrachans tempting, that tell no lies.How he learns of the squirrel a thing or twoThat the wise little rodents always knew,And never forget or fail to do,Of laying up store for the winter through;So he hollows a space in the mellow groundWhere leaves for lining and straw abound,And well remembers his apple moundWhen a day of scarcity comes around.
Has ever a tree from the earth upsprungAround whose body have children clung,Whose bounteous branches the birds amongHave pecked the fruit, and chirped and sung—Was ever a tree, or shall there be,So hardy, so sturdy, so good to see,So welcome a boon to the family,Like the pride of the farmer, the apple tree?
How he loves to be digging about its root,Or grafting the bud in the tender shoot,The daintiest palate that he may suitWith the fairest and finest selected fruit.How he boasts of his Sweetings, so big for size;His delicate Greenings—made for pies;His Golden Pippins that take the prize,The Astrachans tempting, that tell no lies.
How he learns of the squirrel a thing or twoThat the wise little rodents always knew,And never forget or fail to do,Of laying up store for the winter through;So he hollows a space in the mellow groundWhere leaves for lining and straw abound,And well remembers his apple moundWhen a day of scarcity comes around.
By many a token may we supposeThat the knowledge apple no longer grows,That broke up Adam and Eve's reposeAnd set the fashion of fig-leaf clothes;The story's simple and terse and crude,But still with a morsel of truth imbued:For of trees and trees by the multitudeAre some that are evil, and some that are good.The more I muse on those stories oldThe more philosophy they unfoldOf husbands docile and women bold,And Satan's purposes manifold;Ah, many a couple halve their fareWith that mistaken and misfit airThat the world and all are ready to swearTo a mighty unapple-y mated pair.The apple's an old-fashioned tree I know,All gnarled and bored by the curculio,And loves to stand in a zigzag row;And doesn't make half so much of a showAs the lovely almond that blooms like a ball,And spreads out wide like a pink parasolSet on its stem by the garden-wall;But I love the apple tree, after all.
By many a token may we supposeThat the knowledge apple no longer grows,That broke up Adam and Eve's reposeAnd set the fashion of fig-leaf clothes;The story's simple and terse and crude,But still with a morsel of truth imbued:For of trees and trees by the multitudeAre some that are evil, and some that are good.
The more I muse on those stories oldThe more philosophy they unfoldOf husbands docile and women bold,And Satan's purposes manifold;Ah, many a couple halve their fareWith that mistaken and misfit airThat the world and all are ready to swearTo a mighty unapple-y mated pair.
The apple's an old-fashioned tree I know,All gnarled and bored by the curculio,And loves to stand in a zigzag row;And doesn't make half so much of a showAs the lovely almond that blooms like a ball,And spreads out wide like a pink parasolSet on its stem by the garden-wall;But I love the apple tree, after all.
"A little more cider"—sings the bard;And who this juiciness would discard,Though holding the apple in high regard,Must be like the cider itself—very hard;For the spirit within it, as all must know,Is utterly harmless—unless we goLike the fool in his folly, and overflowBy drinking a couple of barrels or so.What of that apple beyond the seas,Fruit of the famed Hesperides?But dust and ashes compared to theseThat grow on Columbia's apple trees;And I sigh for the apples of years agone:For Rambos streaked like the morning dawn,For Russets brown with their jackets on,And aromatic as cinnamon.Oh, the peach and cherry may have their place,And the pear is fine in its stately grace;The plum belongs to a puckery raceAnd maketh awry the mouth and face;But I long to roam in the orchard free,The dear old orchard that used to be,And gather the beauties that dropped for meFrom the bending boughs of the apple tree.
"A little more cider"—sings the bard;And who this juiciness would discard,Though holding the apple in high regard,Must be like the cider itself—very hard;For the spirit within it, as all must know,Is utterly harmless—unless we goLike the fool in his folly, and overflowBy drinking a couple of barrels or so.
What of that apple beyond the seas,Fruit of the famed Hesperides?But dust and ashes compared to theseThat grow on Columbia's apple trees;And I sigh for the apples of years agone:For Rambos streaked like the morning dawn,For Russets brown with their jackets on,And aromatic as cinnamon.
Oh, the peach and cherry may have their place,And the pear is fine in its stately grace;The plum belongs to a puckery raceAnd maketh awry the mouth and face;But I long to roam in the orchard free,The dear old orchard that used to be,And gather the beauties that dropped for meFrom the bending boughs of the apple tree.
I've a friend beyond the oceanSo regardful, so sincere,And he sends me in a letterSuch a pretty souvenir.It is crushed to death and withered,Out of shape and very flat,But its pure, delicious odorIs the richer for all that.'Tis a rose from Honolulu,And it bears the tropic brand,Sandwiched in this friendly missiveFrom that far-off flower-land.It shall minglepot-à-pourriWith the scents I love and keep;Some of them so very preciousThat remembrance makes me weep.While I dream I hear the musicThat of happiness foretells,Like the flourishing of trumpetsAnd the sound of marriage bells.
I've a friend beyond the oceanSo regardful, so sincere,And he sends me in a letterSuch a pretty souvenir.
It is crushed to death and withered,Out of shape and very flat,But its pure, delicious odorIs the richer for all that.
'Tis a rose from Honolulu,And it bears the tropic brand,Sandwiched in this friendly missiveFrom that far-off flower-land.
It shall minglepot-à-pourriWith the scents I love and keep;Some of them so very preciousThat remembrance makes me weep.
While I dream I hear the musicThat of happiness foretells,Like the flourishing of trumpetsAnd the sound of marriage bells.
There's a rose upon the prairie,Chosen his by happy fate,He shall gather when he comethSailing through the Golden Gate.Mine, a public posy, growingSomewhere by the garden wall,Might have gone to any stranger,May have been admired by all.But the rose in beauty blushing,Tenderly and sweetly grownIn the home and its affections,Blooms for him, and him alone.Speed the voyager returning;His shall be a welcome warm,With the Rose of MinnesotaGently resting on his arm.Love embraces in his kingdomEarth and sea and sky and air.Hail, Columbia! hail, Hawaii!It is Heaven everywhere.
There's a rose upon the prairie,Chosen his by happy fate,He shall gather when he comethSailing through the Golden Gate.
Mine, a public posy, growingSomewhere by the garden wall,Might have gone to any stranger,May have been admired by all.
But the rose in beauty blushing,Tenderly and sweetly grownIn the home and its affections,Blooms for him, and him alone.
Speed the voyager returning;His shall be a welcome warm,With the Rose of MinnesotaGently resting on his arm.
Love embraces in his kingdomEarth and sea and sky and air.Hail, Columbia! hail, Hawaii!It is Heaven everywhere.