Good-bye to the gay garden, With prim geraniums pied, And spreading yew trees, old, unchanging Tho" men have died.
Good-bye to the New Castle, With granite walls and grey, And rooms where faded greatness still Lingers to-day.
To every friend in Mallow, When I am gone afar, These words of ancient Celtic hope, "Peace after war."
I would return to Erin When all these wars are by, Live long among her hills before My last good-bye.
Beyond Rathkelly. [Francis Carlin]
As I went over the Far Hill, Just beyond Rathkelly, -- Och, to be on the Far Hill O"er Newtonstewart Town!
As I went over the Far Hill With Marget"s daughter Nellie, The night was up and the moon was out, And a star was falling down.
As I went over the Far Hill, Just beyond Rathkelly, -- Och, to be on the Far Hill Above the Bridge o" Moyle!
As I went over the Far Hill, With Marget"s daughter Nellie, I made a wish before the star Had fallen in the Foyle.
As I went over the Far Hill, Just beyond Rathkelly, -- Och, to be on the Far Hill With the hopes that I had then!
As I went over the Far Hill, I wished for little Nellie, And if a star were falling now I"d wish for her again.
A Song of Two Wanderers. [Marguerite Wilkinson]
Dear, when I went with you To where the town ends, Simple things that Christ loved -- They were our friends; Tree shade and gra.s.s blade And meadows in flower; Sun-sparkle, dew-glisten, Star-glow and shower; Cool-flowing song at night Where the river bends, And the shingle croons a tune -- These were our friends.
Under us the brown earth Ancient and strong, The best bed for wanderers All the night long; Over us the blue sky Ancient and dear, The best roof to shelter all Glad wanderers here; And racing between them there Falls and ascends The chantey of the clean winds -- These were our friends.
By day on the broad road Or on the narrow trail, Angel wings shadowed us, Glimmering pale Through the red heat of noon; In the twilight of dawn Fairies broke fast with us; Prophets led us on, Heroes were kind to us Day after happy day; Many white Madonnas We met on our way -- ~Farmer and longsh.o.r.eman, Fisherman and wife, Children and laborers Brave enough for Life, Simple folk that Christ loved -- They were our friends. . . .~
Dear, we must go again To where the town ends. . . .
In the Mushroom Meadows. [Thomas Walsh]
Sun on the dewy gra.s.slands where late the frost hath shone, And lo, what elfin cities are these we come upon!
What pigmy domes and thatches, what Arab caravan, What downy-roofed paG.o.das that have known no touch of man!
Are these the oldtime meadows? Yes, the wildgrape scents the air; The breath of ripened orchards still is incense everywhere; Yet do these dawn-encampments bring the lurking memories Of Egypt and of Burma and the sh.o.r.es of China Seas.
The Path that leads to Nowhere. [Corinne Roosevelt Robinson]
There"s a path that leads to Nowhere In a meadow that I know, Where an inland island rises And the stream is still and slow; There it wanders under willows And beneath the silver green Of the birches" silent shadows Where the early violets lean.
Other pathways lead to Somewhere, But the one I love so well Had no end and no beginning -- Just the beauty of the dell, Just the windflowers and the lilies Yellow striped as adder"s tongue, Seem to satisfy my pathway As it winds their sweets among.
There I go to meet the Springtime, When the meadow is aglow, Marigolds amid the marshes, -- And the stream is still and slow. -- There I find my fair oasis, And with care-free feet I tread For the pathway leads to Nowhere, And the blue is overhead!
All the ways that lead to Somewhere Echo with the hurrying feet Of the Struggling and the Striving, But the way I find so sweet Bids me dream and bids me linger, Joy and Beauty are its goal, -- On the path that leads to Nowhere I have sometimes found my soul!
Days. [Karle Wilson Baker]
Some days my thoughts are just coc.o.o.ns -- all cold, and dull, and blind, They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;
And other days they drift and shine -- such free and flying things!
I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.
Ellis Park. [Helen Hoyt]
Little park that I pa.s.s through, I carry off a piece of you Every morning hurrying down To my work-day in the town; Carry you for country there To make the city ways more fair.
I take your trees, And your breeze, Your greenness, Your cleanness, Some of your shade, some of your sky, Some of your calm as I go by; Your flowers to trim The pavements grim; Your s.p.a.ce for room in the jostled street And gra.s.s for carpet to my feet.
Your fountains take and sweet bird calls To sing me from my office walls.
All that I can see I carry off with me.
But you never miss my theft, So much treasure you have left.
As I find you, fresh at morning, So I find you, home returning -- Nothing lacking from your grace.
All your riches wait in place For me to borrow On the morrow.
Do you hear this praise of you, Little park that I pa.s.s through?
A Note from the Pipes. [Leonora Speyer]