Poems, Vol. IV — A Closer Reading

ce had I such longings to be A sailor--those wishes are o'er, But ever in dreams of the sea My horoscope rests on the shore.

Oh, give me a home by the sea-- A cottage, a cabin, a tent! Existence should ecstasy be Till summer were joyfully spent.

Oh, sing me a merry song! My heart is sad tonight; The day has been so drear and long, The world has gone awry and wrong, Discouragements around me throng, And gloom surpassing night.

Oh, sing again the song for me My mother used to sing When I, a child beside her knee, Looked up for her sweet sympathy, Nor ever thought how I might be Her little hindering thing.

Oh, sing, as eventide draws near, The old-time lullabys Grandmother sang--forever dear, Though in her grave this many a year She lies who "read her title clear To mansions in the skies."

Oh, sing till all perplexing care Has vanished with the day! And angels ever bright and fair Come down the melody to share, And on their pinions lightly bear My happy soul away.

No, this is January, dear, The almanac's untrue; For roaring Boreas, 'tis clear, In sleet and snow and atmosphere, Will be the monarch of the year, And terror, too.

"Is it a blessing in disguise?" Of course, things always are; But Arctic blasts with ardent skies Somehow do not quite harmonize, That try to cheat by weather-lies The calendar.

Old Janus must be double-faced; He promised long ago The maple syrup not to taste, Nor steal the roses from the waist Of one, a damsel fair and chaste As April snow.

O winter of our discontent! Your reign was for a day; Behold! a scene of wonderment, A thousand tongues are eloquent, For spring, in bud and bloom and scent, Is on the way.

Let working-clothes be laid aside, And Industry in festal garb arrayed; Let busy brain and hand from toil and trade Relax at Christmas-tide.

As moments pass by dial, so Let gifts go round the happy circle where In giving and receiving each may share, And mutual kindness show.

The meaning deep, like mystery, That lies in holly-bough or mistletoe, May thousands never fathom--yet who know And hail the Christmas-tree.

So strong a hold on human thought Has this glad day that seasons all the year With the rich flavoring of hearty cheer, It ne'er shall be forgot.

It is the milestone on life's road Where we may lay our burdens down, and take A look at souvenirs, for love's dear sake So prettily bestowed.

Upon its shining tablet we may write-- If, like the good Samaritan, in deed-- A record that the angel band shall read With impulse of delight.

And this is why on Christmas morn The world should smile and wear its brightest glow: Because some nineteen hundred years ago A little child was born.

These winter days are passing fair! As if a breath of spring Had permeated all the air, And touched each living thing With thankfulness for such a boon-- Discounting with a scoff The almanac's report that "June Is yet a long way off!"

We quarrel with the calendar-- For May has been misplaced-- And doubt the tale oracular Of "Janus, double-faced;" For this "ethereal mildness" looks Toward shadowy delights Of roseate bowers, of cosy nooks, Of coming thermal nights.

Let robes diaphanous succeed Dense garments made of fur, And overcoats maintain the lead-- Among the things that were! The wisely-rented sealskin sacque, By many a dame possessed, Be quickly relegated back To its moth-haunted chest!

While every portly alderman, In linen suit arrayed, Manipulates the palm-leaf fan And seeks the cooling shade; And he perspires who not in vain Suggests his funny squibs, By poking his unwelcome cane In other people's ribs.

Who dares to fling opprobrium On January now? As to a potentate we come With reverential bow, Because it doth not yet appear That Time hath ever seen The ruler of th' inverted year In more benignant mien.

O Boreas! do not lie low-- That is, if "lie" thou must-- Upon our planet; do not blow With fierce and sudden gust, But come so gently, tenderly-- As come thou surely wilt-- That we may have sweet dreams of thee, Beneath "our crazy quilt!"

By helpful fingers taught to twine Around its trellis, grew A delicate and dainty vine; The bursting bud, its blossom sign, Inlaid with honeyed-dew.

Developing by every art To floriculture known, From tares exempt, and kept apart, Careful, as if in some fond heart Its legume germs were sown.

So thriving, not for me alone Its beauty and perfume-- Ah, no, to rich perfection grown By flower mission loved and known In many a darkened room.