Tiny hands and little feet, Pretty, dainty Marguerite. Eyes as when the cloudless skies Dappled are with Summer's dyes, And through film of stormless night Flash soft rays of starry light; Teeth as milk of pearl congealed, When by tinkling laugh revealed, And from dimples' coy retreat Smiles peep out loved ones to greet, Merry, artless Marguerite. Fair of form as wax from mold, Witching, darling Marguerite. Not a soil of earth yet stains, Have left no hopes wrecked at thy feet, LIFE'S CHANGES. ON a green, mossy bank, near a swift speeding brook When May was but roses and song, A laughing babe played with a frail, tiny seed, The seasons rolled on. A fair girl in her pride Stooped to pick a bouquet of the dew-laden buds She drank in their perfume, with lips whose deep red Shamed even the rose buds, and high On, on rolled the years. A woman's hand plucked To twine in her tresses, now deeper than gold, A song on her lips slumbered sweetly and warm, While her heart danced as light as the sun-gilded waves Of the brook as they hurried away. Again a May came. A mother stood there Yet the brooklet kept ebbing away. A score more of years and a widow knelt low It was all of the babe and the seed that remained, HEART PICTURES. (To My Wife.) HER hair is the gold-brown of chestnuts, Her eyes blue as the heavenly zone, Her skin as the snow of the lily, When rose-blushes are over it blown; Her lips shame the heart of carnation, Her movements are exquisite grace, There is less of gold glint in her tresses, The crimson of lips not so vivid, And lighter the eyes in their blue; Her movements more stately and grander, Though losing no whit of their grace, And the smiles are more patient and tender That shine on the matronly face Of the woman I love. Faded out all the brown and the sunshine, The skin not so lily in whiteness, Paler now the rose waves o'er them roll; Earth, keep her to bless and to brighten, HONOR. The dying daughter of Time is LoveHonor the living son of Eternity. WOMAN. The soul of the beautiful woman Love is stronger than death, than the grave's deep tide, As the pride of earth, 'tis of heaven the pride. MOTHER. When a woman war sinnin' and sufferin', TRANSMUTATION. Before the act the action, the thought before the deed, The bud before the flower, the flower before the seed, In all of mind or matter another must precede. Before the song of poet the inspirations come, Before the honey sweetness the wild bees busy hum, Before the panting tempest the silence vast and dumb. ALICE W. BROTHERTON. M RS. ALICE WILLIAMS BROTHERTON in a letter to a friend says: "What can you say of a life so sequestered as mine except, 'She is born, is married, will die,' like the needy knife-grinder; 'Story, God bless you I have none to tell.' I was born in Cambridge, Indiana, but have passed most of my life in Cincinnati, and have never been east of the Blue Ridge Mountains. So you see I am purely one of the aborigines. As to my 'versing' that began soon after I was out of school. I think it was in 1872 I first sent my poems out to seek their fortune." Mrs. Brotherton lives quietly on East Walnut Hills, Cincinnati. In her home life she is the personification of devotion and domestic happiness. Graduating from one of the Cincinnati High Schools at an early age, it was not long before her bright soul attracted its affinity, hence the love, cottage and three interesting children which now divide with her writing all the mother-poet's time. Those poems in which the heart and its phases of joy and woe are treated are by far her best productions. Living in her own home with little of the outside world to distract her, the poet has grown wise feeding upon her own soul-thoughts. Hers is a busy life in that little home in East Walnut Hills; a life full of home and its motherly and wifely duties performed so faithfully. Crowded in among these, her songs have sprung up from her rich experience-experience not with the world but with the double nature of all poetical lives. The friction of one with the other she has used; no force has been wasted. Never has the home 1 fe been neglected, or made secondary to the writer's life. She has been for many years a contributor to the Century, The Independent, Atlantic Monthly, and Ser bner's Magazine. Her first separate publication was -Ab Initio. TELEGRAPH. Ours to frame the slender railway, PRELUDE. WHAT is your art, O poet? Only to catch and to hold In a poor, frail word-mould A little of life; Into the valleys the waters rolled; Hillocks and meadows disappeared. Out came running the elves in a throng, The elf-stones rolled down the mountain-side; "Thy ship has shattered my chamber wall!” Never was sailing like this before: He shot an arrow along the wind; Swifter and swifter across the foam The quivering Ox leaped over the track, And Olaf was king of the whole Norse land Such was the sailing of Olaf the king, UNAWARES. A SONG welled up in the singer's heart, (Like song in the throat of a bird,) And loud he sang, and far it rang, For his heart was strangely stirred; And he sang for the very joy of song, With no thought of one who heard. Within the listener's wayward soul PLIGHTED. A. D., 1874. "Two souls with but a single thought, BLESS my heart! You're come at last. Know him, don't you? Well, he's prime. Has some fortune-best and last. Love him? Nonsense. Don't be "soft." Pretty much as love now goes; He's devoted, and in time I'll get used to him, I s'pose. First love? Humbug. Don't talk stuff. Bella Brown, don't be a fool! Next you'll rave of flames and darts Like a chit at boarding school. Don't be "miffed," I talked just so Some two years back. Fact, my dear! But two seasons kill romance, Leave one's views of life quite clear. Why if Will Latrobe had asked When he left, two years ago, I'd have thrown up all and gone Out to Kansas, do you know? Fancy me a settler's wife! Blest escape, dear, was it not? To enact "Love in a Cot." Been engaged to eight or ten: So it don't much matter when. Charley wants a stylish wife, Green with envy and despair, Hers aint half so nice, you see-Did I write you, Belle, about How she tried for Charley, till Hates me so she'll scarcely speak. O yes! Grace Church, Brown, and that, Pa won't mind expense at last, I'll be off his hands for good; Cost a fortune two years past. My trousseau shall outdo Maude's, I've carte blanche from Pa, you know; Mean to have my dress from Worth! Won't she just be raving though? A SONG OF FLEETING LOVE. Though to-day the truant may stay, Hold your pulses calm, unstirred- UNDER THE BEECHES. IN the gray beech shadows Dewey violets hide, Anemone and blood-root And the tall, white trillium In the gray beech shadows It was years ago When last I saw the wind-flower And Spring-beauty blow: But my heart grows tender With a yearning wild For the woods I strayed in When a child. Is there any dainty Tasting half so sweet As the wild May-apple That we used to eat? Any costly jewel With as rich a glow As the red rose-heart showed Long ago? QUATRAINS. THE MAXIM OF APOLLONIUS. Better in some mean shrine beside the way To find a statue of ivory and gold, Than in a lofty temple to behold A huge, coarse figure of the common clay. THE FALLING STAR. See where yon star falls headlong, flashing An Angel bears to earth from heaven A WOMAN'S CHOICE. No laurel-nay! Give me heartsease, I pray. Laurel grows on the heights so lone and cold; But heartsease clusters by the warm threshold, And brightens with its blossoms all the day. LARGESS. Ah, when a kingly soul doth largess give, How far its worth exceeds the gift itself! The slightest thing outweighs a miser's pelf When round it cluster memories that live. THE UNWRITTEN MESSAGE. To carry thought how weak OF TIRELESS PATIENCE. (A Persian Fable.) Before the close-barred gate of paradise A poor man watched a thousand years; then dozed One little instant only, with dulled eyes; That instant open swung the gate-and closed. SEPTEMBER, Lush juices of ripe fruits; splashed color flung From Frost's first palette-purple, gold and red; The last sweet song the meadow-lark has sung, Dirge of the Summer dead. NOW. Has one a tender thought of me? Speak it (I pray!) O friend, to-day. |