Ways of Farms

"Why do you keep the farm?" I said to him,
"You should retire and spend your slowing days
In city-comfort." -- "But I like the ways
Of farms," he answered looking at the slim
White birches swaying by the river's brim
Where glad larks fluted; then I saw his gaze
Rove to the meadow where the pheasant lays
Her eggs, the slough where bright-winged mallards swim.
I knew he meant the little things--the fall
Of furrowed loam ... And almost envious
I breathed the wild, sweet scent the spring released.
I knew he heard within a killdeer call
Across a field of wheat, the Angeles,
For he stood silent till the chiming ceased.

In Memoriam to Eugene Field

Sonnet I

Speak softly here where he was laid to rest.
Step lightly where the feet of angels trod
Who bore his spirit Home to meet his God
Who welcomed him, not as a transient guest,
But as a son returning from a quest--
His task completed, where the mundane sod
Was brighter for his flowers of wit; the prod
Of toil a challenge mounting laughter's crest.

His door to childhood, ever left ajar,
Death opened wide; bade all to enter there--
Boy Blue, the angel children, joyously,
Were waiting at the gates lit by a star.
Speak softly! Singing comes--on jasmined-air--
Sweet as the truth of immortality.

Sonnet II

Can Heaven be more beautiful than this,
His shrine framed by a garden; the embrace
Of silent peace here in the hallowed place
Where loved ones gently laid the chrysalis
His spirit wore? Across the still abyss
Of death, star-spanned, borne by the tender grace
Of angels, he returned to God, his face
Bearing the record of his earthly bliss.

I think that Heaven's little children came
And climbed upon his knee: his own Boy Blue
And all the rest who romped on Heavenly loam.
Within the Book of Life, he saw his name
Recorded. Then as childish laughter grew,
He felt a deep content and was at home.

In Memoriam

(To Clarence Sharp)

He sang
Like a glad thrush
Sending its wild, sweet notes
Upward when there was none but God
To hear.

Summer Is Too Brief

The summer waltzing in with hollyhocks
Held sprays of long-stemmed lilies in her arms.
Their fragrance bade the dozing four-o'clocks
Lift high their heads to greet her lambent charms.
She ran with golden sandals through the fields
That bronzed to harvest glory at her touch.
(How gentle is the scepter summer wields!)
All lavishly she filled the empty hutch;
Then quietly beside the slowing stream
She built an altar fire and bowed her head.
I closed my eyes a little while to dream
And unawares all noiselessly she fled.
I could not call her back, then in my grief
I wept because her stay had been too brief.

Eternal Summer

Think not that summer ends but rather say
Bright June lies sleeping in December's arms;
That in the shining pattern of today
Are yesterdays of beauty with their charms:
For summer mounts on spurs of columbine,
Her fragrance lingers in a lilied-grot;
A lark-flute rhapsody is ever mine
Recorded on the microfilm of thought.
The hollyhocks still hold their tapers high;
A moon canoe glides smoothly on the lake;
In winter's sculptured silence killdeer cry
And redbirds flash a challenge from the brake--
When the last darkness falls, we wake at dawn
To hear eternal summer's antiphon.

Summer Returns

The sun with golden sandals walks
Across the fields, while Hollyhocks
Hold high bright tapers of glad June.
At night a silver yacht, the moon,
Sails on the lake. My love and I
Stroll on its shores while killdeer cry,
And on the willow harps, a prayer
Is strummed by night winds passing there.

Montana Poetry Quarterly
Hon. Men. in Anonyme Contest

Summer Night Phantasy

While cellos of the bullfrogs call,
Moon-mother spins a thin, sheer veil,
Softens the face of night until
Each feature is made beautiful.
I hear the laughter of a troll
Who gaily twirls each tinkling bell
Of silvered aspens. Fairies smile
In lily-yachts upon the pool.

Midwest Chaparral
First in Consonance Contest, Spring 1952

Radiant Philosophy

My heart is singing. It has found release
And feels the healing glow of inner peace:
What joy to sense that every kindly deed
Returns a spirit-blessing for my need;
That when I lift one thought above the clay
About my shoulders is a star-strung lei;
I plant a flower in the barren sod,
It climbs to glory and I walk with God;
I light a candle for a questing soul,
It gleams within my own to make me whole;
I tune another's burdened heart to sing,
My own is lightened through love's offering;
I smile and tears become as jewels of dew--
The sun I bring to others warms me too.

War Cry

Lost Dreams

The gentle, lonely spirit of the night
Walks through the birches: Silver-sandaled feet
Step lightly--Let no sound mar this retreat--
When God hangs low His lamp of opal-white
Lost dreams are sadly-sweet.

In a Country Garden

When I must leave the earth, I hope to see
The gentle Master by a willow tree,
A wild canary pouring forth its song,
And a little river dancing all along
Its way through gardens. I would feel alone
And shy before Him on a golden throne,
But in a country garden, He would reach
His arms to me and speak the simple speech
I know. And I would run the Him and say,
"I'm glad you have a garden. May I stay
And help you tend it? Then I would not grieve
For all earth's beauty that I had to leave.
I know the ways of gardens, country-wild ..."
And he would smile and answer, "Yes, my child."

Monument

You may never find in stone,
Find in halls of fame
A memorial to me
That will laud my name.
Yet when I must journey Home,
I shall feel no sorrow
If I leave a valiant son
For the new tomorrow.
I shall know supreme content
If I leave this monument.

From My Hospital Window

A weeping willow--two score years its girth--
Grown tall to God still reaches down to earth.

Port of Home

The moon is a silver yacht tonight,
A yacht with its sails of opal-white
Sailing me to the port of home.

My Father's Poetry

He lived the poetry he heard and saw.
"But weave my crown of gold-ripe wheat," he said.
God's primal handiwork held not a flaw.
The land's broad soul reached out to him and pled
To be released from barren waste. He felt
It breathing as the rich black furrows turned,
And leaping, green with April. As he knelt
Before the autumn's largess--he had earned--
He heard its song of immortality.
Recalling childhood hours, my soul is stirred
To sing of pristine beauty ... Can it be
His poems flowing in my lyric word?

Gently Gently Row

Silently we watch, grief-stirred,
     By her bed where angels stand--
     Gently death, come, take her hand,
     Bid her leave for Sunrise Land.

Muted weeping ... She has heard
     Timeless, still, cool waters flow--
     Gently, gently, pilot row
     To that Shore where all must go.

Endless kingdoms!--Speak no word!
     Hush! She hears--strange Mystery!
     Coming nearer, rhythmic, free,
     Steps of immortality.

New Pharoah

A new Pharaoh
Is ruling today.
He marks our sons for death
Through war. His heart is cruel
And his name is greed.

Scimitar and Song

Barren Woman's Cry

O mothers, you whose sons are called to war,
The cruel talons also tear my soul.
Your boys return to wear a battle scar,
Are maimed and wounded; are not spirit-whole.
And you who mourn a grave in foreign earth
Beneath white crosses, gleaming row on row,
On reverent knees give thanks that you gave birth
To sons who bade democracy to grow.
I share with you the yearning for God's grace,
Beseeching Him to reach to warring zones.
Could I have felt a soldier-son's embrace,
My heart would sing above its anguished moans.
You walk in tears the path that Mary trod,
But hear my cry: Would that I might, O God!

The Relief Society Magazine
Sea To Sea In Song--APL Anthol.
Third in Eliza R. Snow Contest
First in MFCP Clinic Poems, Spring 1952

Sing Gently

A mother's lullaby becomes a star
To lead the earth to be peace-beautiful.
Lilies will bloom where swords dissolve--How far
Away the hour? How near this miracle?

O mothers, answer: Lift your eyes, and sing
The song of love, to bid small fingers curled
About your own reach upward to the King
That He may help them build a tomorrow's world.

Sing gently; kindle high, white fires to burn
Within the heart; give sons in youth the rod
Of flaming faith that they grow strong to turn
Back waters of the sea ... and lead to God.

For faith implanted through a lullaby
Will flame to blazon PEACE upon the sky!

Yet Man Heeds Not

The coyote, trapped, escaping, keeps a wary eye;
The mother robin learns to wait the stealthy tread;
Yet man, divinely sired, heeds not the warning cry
Of nations, buried, but sins on then mourns his dead.

The Relief Society Magazine

Russian Mother

She sings dictated lullabies
To the man child on her breast.
Her eyes, deep, haunted pools
Where sunlight never dances,
Hold no rest.

Her lips though word-obedient
Falter on the rim
Of atheist-thought to mutely sing
Of Him.

Holding her small man closer
(Her love must reach
His soul to give assurance
Of the God she dare not teach.)
Flames of high white fire
Glint her eyes--above the clod--
Perhaps her son will sire
Giant-minded free men
Who walk with God.

Pioneer Mother

In her log cabin,
The need for loveliness
Gnawing incessantly at her heart,
She held fast to the exquisite threads
Of past beauty and spun shining tendrils
Fastening them to beauty yet to be.

Faith of Our Pioneer Mothers

How could you do it Granny--leave your home
And ease and beauty, and across the loam
Of deserts push a handcart all the way?
"The voice of truth, my child, we must obey
And follow where it leads. It was not hard
For I had John, and we both loved the Lord--
John was your grandpa--and beneath my heart,
The miracle of life ... Joy can impart
A song to sun-cracked lips; ease weary feet."
Her eyes illumed, were reminiscent-sweet.
"We saw the Light ahead that does not fail."
Surely you faltered, Granny, on the trail
When Grandpa died? I paused--She smiled and said,
"My dear, God walked beside me in his stead."

The Improvement Era

Our Mother Was Young

I still see our mother with stars in her eyes
As every day yielded the joy of surprise.
The wonder of life on her heart was inscrolled--
Our mother was young and never grew old.

Our mother saw beauty in every dark hour,
The rain through her eyes was a crystalline shower;
Our daffodils, blooming, were goblets of gold--
For mother was young and never grew old.

She gave us the armor of courage to wear
Whose shield was clean living, whose strength bade us dare.
Her heart was truth's chalice. What joy--multifold--
With our little mother who never grew old!

Our mother knew sorrow but never defeat;
Adversity tempered and made her more sweet.
When death's angel called her, new wonder unrolled,
And mother went smilingly-youthful, not old.

The American Bard

Mother Sculptor

How patiently she works with living clay,
Molding with willing tender hands and heart
Each pliant form, no thought of self or pay,
But praying that the finished work of art
Reflect the Master, and as time unrolls
Be flawless temples for immortal souls.

The Relief Society Magazine

Portrait of Mother

I see again my mother's youthful face
With lamplight glowing on her dark brown hair.
Her patient hands are mending children's clothes.
A smile is on her lips so gently-sweet
That I remember bed-time lullabies
She sang to me in that loved long ago.
How speedily those lilting years have sped!
When looking on her tender countenance
I seem to hear old church bells softly chime;
See arching rainbows over sun-kissed hills;
Hear laughing little streams that trip along.
I breathe the lingering lilac-breath of spring;
Hear sleighbells tinkle barely to be heard
As happy childish laughter fills the air;
Smell spicy sugar cookies, new-made loaves;
Feel cool, fresh sheets upon my bed at night;
An angel's kisses on my tired brow;
A gentle hand upon my head in prayer;
I stroll again through quiet country lanes;
I see old apple trees and bluebelled hills.

The American Bard

Mother

Her home was her castle where wee baby hands
Brought her more wealth than the orient-lands
Yielded a king in his royal estate.
Up before sunrise, she labored till late
In toiling and loving--and sighing perhaps.
(Dear gentle Mother, her love still enwraps.)
She taught us the beauty in lowliest things;                                  
To reach to the stars ... Her kiss took the stings
Away from our failures--You could not defeat
The spirit of her--Her clear voice carolled sweet
In singing us lullabies, gave healing balm.
Her smile had the power to chasten and calm.

She taught us the strength of a life that is clean;                          
The value and glory of work's earnest mien.
She mothered her ten with a joy so complete
That Heaven was found in the path of her feet.

I Love the Old

The hills no longer echo songs I sang
When copper glow announced the break of day.
The winding trails where children's laughter rang
Are concrete walks; and all along the way
Where pink wild roses, modestly yet gay,
Lifted their faces to the sun are found
Their cultured sisters flaunting an array
Of brilliant color. Thirsty, parching ground
Is now a greening carpet where abound
Tall junipers with pfitzers at their feet.
The loved old rambling home, enlarged and gowned
In luxury, is leisure's calm retreat.
Upon my soul the homestead left its stamp
For still I love to light the coal-oil lamp.

From a Brimming Heart

The lark pours forth his song upon the air,
Flute-clear and cool in rippling rhapsody,
Surpassing not the robin's symphony,
Nor drowning out the phoebe's gentle flare.
His notes come not at duty's urge or praise,
But to express the lilting ecstasy
Not to be stilled within his breast, does he
Release a splashing fount of jeweled blaze.

So there are souls who feel the touch of wings
And hear the silent singing of the stars,
The music of the Master Poet's art;
Who see the glory in all living things,
And often walk the realm of avatars
Who sing their lyrics from a brimming heart.

Hope

At the gate of dawn
In her mended robe she stands
To wait the sunrise.

New Athenaeum

Inviolate Eden

The albatross of discord--should it light--
Casts far its gloomy shadow. While the choice,
Gay-plumaged birds with sweeter song take flight
Before its somber spell, its raucous voice
Brings castles crashing. (When the mute batons
Of aspens twirl while from the lark's glad throat
There spills a star-splashed fountain in the bronze,
Hushed hour of dawn, a magpie's zither note
Shatters the fragile moment.) The retreat
Illumined by love's tapers knows the dread,
Dark, heavy wings of gloom, the gray web-feet--
No  haven which they have not visited.
Yet man may keep, if he will guard the gate,
The Eden of his mind inviolate.

First in MFCP Sonnet Contest, Spring 1953