The Trumpet Sounds

The singing stars,

The laughter of the hills,

The symphony of joy that spills

From robin-throats--all say:

The trumpet sounds! God speaks! The scars

Of earth will pass away,

But not the stars.

Candor

Second in MFCP "Star Sevlin" Contest, Oct. 1951

Along the River Path

The sound of laughter pierced my loneliness,
A small boy's treble and a man's notes gay
As the meadow lark's clear fluting. Effortless
Along the river path they came my way,
The boy light-touching flowers as he skipped
Beside his Dad--Wild flowers God had sown.
The tall man stooped to kiss the face uptipped
And gently said, "My little son, my own!"

And suddenly I was a child again
Striding beside my father with my hand
Love-clasped in his. We were two "farmer men"
Exploring all the wonders of our land.
What tender memories to hold of one
Who carved the timeless footprints for his son!

Fashion a Star

Sorrow and tears
Shadow the years--
Lift your eyes far.

Dark is the height
Mocking your sight--
Fashion a star.

Counting Out Rhyme

Violins of robin, swallow,
Lark flutes, rippling-clear and mellow
In the willow!

Bunting clarinets in maple,
Goldfinch saxophones in apple,
White birch supple!

Oriole trumpets in the alder!
Magpie zithers in boxelder
Echo bolder!

The American Bard

Time-Hallowed Shrine

When sudden storm dark-veiled the dusk
And winds because a hurricane
That shrieked in wrath, wild, uncontrolled,
Fear, striking like a metronome,
Would mark our heartbeats. When we saw
The little lighted path to home
Fear left, we knew security.

Not coddling arms, but arms love-strong
Embraced; word-coverlets enwrapped
In peace. The will to conquer born,
We climbed to reach the mountains' comb--
The crest of truth, our destiny.

That habitation is a shrine,
Time-hallowed now among the hills,
To which we still return for strength.
We hear its challenge, as we roam,
To grow soul-tall toward the Light.
For there beneath its lowly dome
Was patterned love's democracy.

To Higher Pastures

In the still morning
After a soft-voiced rain,
Let me hear the rinsed voices of larks
And, looking up,
See Pegasus in paling star-lanes
And know
That I may grasp the golden reins
To guide him to cloud-high pastures.

Let me stand tall upon a hilltop
And know there are grazing lands
Above the stars.

We Gathered Mountain Bluebells

Today I climbed again remembered hills
And gathered Mountain Bluebells there with you.
Can you recall with me the childish thrills
We found within those mystic cups of blue?
I wonder if your Far-off Land can boast
Low-rolling flowered hillsides in the spring
Where wandering children may behold a host
Of Mountain Bells that match a bluebird's wing?
In memory again our arms are filled
With fragrant blossoms that we picked today
While singing in the sun our voices trilled
An echoing and lilting roundelay.
Again we know our childhood's happy bliss,
Our mother's tender smile, her thank-you kiss.

Tamed

Harsh atomic cries
Slow-grow gentle: Atlas strength
Employed for healing ...

Restoring Bombed Areas

In courtship days he was all gentleness
And gave her fragile heart that which it asked.
His voice rang Temple bells; in his caress
She felt the touch of angel hands. She basked
In beauty at the shrine of love and knew
A lilting, winging, mounting ecstasy.
Before the altar through a star-mist hue
She felt her husband's kiss, they joyously
Tripped through her door to meet: heartache--Veneer
Worn thin through nearness left him strange and crude.
She struggled through each disillusioned year
Her spirit trembling when his soul stood nude.
Her castle shattered but in writhing pain,
She gathered pieces to rebuild again.

The Goddess Speaks

I wear the robe of sorrow as I stand
Seeing the hope upon the war-etched faces
Of weary pilgrims; for within my land
They will not find the winged empyreal graces
Of which they dream. I hear the muffled clink
Of Judas-coins within my portals, where
They yearn to enter. Standing on the brink
Of apathy's abyss. I breathe the air
Of chaos. By your valor bid me live!
Free me from foes within! Democracy
Can heal all wounds and spirit-scars, and give
The light to build a world-wide sovereignity
Of peace. Then lift your thoughts above the clay--
And walk as brothers in the Master's way.

The Hour I Touched a Dream

Opalescent-white moon-javelins were flashing,
Stars danced to the lake and silently were splashing--
Silently they bathe in memory's silver stream.

Pipes of Pan re-echoed by moon-rippled water,
Beauty's voice was calling, "Sing for me, my daughter"--
Ever I recall the hour I touched a dream.

Monument

No monument of stone
Will ever laud my name,
And I shall come and go my way unknown
To the halls or books of fame;

Yet I shall be content
If when my day is done
And night comes on, I leave this monument:
A clean and valiant son.


The Relief Society Magazine

In a Gentle Mood

(To Thomas Jefferson)

Let others tell of how with star-tipped pen
He formed the structure for our liberty,
Then toiled to build with wise, far-visioned men,
The architecture for democracy.
But let me sing his love for solitude;
How music moved him when wild grasses stirred.
I would portray him in a gentle mood--
Love crowned his home and spoke the silver word.
The poetry of hills, smooth plains of blue,
The miracle of birth ... in dreams were spun.
How tenderly he led his "Patty" through
The "shadowed valley" back into the sun.
Then came the journey he returned alone ...
But knew love's triumph over death and stone.

Frontier Wife

She trudged long weary miles of desert sands
Beside her mate as they left ease to find
A newer, untamed hearth. Her homing mind
Found solace in her baby's clinging hands;
In dreams of living once again in lands
Where gardens grow, where sheltering trees are kind.
One sultry day a sunstroke left her blind,
And fear squeezed at her heart with tightening bands.
Her sight did not return; yet willing feet
Found strength to journey on. Her baby's cry,
Its need, renewed her courage. Inner pain
That stunned her heart was eased as hope made sweet
Her loss. Each day beneath the burning sky
She joyed because they would not move again.

Faint Whisperings

In solitude I hear faint whisperings
From some ethereal sphere where once I lived
And loved and learned before I came here through
The door of birth. And oftentimes when I
Firm-clasp a stranger's hand across the miles
Or at my door, I hear the distant bells
Of some far Temple where we both have knelt;
I breathe the fragrance of the jasmined-air
Of a celestial garden; hear the song
Of an aeolian harp that once was strummed
By heavenly winds ... I hear faint whisperings--
Perhaps the breath of immortality.

The Willow Sings

The willow sings as the night moths dance--
A soothing song on its rhythmic strings.
While flickering moonlit shadows prance
        The willow sings.

The night wind, whispering gently, brings
The song of the willow--an old romance.
To my tethered heart each memory clings.

I thrill to an old caress, a glance;
My love returns on a night bird's wings.
While firefly-torches, glowing, enhance,
        The willow sings!

Yours Was the Saving Hand

(To May C. Jensen)

No star illumined. I was drugged with fear,
And stood by the perilous chasm of despair.
Yours was the hand that reached to draw me back.
Yours was the patient voice that, like a prayer,
Intoned my soul to peace. You wove for me
A shining lei of faith, then gently led
Me from the darkened valley, step by step,
Into the light of hope. Each word you said,
Each blessed, healing word became a star--
The music of your voice still calls afar.

Ride Often Darling

Sometimes at night I see you riding by
Upon your wee white pony in the sky.
Star-spurred and in your hand a moonbeam rein
You canter over Heaven's silvered plain.

You laugh at little stars that dare to peep
And twink at you before they fall asleep
In cloud-draped trundle-beds. I see you smile
As Lady Moon gives her caress, the while

My arms are aching for the feel of you.
Ride often darling, through the starry blue,
And should you tumble from your moon-white steed
The mother-angels there will tend your need.

Montana Poetry Quarterly

Harp in the Willow Tree

My love hung a harp in the willow tree
Saying, "Winds can strum it instead of me
When they tiptoe over the hill
When I am gone."

It seems he is playing each tender note
That curves on the breeze from the Southwind's throat
And my tremulous heart grows still
In the hush of dawn.

How wise was my love in his love for me
To hang his harp in the willow tree!

Beauty-Tryst

(To Mildred Nye Dewey)

You opened wide the door of song
And bade me know the throng
Who taught my heart
The art.
My fears
Dissolved in tears
Of pearl and amethyst--
Each day became a beauty-tryst.

Heaven Will Not Be Strange

I do not think that Heaven will be strange
To those who walk the beauty-lanes of earth,
Drink from love's chalice, keep the spacious range
Of memory lilied with the joys of worth:
A bride beside the altar, coral strands,
A baby's smile and clinging little hands;
The tenderness in eyes time cannot mar;
A son returning safely from afar ...
For souls who hear each white bell as it chimes
And listen to the singing of a star,
Step in and out of Heaven many times.

Chromatones

Twelve Red Roses

(From Joyce on my Sixtieth Birthday)

Only a Master could conceive of you
And put conception into living form:
Your chalices adorned with pearls of dew,
A perfect symmetry of line to charm,
Breathtaking artistry, a matchless norm.
So like a blushing bride, each fragrant bloom!
No mere coquettes, you are sincere and warm.
Your loveliness enchants away all gloom
And brings the splendor of a palace to my room.

Twilight Symphony

(To Margaret Ball Dickson)

She guides a tranquil Pegasus and mounts
The crest of laureate hills, and humbly counts
The hours by friends who hear within her song:
The eagle's dauntless challenge, clear and strong;
The lark's rinsed lyric through cool April air;
The timid phoebe's lullaby of prayer;
The benediction of a killdeer-chime
Tuning the heart to peace at vesper time.
With mellowed overtones, serene and free,
How beautiful her twilight symphony!

Kingdom of the Free

Walk unafraid and bear a joyous load,
Adventure beckons all along the road.
Fear not the trail may end, but know this truth:
The twilight hours complete the dreams of youth.

Then comes the night when from its chrysalis
The soul steps forth to cross the last abyss--
And finds beyond, a sphere devoid of sorrow;
For death leads onward to a new tomorrow.

The spirit, eagle-pinioned, stands upon
Celestial heights to greet the glorious dawn,
And sees the light of immortality
Illuminate the Kingdom of the Free.

The Lyric

Too Brief the Interlude

Through silent air, cool-dewed--
A country dawn is never trite--
A lark sang morning in my heart until
In ecstasy I watched the sunrise spill
Its gold upon a gull in flight--
Too brief the interlude ...

The sun paused with his chin upon the hill;
Departed in a blaze of light.
In gentle quietude--
The soul of beauty nude--
Beneath star-mariners of night,
A killdeer-Angelus chimed, "Still ... Be still...!"

Spirit of Beauty

While artist wind-fingers
Strum lutes in the brake,
The paling moon lingers
To sail on the lake.
Forgotten is duty
In joy of release--
The spirit of beauty
Is whispering peace.

Returned Korean Chaplin Speaks

In youth I stood tiptoe upon a dream
And reached to touch the brightest crystal star;
Then years away I still could see its gleam,
A silver shaft to rift the clouds of war.
The black-cowled horesmen bringing tragic death
Could not dispel its glow. With inner sight,
I eased a wounded comrade's tortured breath--
My Star became a benison of LIGHT.
Where birds of steel were screaming, wings outspread,
And swords were stained with crimson to the hilt,
I heard a Heavenly chorus, angel-led
And mustered out a soul his dream rebuilt.
O eager youth, stand tall upon your dreams
That you may build them by the Starlight's gleams.

Battle of Battle Creek

(At Battle Creek, Idaho. Now called Winder.)

Prelude to Battle

December air was stitched with frosted thread.
Two miners whistling with an artist's skill
Too late saw shadows--moccasined their tread--
With tomahawks ... Shrieks split the air until
Death silenced. Those who went to bring them in
Heard bowstrings twang, and soon their scalps adorned
The crafty warriors' belts. The javelin
Of pain sharp-pierced the hearts of all who mourned.
"Futile are our peace labors," settlers said,
"We need the giant strength of government."
Fort Douglas bristled at their plea which read:
"The Bannock braves are ruthless ... We are spent."
Tow hundred soldiers led by Colonel Connor
Swift-journeyed to uphold the white man's honor.

The Conflict

Surprised at dawn, as copper skies grew clear,
The Indian camp, but dreaming of a battle,
Awoke when guns barked loud their death and fear,
And all were slaughtered like so many cattle.
The braves and squaws and little children too,
Even the babes in cradle boards lay dying--
Soldiers with bayonets had thrust them through,
With "Nits make lice!" the frenzy in their crying.
Upon the sculptured purity of snow
Death bold-engraved his signature in life-blood--
Weep for the innocent--No more the bow--
Strings twanged ... Dead, mounting stopped the rising strife-flood.
The cold sun, seeing on each swarthy face
The stubborn yielding, lent his pale embrace.

Lamentation

The fallen warriors chanted-slow a prayer
Lamenting power of the guns' hot breath.
Their weird and mournful wailings froze in air,
Then ceased and silence named the victor, death--
Three hundred still bronze faces haunt the years,
The warriors' countenances stoic-proud;
On cheeks of babes remain the frozen tears;
The miracle of grass dims not their shroud.
Though near a century has sped since then,
Those moaning wailings rise--now loud, now low--
From that "ravine of death" and linger, when
In silence of the night, winds breathe and blow
Their lamentations over grain-gold prairies
Declaring that the Red Man's spirit tarries.

Letter from Korea

O Dad, what are you doing with my land
While I am here where barren soil is red
Lighting the lamp of hope in this dark strand,
Rekindling fires of liberty long dead.
America, the Eden of the earth!
Oh, keep her clean and strong and firm in right.
When I return to her, I want rebirth
Where peaceful horsemen ride the steeds of light.
Last night it seemed I saw the Goddess weep,
Reaching her arms to you beseechingly,
And to the other fathers there asleep
All drunken with the wine of apathy.
O Dad, it seemed I heard within my dream
The clang of chains above the Eagle's scream.

Different

Earth Can Be Beautiful

Come, build a Parthenon of Peace to youth--
Hold high their torch; bid them know hero-height--
Who now lie still, lips made for laughter mute.
Remove the sword from their pale hearts, once blithe.

Earth can be beautiful: Flame peace until
White lilies bloom where swords dissolve in rust,
And the stallion--war--that lopes through crimson mist
Plods before the plow, servile and dull.