As Shadows Pass

Mutely I stand within death's mystic spell--

Star-windows of the Heavenly Home alight--

Watching the silent shadows--in regret--

On cool-dewed grasses, and I gently smile:

His wounds restored, my first-born rests in peace

To hear an angel-bugle; rise; enwrap

His soul with dawn in sky fields ... Lest he keep

A tryst with earth, I smile as shadows pass.

White Courage

The treadmill path is easy, son of mine,

And broad and smooth, illumed with neon lights;

While only lamps of Heaven softly shine

To mark the narrow trail to lofty heights.

But robots never leave the well-worn sod--

It takes white courage to ascend to God.

Candor

Autumn Song

Harvest moon,
Fulfillment's rune--
Gold chimes of aspens ring!

Scarlet now
The sumac bough;
Plowed fields, gull-blossoming ...

Farewell tones
Of geese-trombones ...
A whisper, "Wait for spring!"

This Is Mine to Hold

There will be other autumns with their singing
When beauty spreads through valleys like a flame
And crystal mirrors wear a scarlet frame
Where wild ducks preen. Again will come the ringing
Of bells of silver aspens turned to gold;
When gilded birches flaunt their twirling splendor
Beside the Midas-willows, then surrender
October's crown to sumacs, pert and bold;
When locust-purses open and are flinging
Their burnished coins for earth again to claim--
There will be other autumns, but Time's Vendor
May give no more than this as mine to hold.

Autumn Reflections

Splendor flames when day is nearly done,

Twilight's anthem is an orison

With the song of youth

Clear-intoned within its melody--

Autumn hours fulfill June's prophecy

With their garnered truth.

First in MFCP Roll Call Poems, Oct. 1953

Silver Sorrow

When death
Closes one door
Another opening
Reveals a silver pathway with
A sign of stars: NOTHING IS LOST!

Lingering Mystery

Gay is the laughter of autumn advancing

Through moon-shadowed valleys where killdeer are calling.

Scarlet are sandals of gypsy feet dancing

Through byways of beauty with Midas-gold falling.

Through moon-shadowed valleys where killdeer are calling,

Oh, where is my love to follow and woo me?

Through byways of beauty with Midas-gold falling

Only the echo of dreams will pursue me.

Oh, where is my love to follow and woo me

By moon-rippled water, and aspen bells ringing?

Only the echo of dreams will pursue me,

The mystery lingers, the night is for singing.

By moon-rippled water, and aspen bells ringing

Scarlet are sandals of gypsy feet dancing--

The mystery lingers, the night is for singing--

Gay is the laughter of autumn advancing.

The Coal-Oil Lamp

The coal-oil lamp burns low tonight

And shines across the dimming years,

Its memory a hallowed light

Of laughter interspersed with tears.

The coal-oil lamp burns low.

On father sitting there

It casts its homey glow

Upon his silvered hair.

The coal-oil lamp

Recalls old thrills:

Young foreheads damp

From climbing hills...

The coal

Of youth will light

The path from start to goal--

The coal-oil lamp burns low tonight.

Reflections

By a Lily

My soul knew Gethsemane's sorrow:
My son, grown to manhood, was killed.
My song and my laughter were silenced;
I wept for his dreams unfulfilled.

Then I entered my beautiful garden
And knelt by a lily to pray,
And the infinite peace of the Master
Drove bitter despairing away;

For the Lily had lived through the winter,
Not dead but hidden from view--
The Master speaks in a garden,
My son was living, I knew.

Will Lead Me Through

The hands of time are near the twilight hour,

I do not mind or fear the growing old:

The fragrance lingers in the fading flower;

Age gives an added luster to love's gold--

When I am called to cross the Silent River

While death, the kind physician, holds my hand,

Strings of the Heavenly harpsichord will quiver

A song to welcome me to that Far Strand.

I would that I might leave with gracious etchings

Engraved by thoughts of beauty on my face;

Portrayed upon my mellowed soul the sketchings

Of artistry through giving love's embrace.

Death bids new portals open--When I go

The hand of God will lead me through, I know.

Who Walked with Him

The Master's hands held our world in place.
The soft caress of His gentle face,
The quiet peace of His loved embrace
Made a shrine of our childhood home.

We heard His voice in the flute-clear note
That curved on the breeze from the Southwind's throat,
In the timeless river's lyrical rote,
As we sang with the singing loam--

Our father who walked with Him each day
Bade us to know Him along our way.

The Improvement Era

Etchings

Knowing that she had gone to live in the New Tomorrow,
Rowing across the river to the Elysian shore,
Praying I stood beside her feeling the peace of angels;
Saying a low farewell, I saw on her dear old face:

Etchings of children's laughter, lullabies dreamland winging;
Sketchings of sleeping babes, of hands that were clasped in prayer;
Beauty of homey living, filled with fire-opaled wonder;
Duty that yielded glory tuned with the lyre of joy;

Rearing of valiant sons, then having them die as martyrs;
Cheering of war-torn hearts that bled from the saber's kiss;
Sadness that dolorous drums were beating of greed and envy;
Gladness that love would triumph--etched by the artist, time.

I Am the Pilot

Standing before myself I cannot hide
Behind the mountains if and might have been;
Wear robes of false pretense or erring pride;
Self-righteous sandals ease my feet, for then
My soul is nude and knows--perhaps in tears--
I am the pilot of my ship of years.

Portrait of Father

I still can see him following the plow

And hear him singing as he mowed the hay.

(Its fragrant freshness lingers with me now.)

Though years have passed, it seems but yesterday

That he arose a little after four

To ride the range to bring the horses in.

Beloved old ballads floated through the door,

His voice in song, amid the farmyard din

That called us from our beds to milk the cows.

How eagerly we greeted each new morn

With varied challenge as a farm allows

Of hauling hay or grain or hoeing corn!

Blithe laughter was a comrade to our work

With wholesome praise. (What boy would think to shirk!)

He said, "My sons, of this earth we are kings

And potentates, and there is in the soil

The breath of life that pulsates as it sings

With living joy as we give honest toil."

His buoyant spirit was still immature

Enough to dream and make of every quest

That daily beckoned us with work's allure

As though each were a special privileged guest,

A journey to the land of dreams-fulfilled.

This journeying with him brought rich increase;

So now when his great father-heart is stilled

We know our work together cannot cease.

We love and understand him even more

And see him beckoning from that Far Shore.

The American Bard

Old Coverlet

Made of far more than squares of calico,
This cherished coverlet, for Granny's fingers
Stitched in the faith that prompted men to go
To blossom barren sands. In each block lingers
The story she would tell me when a child--
Dear wise-tongued Granny! I heard graves' still-calling
Along the prairie; ghosts of wolf-cries, wild,
Slow-muted by the streams from mountains falling
Upon a fruited valley ... On the way
I saw Gran's sunburnt smiles, her tears ... In sorrow
Holding to the frayed hem of yesterday,
She reached to touch the new robe of tomorrow.
Not calico, but Granny's starward eyes--
What joy and grief and dreams each block encloses!
Loved murmur of desert lullabies,
She lived to see the wasteland bright with roses.

I Touched Her Worn Still Hands

Serene and beautiful, renewed,
She lay sleep. As yearningly
I touched her worn, still hands, I heard
Footsteps of immortality.

Oasis of Home

The home
Our childhood knew
Becomes a cool oasis
Where we return to be refreshed
From deserts of disappointment.

The Relief Society Magazine

The Tall Lombardies

Still the tall Lombardies stand
     Tempering the hurricane,
     Guarding fields lest once again
     Wind roam master on the plain.

Pioneers, a twig in hand,
     Planted dreams: Now monarchs shield--
     Climbing sky--the well-tilled field.
     Only time can bid them yield.

Rooted deep, they rim the land--
     Two have fallen in their row.
     Dreamers' children see them low,
     Mourn because the past must go.

My Heart Believes

Love, are you lonely there below
Remembering still another May
We knew and shared in the long ago
Before God called and I went away?
Lift up your eyes, my dear, and know
That I am lonely as you today.

Though I am lonely as you today,
My yearning spirit no longer grieves,
For the Heavenly pattern I now survey--
The tapestry which the Master weaves--
With its golden threads illuming the gray.
My dearest, I call that my heart believes ...

Oh, dearest, call that your heart believes
That death is birth--Hear my triumph cry:
Nothing is lost that the flesh achieves!
Look up, for together, you and I
Will live our dreams, for Heaven retrieves--
Love, be not lonely there below.

The Path to Home

When hammers of the rain beat on my head
And temper tantrums of the hurricane,
Shouting in uncontrolled and furious wrath,
Strike fear that numbs my heart, I take the path
That leads to home, and soon I feel again
Secure and warm. Love's mantle gently spread
About my trembling form gives me release--
The path to home will lead to God and peace.

The Relief Society Magazine

And Saw the Vision

For bedtime stories Granny always told
Adventures that would wonder-fill our eyes:
We heard the covered wagons as they rolled
Across the startled prairies, desert skies
Burning the sand. We knew the gnawing thirst
Parched throats endured. We stood beside a mound,
A little grave, and felt our hearts would burst
Lest hungry wolves disturb the hallowed ground.
Our feet kept time as violins sang out
The music for quadrilles and young folks danced
Within the wagon circle. We heard the shout
Which told the trek was done, then stood entranced
With Granny as she viewed the sage-bound loam
And saw the vision of her valley home.

Temple Bells

Love bade us sing through sacrificial years

Though pierced by wounding thorns among the flowers;

And always through our sacramental tears

We saw a Temple rising. From its towers

Hearing its bells at twilight, we would view

The desert an oasis bright with bloom.

Beauty would compensate our toil; renew

Our autumn hearts. Love's tapers would illume

Our faltering hours; the shadowed valley we

Would walk together, unafraid ... Now lost

And numbed I wait the twilight melody

Knowing the blighting kiss of early frost--

My song is muted to a stifled moan

For I shall hear the temple bells alone.

This I Have Learned

This I have learned--Fire-opaled beauty
Is found along the path of duty.

The Archer

Design of Gratitude

I bow before the beauty of old hands
Toil-worn and knotted, brown as autumn hay.
They speak of wresting life from barren sands
And have the grace to fold while old lips pray
Before a table with its simple food--
Old hands in the design of gratitude!

Lonely Homestead

The hills remember songs our father sang
When riding range before the break of day.
The winding trails where happy laughter rang
Are silent now, yet all along the way
The same wild roses, radiant and gay,
Hold modest faces to the sun. The sound
Of playing children in the twilight's gray
Is heard no more. Nostalgic meadow-ground
Awaits with hope for eager steps to bound
Across its greening carpet to make sweet
Its longing hours. The loved old home is gowned
In loneliness and yearns for children's feet
To skip across its floors. The years speed fast
Leaving the homestead dreaming of the past.

Twilight Ritual

I long for the wine of assurance
Feeling the doubtings of men;
My ship returns to its home port
To a scene of my childhood again:

Aspens sing for the river's
Lyrics that never grow old.
Stars pin back the curtains of twilight
On the sky with a broach of pale gold.

The breezes are quietly strumming
Tree harps, while a killdeer's far cry
Tunes the heart to the peace of contentment,
To the cricket's lullaby.

Father calls all the family together
To kneel round the hearthstone in prayer.
The harps of the aspens cease strumming
As he talks to God listening there.

His Gnarled Old Hands

HIS hands were sure as they toiled each day,
GNARLED and knotted as ancient oak,
OLD and bleached as the autumn hay,
HANDS at last idle in silence spoke.

GNARLED and knotted as ancient oak;
Strong yet gentle where love held sway;
Working each hour with an aiming stroke;
Hardened and scarred but an ashen gray ...

OLD and bleached as the autumn hay--
His sons and daughters and neighbor folk,
Friends and kindred from far away
Pressed those hands while their voices broke.

HANDS at last idle in silence spoke:
"Joy is found hidden in work's array.
Love makes easy the heavy yoke."
Hands that were clasped as he knelt to pray--
       HIS GNARLED OLD HANDS!

Some Things Are Timeless

When we returned to the old homestead,
Through tears we grieved to see
The lilac-and-orchard-joy was dead.
      Bare silence stood
      Where a song-filled wood
Had lured with its mystery.

The home that sheltered us--We were ten--
Had dwarfed, yet the echoes rang
A challenge to bid us to dream again.
      The mountains still high
      Touched remembered sky
And the same loved river sang.