Speed Swiftly Time

Though time speeds swiftly on his vibrant way

I do not fear his silvering decay:

So lightly tethered to the earth am I

That traveling by my star, I reach the high,

White silences ... and view the Master's weaving,

Its flawless primrose strands, the gray relieving.

How beautiful the pattern He has woven

For me to follow! Never shall the cloven-

Hoof and lion-roar leave tragic scars

On its ultimate perfection. Even war's

Harsh and discordant notes of death will blend

Into His symphony where kingdoms have no end.

Speed swiftly time. As you pass, clear and free,

I hear the steps of immortality.

In a Hospital Waiting Room

Apologetically through open doors

She came, a few spring flowers in her hand--

Somebody's mother, sweet as mine or yours.

To see her was to feel and understand

The bond of sisterhood. How lovingly

The years had lined her face and bent her form!

A trim nurse entered: There began to be

A smile like April sunshine after storm,

"For you, Miss Nancy!"--Eyes like sun-up glow--

"You made no difference. Your touch was light

As winds in southern gardens breathe and blow.

You held these hands--your smooth ones pearly white."

Her voice held mellow flute-tones of the lark--

What matter that her chrysalis was dark!

Time, I Entreat You

Take not the rainbow's "pot of gold" away,

I could not live with stark reality.

Keep my heart young. Though years bring their decay,

Let virgin-faith companion still with me:

No craggy hill of thought will be too high

For me to climb and sing while doing so.

My forward-looking eyes will see blue sky

Beyond the darkness when the wild winds blow.

Let me, mind-tall, bend not before defeat;

The crest of truth be ever challenging

My will to dare new trailways ... I entreat

That I may ever feel the urge of spring.

Let me grow body-old, inform and spent,

But never let me grow indifferent.

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

Reflective Artistry

Now when we are sketching
Every beauty-etching
For the face to wear,

Bid each thought-reflection
Be serene perfection
For our silver hair.

The Relief Society Magazine

When I am Old

Let me still see the beauty of the hills
Waving immortal banners in the spring;
Hear lark-flutes pierce the dawn. But let me ring
The bells of joy that youthful hearts may sing
Unhaunted by the twilight hours. Let frills
Of laughter trim my soul, and daffodils
Of sunshine bloom within my heart that spills
Joyance and hope at each day's offering.

May little children love to walk with me
No matter how infirm my step, and find
A kindred spirit, singing joyously,
Questing in burgeoning meadows of the mind.
And when at last I hear the Twilight Gong,
May hearts remember lyrics from my song.

Midwest Chaparral

Silver Web

Dear Granny's voice held flute-tones bright as dawn,
"Call not the spider's weaving gray, my child,
But a shining silver web an artist styled.
Come, you must put my star-rimmed glasses on

To see a crocus thrusting through the clod;
A lilac blossom with an April breeze
Light-dancing a ballet; view emerald seas
Of meadows daisy-crested, not mere sod."

A silver web of beauty! Granny's art
I came to understand. As years sped swift
The common place illumed when I would lift
My eyes and see with vision of the heart.

To Granny's garden walled by crumbling stone
I have returned, and through nostalgic tears
I view the silver web spun by the years
For I have star-rimmed glasses of my own.

Even in Silence

Loneliness is an old man alone--
Long past fourscore, the venerable ancient
Lived in silence of solitude.
Forty years of loneliness,
Forth years since he had placed his Marie
To rest beneath the great pine she loved,
Under whose sheltering arms
The two had often sat together
In the quietude of companionship.
Compassion stirred the apathetic embers of my heart:
Kindled, I visited him.

"Lonely?" He echoed my question--
His eyes lifted to mine were like April violets
Beneath the blossom-white snow of his hair;
And his voice held the lyrics of a little river
Released from the boundaries of winter--
"No, my dear, not lonely,
Today the psalmist David has comforted me."

I Still Have Wings

No more I fly with eagle wings
High-soaring when the bright dawns break,
But oh, the joy to be a swan
Upon a quiet lake.

Old Old Men

Gnarled old fingers around a cane;                                          
Rusty hinges that groan and creak;                                            
Peering eyes, timid steps--these make
An old old portrait of tender mien.

Smile and listen to old old men:
Yearning for hero-height, they sit
Cackling their tall tales--Untruthful, yet
With old old men, such a little sin!

Ritual at Dusk

After his baby prayers Gran always held him
(This ritual made the bedtime hour glad.)
And rocked him in her dear old wooden rocker
Until he grew to be a husky lad

And gout made her old legs begin complaining.
Did they forego this cherished rite? Not they!
For sitting side by side in that loved rocker
In Granny's room they welcomed close of day.

But now the creaking rocker is too narrow,
(How wide it seemed to him, a little chap!)
Yet still the two enjoy their twilight ritual
For he holds fragile Granny on his lap.

In the Quiet Harbor

Within the harbor of tranquility

I judge the ravages of pirate years

Less harshly than the while they plundered me,

Flaunting their dreaded gonfalon of fears;

For now I know the wise, far-seeing Pilot

Charted the course my fragile craft should take

To come at last unto fulfillment's islet

Where starlings call a challenge from the brake.

Where once the winds of desolation moaned

To mock my cry, re-echoes lyric song--

Mute carillons of angels were intoned

Within despair to guide my craft along.

The dreams I thought the pirate years had killed

Now in the quiet harbor are fulfilled.

Perfect Prelude

(To Mr. and Mrs. Glen Cushing)

I never knew the mellowed years could hold
A sweeter rapture than the hours of youth;
That every shadow would be fringed with gold
And meditative leisure crowned with truth.
I always knew that ripened fruit must fall
And amber grain be gathered in the sheaf,
But never dreamed the harvest best of all;
That gentle, quiet days could be too brief.
For beauty lingers on the twilight trail;
Companions journey, hand in hand, their eyes
Seeing the Light ahead that does not fail,
Illume the opening gates to Paradise.
I never knew the mellowed years could be
The perfect prelude to Eternity.

Staff for the Aged

Love is
The staff on which
The aged lean to walk
The quiet, silver-shadowed path
To night.

I Am Youth

I reached back

To that floatsome time

Before life had wrung the joy from me

And mangled me, leaving me old.

Spring laughed in October--

Then I knew:

I am my own touchstone; I am youth.

I lifted my head

And hurled a challenge--

The moon and stars hearing

Danced down to the lake

And bathed in its beauty.

I, myself, looked in its mystic mirror:

I saw no lines of age--

Youth looked back at me from my eyes

And my lips were tremulous with June.

To My Children

When I am old and years have brought their gray,
Should my step falter and my tiring mind
Revert again to childhood's simple way,
I would not be from you enclosed behind
Windows with padlocked screens and a heavy door
That opens only to attendant's keys;
Where sweet old mothers in their grief outpour
Their wistful longing in pathetic pleas
For their beloved dear ones to return
And take them home. But let the cheerful glow
Of a homey fireside warm my heart. I yearn
To be near you and watch your children grow.
As now you need my love, my sheltering too,
When I am old I shall have need of you.