Old Man in a Garden

Slowly he walks the paths of stepping stones
Tapping his cane, and hears the overtones
From the All-Source of beauty. Clear and still,
Within the chalice of a daffodil
He listens to Infinity declare
The resurrection promise everywhere.

He pauses by the lilies, there to glean
The sweet compassion of the Nazarene
As he caresses blossoms virgin-fair--
To him they speak the gentle Master's care.

In reverence he kneels that he might see
And feel the truth of immortality
Where violets awakening in the sod
Retell the miracle of death ... and God.

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.

Unending Victory

Why grieve for her

When death, the great physician, has released

Her spirit from its citadel of pain

Where she was prisoner and could not climb

To view the glory from the mountain tops?

Her heart was like a silent violin

That throbbed and wept with unvoiced melodies

Which even now on that Eternal Shore

Are bursting forth in joyous, vibrant tones

Whose echoes can be heard within our souls.

Her spirit that was waiting for release

Is soaring now and finding recompense

For all she could not do while tarrying here.

The doors, once closed, are swinging wide today--

A new world is before her to explore.

Then dry your tears and let your voices ring

And join with hers in glad, exultant song

That death has brought unending victory.

Reflections

To Challenge the Years

(To Pioneers of Fort Franklin, Idaho's First Settlement)

Hark to the song the Bear River is singing
Slow-winding through farms with their rich fruited loam,
Through villages, cities, its echoes clear-ringing
Retelling how pioneers founded a home.

Hark to the rhythm of wagon wheels rolling!
Mothers are queens, their gowns calico ...
Startled are prairies: A church bell is tolling ...
Wagon-box homes birth our loved Idaho ...

Primal land conquered: Sowing and reaping--
Hours are numbered by blessings, not woes--
Man bent to purpose: The desert is leaping--
Cooling canals--its triumph the rose!

Listen! In stillness the moon-threaded river
Sings in its saga how pioneer-tears
Bright-pearled the valley ... "God is the Giver!"
The message it lyrics to challenge the years.

Nancy Hanks Lincoln

"Stay close to God, my son." She held his hand

And searched his craggy face so young yet wise.

She prayed that when she reached the Promised Land

Her spirit would be with him, light his eyes

With star-filled inspiration, for she knew

The unawakened strength within his soul.

"Stay close to God ..." This golden thread spun through

Life's somber weave illuminates the whole--

"Be strong, my Abe! Stand tall! Be not content

Nor tolerate the grief you should erase."

In Heaven she beheld him, reverent

And humble in a grateful world's embrace.

How short her day with him--and fringed by tears--

But oh, how long her shadow through the years!

Universal Language

Strangers

From different lands

May be companionable

Yet understand no word, for all

People smile in the same language.

The Relief Society Mag.

Keep Your Eyes on the Stars

Keep your eyes on the stars, my child, and wear

Their silvery pollen

In your hair.

Keep your eyes on the stars and you will hail

Beauty along

The rugged trail.

Keep your eyes on the stars, my child, and see

The ascending path

To Eternity.

Heart-Hunger

He should have wed a woman with her feet
So deeply planted in the earthly soil
That she could never soar aloft and beat
Her wings in ecstasy. To him the toil
That plays from dawn to dark its weary role
Comes foremost. In his calloused brain the time
His woman spends to glorify her soul--
To let her hungry, questing spirit climb
To moon-veiled heights--is wasted. If she hears
And answers to the ringing clarion call
Of beauty, he protests, and there appears
His sulphurous, shattering anger. Castles fall...
Her grieving heart gives many a stifled moan
For she must walk her road of years alone.

Different

When Catkins Crouch

My youth returns when furry catkins crouch
Upon a swaying amber willow wand.
Again I am a child and go in search
Of whistle-making wood by creek or pond.
But hark! I hear a willow-whistle blast--
My grandson telling spring is here at last.

Poet-Teacher

(To Snow Longley Housh)

While piloting her silver yacht of song
To reach, at last, a quiet blue lagoon,
She bids the weary desert-hearts be strong

To find the cool oasis, flower-strewn.
The sails of sunset now serenely hold
The beauty she but glimpsed at dawn or noon.

Her singing spirit never will grow old.
Refreshed at wisdom's fount, she gives to youth
The wine of inspiration, and the gold

Minted from love and tempered fine with ruth.
A star, her compass guiding to her goal,
Her heart a chalice lifted high for truth,

Her light of faith becomes an aureole
Revealing God's own imprint on her soul.

When I Arise

When I arise on resurrection morn

I hope to find my outward self reborn--

That my beloved dear ones then may see

The beauty that I feel inside of me.

Scimitar And Song

Lost Beauty

Yearning to scale far mountain heights
Idly I dreamed. Now with regrets
I think of hills I might have climbed,
Near hills with violets.

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.

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.

Where Eagles Cry

On the heights we stand at last,
Stand where eagles cry.
To attain the goal we set,
Have we climbed too high?
From the valleys down below
Laughter echoes, ringing.
In this finer air we breathe
We hear angels singing;
Yet we miss the human touch--
Have we climbed and lost too much?

Chromatones
Second MFCP State Contest, Fall 1952

Wealth of the West

Give me the joy of the laughing brooks,
The flute-throated meadow larks;
The peace of the cooling emerald nooks
Or a killdeer-cry through the dark.

Give me the gold of the wild daffodils;
The violet's sweet perfume;
The beauty of bluebells on greening hills;
Let me bloom as the wild roses bloom.

Let my thoughts be high as the mountains reach;
Let me hear every star that calls;
Let me sing my songs with the silver speech
Of the rivers and waterfalls.

Country Nightfall

The gray steed, twilight mounted, canters through
My quiet country town.
Then toil and rest meet in a rendezvous
With peace. The stars dance down,
With astral singing ripple-splash the stream;
A killdeer-chime intones the heart to dream.

The white-limbed aspens' spangles twirl the air;
A cowbell faintly rings.
A whisper, "God is near," comes like a prayer.
Selene gently flings
Her veiling spun of opalescent light
Around the mystic loveliness of night.

Remembering Sun-Kissed Sage

The vines cling lovingly to gnarled old trees
Still holding hands across the laughing river.
Remembered coyote howls still send a shiver
Up through my spine. The lilac-harp-strings quiver
Strummed by returning robins. Errant bees
Sip nectar from the bluebell cups. The pleas
Of whippoorwill upon the canyon breeze
Retune the heart to love the Master Giver.

(How poignantly these childhood memories glide!)
The honeyed yellow dock conceals the age
Of hills grown old. A killdeer asks no wage
For healing twilight calls. How like a bride
The wild rose lifts her radiant face! I hide
Nostalgic tears, remembering sun-kissed sage.

Chaparral Writers' Year Book

Sing Minnesota's Saga

Sing, little Crow Wing, lyrical your falls;
The Moccasin is blooming; the goldfinch calls:
The catkins crouch upon the swaying willows--
Follow a time-worn path--Wing, dappled billows!

I hear the Crow Wing waters as they flow
Chant Minnesota's saga, and I know
They ran through primal prairies, gypsy-free,
Startled by church and school bells--Destiny!
The French explorers came, the British too;
Her native tribes, the Chippewa and Sioux;
Arrival of the settlers--trampled trails ...
The Indian missions--Light that never fails!
The Sioux-land treaty--wagons pushing west;
The great seal of the state with its attest:
"I fain would see what lies beyond." The white
Man with his plow is here--His dreams are bright--
The Indian must go. All this I hear
While listening to the Crow Wing, silver-clear.

Sing, little Crow Wing! Sing of summer skies;
Man bent to purpose; faith in woman's eyes.
Tassled are cornfields; saffron is the grain;
Aster-blue the prairies; fruited the plain!

Straight as the Norway Pine, the Red Man stands
Then slow-retreats as settlers claim his lands.
Gone, isolation with the pack-horse trail!
A miracle: the railroad! Daily mail!
The frontier fears and loneliness disperse.
I watch the "boom," the panic's violence;
See Minnesota's countenance grow tense
Then eased and confident. I feel the urge
Of freedom's spirit in her heart to purge
The land of slavery. I know her white,
High courage and her starward faith in right.
I see a day, one hundred years ago,
Her day of statehood--a new star to glow
Unsullied in the banner of the free--
A timeless star to touch Infinity.

Sing, little Crow Wing! Sing of scarlet, gold;
Filled is the empty hutch, all it can hold.
Sing, little river, slowly, slowly run
Chanting in gratitude; gone the harvest sun!

My heart is tuned to rhythm of the song
Of Minnesota's cities with their long-
Line traffic, swarming streets, their commerce-humming--
I love to hear her mighty cities' thrumming!
But more I love the still, reflective peace
Of her small villages when labors cease
And twilight gently comes, for then I hear
Her children's laughter ... As the stars appear,
The old recall the locust year's dismay;
The young in love await the newer day,
For hush! They hear prophetic waters sing
A greater Minnesota's offering!
Still looking westward, eyes adventure-flamed,
Then scan the vastness of the sky unclaimed.

Dream little Crow Wing! Sweet is your repose
While beauty lies asleep beneath the snows.
Dream of tomorrow--Moccasin awaits
Your song when rain comes tapping April's gates!

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

Could I Awake to This

When I wake joyously
In that Far Empery
     When day has just begun,
Will meadow larks in glee
Play on their flutes for me
     And laughingly rivers run?
Will aspens, tenderly,
Sing hymns, while slenderly
     White birches greet the sun?

Will pine trees gently croon
And still the heart's typhoon
     As now; and reach to kiss
The paling crescent moon
Who hides her face as soon
     As day awakes in bliss?
Will heaven be flower-strewn?
I would not fear death's rune
     Could I awake to this.

Country Twilight's Peace

White fingers of the birches idly strum
The harp of summer, while the placid stream
With low contralto music weaves a dream
Love-cradled in my heart. The first stars come
Pale saffron, with a young white moon from some
Still port afloat upon a silver beam
Of mystic vapors of the sky to gleam
Softly upon the river's platinum
Bright ripples. As night's curtain gently closes
A killdeer chimes the hour--No artifice
Of man can thus enwrap me in a fleece
Of calm enhanced by lingering wild roses.
Oh, restless world, when will you fathom bliss,
Your great heart know a country twilight's peace?

Tiptoe in Summer

I stand tiptoe in summer's gay,
Still mood and view a Milky Way
Of daisy stars where grasses hide
Shy violets. Each bloom a bride,
Late lilacs with a breeze ballet.

Blue asters hem the book; a spray                                              
Of birch is mirrored; wind-lutes play ...                                      
Where lily yachts in stillness glide,
               I stand tiptoe.

Although this beauty cannot stay--
The rose that blooms and shuts today
Will bud no more--yet deep inside
My heart I hold the summer's tide
Of blossoming thought-ripples sway--
               I stand tiptoe.

Comparison

Wolves run in packs, obedient to the thunder
Of jungle lords they serve ferociously.
Their mouths are red as alien beasts they plunder,
But man with fiendish, atavistic glee
Destroys his sons for gain, a crime unknown
To wolves who never stalk to kill their own.

Different

Sing on O Sea!

Sing on! Sing on, O sea! your lyric swelling
To join the anthem of the spheres above:
"Lilies of peace will bloom, their beauty telling--
The earth a great DEMOCRACY OF LOVE!"

Cradled in arms of war, steel-hard and colder
Than winter's crystal eyes, my babyhood
Knew only sword-thin laughter. Then when older
I saw war leap in flames, and understood
Man's urge to God ... Storm-wild the sea was crying.
Fear-drugged, I heard it call, "I lead to peace!"
Then gently as mother lullabying
It crooned the melody, "Release! Release!"

Across hope-crested waves I came and found her,
The Lady of the Lamp, to welcome me,
Her torch held high illuming all around her
While lapping waters whispered, "Liberty!"
Here in her sanctuary, lilting laughter
Flows from my lips; I walk on living sod,
My paeans rising high to Heaven's rafter--
Freedom is holy, makes men kin to God.

O Lady of the Lamp of Hope, continue
To light the darkened trailways of the world:
Restore the fractured faith, the soul's torn sinew;
Bid God's vast reels of joy to be uncurled.

Faithful Farmer

When working for a harvest he would sow
The seed with care in fertile, waiting soil
And ask the Father to reward his toil,
Then still continue on to use the hoe.

The Relief Society Magazine

Calm Waters

Wearing despair's dark mantle, bowed in grief,
I sailed rebellious waters; on my head,
The ashes of my dreams. I craved relief
From sorrow's cross. My son--my all--was dead.
The octopus of war had barrened me--
The joy of watching children's children grow
Was ever lost. Within Gethsemane
The darkness fringed with silver; through the glow
There came the Master's timeless lyric, "Peace!"
With Him I walked calm waters of release.

Spirit of Night

When the spirit of night
     Walks alone, unafraid,
Through the birches that stand
     By a river of jade,
Where the moon is a yacht
     And its pilot is peace,
Then I silently sail
     To the port of release.

Chromatones
Second in Precision Poetics--Anapestic Octave

Virtue

Virtue is beauty, serenely fair,
With sunlight and moon-glow on her hair;
Her eyes are unsullied and virgin-sweet
As the fragrant lilies about her feet.

Her heart is a chalice high-uplifted
To brim with trust when doubt is rifted;
Her soul illumined by reverence
Is filled with the gladness of innocence.

With joy bubbling over, she ever keeps
Her fountain of life as pure as the deeps
Of canyon pools with crystal bars,
And mounts an ascending path of stars.

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

Aspen Grove

Remembering, I saw
A grove of aspen by a cooling spring
That sang of pine-robed canyons as it tripped
Across the road. I heard their velvet laughter
Tuning the twilight hours to reverence;                                        
Then whispering lullabies to little stars
That twinkled over moon-veiled mountain heights
Like jewels in the dusky robe of night.

When dawn called radiantly
Wearing a copper veil announcing day,
Majestically they reached to touch the sky,
Yet loved the wild rose maidens at their feet
Content to catch an errant sunbeam's kiss.
Their fluttering leaves like tinkling silvery bells
Bade lilting robins meet for morning prayer.

When lightning streaking through
A darkened sky brought awful fear, they played
A symphony to calm the elements;                                                
As even now they calm my restless soul.
When lying sleepless on my bed in pain,
The quiet laughter of this aspen grove
Retunes my heart and I am spirit-free.

Reassurance

Death could not hold your love away from me.
Though it should close and bolt its heavy door,
You would come winging back, and joyously
Together--through the years--out hearts would soar.
Beside the moonlit river, I would hear
Your voice in words of love still speaking low;
Each winding country lane would bring you near;
Cicada call; the sunset's flaming glow;
Our garden where we dreamed at close of day;
Our path of stepping stones, a rainbowed sky;
The little church, the killdeer's plaintive lay;
The music of a new-born infant's cry.
So would you live and be with me each hour--
Upon love's memories, death can wield no power.

The Improvement Era

I Hear Thee Lord

I may not hear a clear call in the night
As did the youthful Samuel, but my ears
And heart are open and my eyes alight
That I can say, "Speak, Lord, Thy servant hears."
For there may come a whisper in the dawn
Like carillons from far celestial towers,
And listening, my soul could look upon
Earth's crests of grief as on a field of flowers
At morning. Like a canticle of peace
This call could ring the world in echoes tolled
To quiet spirit anguish, and release
Hope to the youth and comfort to the old.
A clear call or a whisper, let me heed--
Answer, "I hear Thee, Lord," then fill the need.

Beyond the Final Curtain

So this is death! Speak softly lest she waken
From her deep, painless sleep to hear our sighing.
Her fragile heart that was so often shaken
Has found the crown of all content in dying.

For on her face no lines are etched of sorrow;                                                                                                                                                    
She has recaptured youth, forgotten sadness.
I wonder, does she find the New Tomorrow
All that she dreamed, a sphere of hope and gladness?

Her worn old willing hands, at last, are resting;                                                                                                                                                  
Her slowing feet are stilled, yet I am certain
Celestial heights will always find her questing,
Could we but see beyond the final curtain.

Poet's Reed

Open Gate

They come,
A throng of weary pilgrims
Pitiful in their deformities of limb and soul:
Children with eyes empty of laughter;                                                          
Youth burdened with the weight of dead dreams,
Their eyes great, dark, haunted pools
Where moonlight never dances;                                                                  
The elder ones feel only the tide receding,
Tasting the bitter wine of frosted fruit.

Standing in awe
Before the welcoming Goddess,
Their eyes--but burned out embers--
Relight with flickering sparks of faith.
Rusted lips, long divorced from smiling,
Yield to the lubricant of hope.
Bone-lean fingers caress gaunt throats
That too long have felt the choking leash of fear.

Yearningly they come to the portals of Eden--
Looking beyond they see
The green acres of democracy,
The lilied fields of peace ...

The Goddess smiles.
Her arm uplifted in blessing,
She hears the prelude to their song
Whose melody will swell into a triumphant chord
As, laboring in her fields, her shops and temples,
They will know the joy of which they dreamed,
The peace they thought to find only in Heaven.
With bowed heads, reverently they enter
The open gate, the gate of America.

Where Happiness Grows

When one begins his search for happiness
He often looks beyond his own loved yard
Into a strange garden. I confess
I journeyed far to find the singing bard.
A distant field looked greener. Sweeter chord
Of music seemed to echo from the shore
Of unknown waters. I was sounded, scarred,
When I returned much wiser than before
To find my happiness was waiting at my door.

Reflections

A Place Apart

The bloom of flowers
And youth's glad hours--
     How very quickly they may fade.
     So keep a place where dreams may go
     And lingering, an accolade,
Make sweet your sorrow;                                                        
For when you borrow
     A star-mist ray from lovely things
     You keep apart--of dreams that grow--
     Then always something, something sings,
And paths of duty
Illume with beauty.

Iris in Gethsemane

The Iris-Lilies in Gethsemane
With wings uplifted cheered the Master's soul
And bade Him look to Heaven's Empery
Where wounds are healed and spirit is made whole;                              
For there among their beauty all divine
Calmly He prayed, "Thy will be done, not mine."

The American Bard
Hon. Mention in Bard's Iris Contest

Down a Rainbow Path

When moonlight drapes her cloak of gossamer
About the earth upon a summer night,
Then Iris trips adown a rainbow path
To linger in my garden, in delight
Caressing every wing-uplifted flower;                                          
At dawn returning to her heavenly bower.

Third in Lloyd Austin's Iris Contest

Poetry

Silver words that flow over the soul
Softly as music; atom bombs of thought                                        
That scream through the universe.

The Archer
Hon. Men. in Archer Terset Contest

Granite Temples

Tenaciously I clung to outworn dreams,
I would be young and keep the mind June-burdened.
(A catacomb for ghosts, I learned, with gleams
From dead moons flickering) Now autumn-guerdoned.
Mature as earth, I taste the wine of youth;
Embrace October, and I hear no sighing
From musty tombs, but clarion calls of truth.
My spirit sings its freedom from the dying:
Reality is stern, but oh, how good
Though kissed more acridly by lips of sorrow,
To build of granite, not of rotting wood,
The temples to adorn the new tomorrow--
Ripe fruit was clinging to a withered bough;
Seeing, I shook the limb and greeted NOW.

Shall I Find Them at Last

Who will tell me where beauty goes
When gone is the bloom from the June hedge-rose?
Where is the path the lost dreams take
That whisper beyond the willow brake?
When I search in vain on earthly sod,
Shall I find them at last in the garden of God?

Of a June Night

I heard you calling
In the velvet-contralto voice
Of a June night--
The silence of doubt was pierced
By shining javelins of faith
That touched knowledge
And fathomed immensity:
Time, space ... eternity ... and God.

I heard you calling
And my dream, joy-inflated,
Burst into myriad bubbles of reality,
Each one a star.

Progress

Through winding, narrow, dusty lanes
We drove the old bay mare,
My small son's hands holding the reins,
While on the quiet air
We heard each note the meadow lark
Played on his silver flute.
Now roads are straight and paved. But hark!
The rippling, glad salute
Has grown so slow, as we race by
We hear but one short note.
Hands on the wheel, Son gives a sigh.
A tightening in my throat,
I hear about his dream airplane
And yearn for dusty roads again.