Read Ebook: Poems Vol. IV by Howard Hattie

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 586 lines and 41502 words, and 12 pages

A mighty jerk,--the string that broke The fowl affair revealed, The victim of a cruel choke, Its neck completely peeled.

The biped in its paper cof- Fin, cramped and plump and neat, Had scratched its very toenails off In making both ends meat.

The only part I always ate, That never made me ill, Had gone away decapitate And carried off the bill.

I pondered o'er the sacrifice, The merry-thought, the wings, On giblet gravy, salad nice, And chicken-pie-ous things.

In heat of Fahrenheit degree Two hundred twelve or more, Where its grandsire, defying me, Had crowed the year before,

I thrust it with a hope forlorn,-- I knew what toughness meant, And sighed that ever I was born To die of roasting scent.

And now the moral--he who buys Will comprehend its worth,-- Look not so much to weight and size As to the date of birth.

In fowls there is a difference; "The good die young," they say, And for the death of innocence To make us meat, we pray.

Holiday Home.

Of all the sweet visions that come unto me Of happy refreshment by land or by sea, Like oases where in life's desert I roam, Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home.

I climb to the top of the highest of hills And look to the west with affectionate thrills, And fancy I stand by the emerald side Of charming Geneva, like Switzerland's pride.

In distant perspective unruffled it lies, Except for the packet that paddles and plies, And puffing its way like a pioneer makes Its daily go-round o'er this pearl of the lakes.

Untroubled except for the urchins that come From many a haunt that is never a home, Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade, Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made.

All placid except for the dip of the oar Of the skiff, or the barge striking out from the shore, While merry excursionists shout till the gale Reverberates laughter through rigging and sail.

How it scallops its basin and shimmers and shines Like a salver of silver encompassed with vines, In crystal illusion reflecting the skies And the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise.

There stands a great house on a summit so high, Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky; And I think of the rest and the comfort up there To sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air.

Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the wood Can never be written, nor be understood, Except by the weary and languid who come To bask in the quiet of Holiday Home.

From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear, From attic and alley, from labor severe, For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepare A world of diversion and excellent fare.

To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze, To lie in the shade of magnificent trees-- Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury's bowl The life-giving essence for body and soul!

Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mind The influence gentle, the ministry kind; While gratitude fondly enhallows the thought Of a home and a holiday never forgot.

Ah, one is remembered of saintliest men To lovely Geneva who comes not again; Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod, Humanity's helper, companion of God.

In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed, As unto a hospice by Providence led, Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrude Of the bounty so free, and the donors so good?

Who of their abundance have cheerfully given Wherewith to develop an embryo heaven-- To brighten conditions too hard and too sad And make the unhappy contented and glad.

Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renown Thus scatter such largesse o'er country and town, Their monument building in many a dome Like healthful and beautiful Holiday Home.

Rutha.

The days are long and lonely, The weary eve comes on, And the nights are filled with dreaming Of one beloved and gone.

I reach out in the darkness And clasp but empty air, For Rutha dear has vanished-- I wonder, wonder where.

Yet must it be: her nature So lovely, pure, and true; So nearly like the angels, Is she an angel too.

The cottage is dismantled Of all that made it bright; Beyond its silent portal No love, nor life, nor light.

Where are the hopes I cherished, The joys that once I knew, The dreams, the aspirations? All, all are perished too.

Yes, love's dear chain is broken; From shore to shore I roam-- No comfort, no companion, No happiness, no home.

Oh could I but enfold her Unto my heart once more, If aught could e'er restore me My darling as before;

If God would only tell me-- Such myriads above-- Why He must needs have taken The one I loved to love;

If God would only tell me Why multitudes are left, Unhappy and unlovely, And I am thus bereft;

If--O my soul, be silent And some day thou shalt see Through mystery and shadow, And know why it must be.

To every cry of anguish From every heart distressed, Can be no other answer Than this--God knoweth best.

The Student Gone.

So soon he fell, the world will never know What possibilities within him lay, What hopes irradiated his young life, With high ambition and with ardor rife; But ah! the speedy summons came, and so He passed away.

Too soon he fell! Was he not born to prove What manhood and integrity might be-- How one from all base elements apart Might walk serene, in purity of heart, His face the bright transparency of love And sympathy?

The student ranks are closed, there is no gap; Of other brave aspirants is no dearth; Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on, And few shall miss or mourn the student gone, Reposing in the all-protecting lap Of Mother Earth.

Too soon--O God! was it thy will that one Of such endeavor and of noble mien, Enrapt with living, should thus early go From all he loved and all who loved him so, Mid life's activities no longer known, No longer seen?

Oh, not for aye should agonizing lips Quiver with questionings they dare not frame; Though in the dark penumbra of despair Seemeth no light, nor comfort anywhere-- All things enshadowed as in dense eclipse, No more the same.

Could we but know, in that Elysian lore Of happy exercise still going on Could we but know of glorious heights attained, Of his reward, of mysteries explained,-- Ah! but to know were to lament no more The student gone.

The Tourist.

Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land, And prove the touring season actively begun; His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand, For each upon his frontlet bears his honest brand-- The fool-ish one!

With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot, To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout, The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute, And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute-- To roam about.

From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade, From high society's luxurious stately homes, From lounging places by the park or promenade, From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade, The tourist comes.

To every mountain peak within the antipodes, To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows; To every island fair engirt by sunny seas, To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees, The tourist goes.

For Summer's fingers all the land have richly dressed, Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom, And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest, Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nest For ampler room.

What is it prompts the roving mania--is it love Of wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd? Is it to be in fashion, and to others prove One's social standing, that impels the madness of The tramp abroad?

The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer, Importunate, but powerless response to bring; Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere-- They only say it is their rest-time, outing, their Vacationing.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet