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Read Ebook: The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches by Riley James Whitcomb
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Ebook has 592 lines and 41251 words, and 12 pages
And my richer wealth than gold, And the surest hope of Heaven that I knew!
O for the lisp long silent, and the tone Of merriment once mingled with my own-- For the laughter of your lips, And the kisses plucked and thrown In the lavish wastings of your finger-tips!
Little baby, O as then, come back to me, And be again just as you used to be, For this phantom of you stands All too cold and silently, And will not kiss nor touch me with its hands.
IN THE CORRIDOR
Ah! at last alone, love! Now the band may play Till its sweetest tone, love, Swoons and dies away! They who most will miss us We're not caring for-- Who of them could kiss us In the corridor?
Had we only known, dear, Ere this long delay, Just how all alone, dear, We might waltz away, Then for hours, like this, love, We are longing for, We'd have still to kiss, love, In the corridor!
Nestle in my heart, love; Hug and hold me close-- Time will come to part, love, Ere a fellow knows; There! the Strauss is ended-- Whirl across the floor: Isn't waltzing splendid In the corridor?
LOUELLA WAINIE
Louella Wainie! where are you? Do you not hear me as I cry? Dusk is falling; I feel the dew; And the dark will be here by and by: I hear no thing but the owl's hoo-hoo! Louella Wainie! where are you?
Hand in hand to the pasture bars We came loitering, Lou and I, Long ere the fireflies coaxed the stars Out of their hiding-place on high. O how sadly the cattle moo! Louella Wainie! where are you?
Laughingly we parted here-- "I will go this way," said she, "And you will go that way, my dear"-- Kissing her dainty hand at me-- And the hazels hid her from my view. Louella Wainie! where are you?
Is there ever a sadder thing Than to stand on the farther brink Of twilight, hearing the marsh-frogs sing? Nothing could sadder be, I think! And ah! how the night-fog chills one through. Louella Wainie! where are you?
Water-lilies and oozy leaves-- Lazy bubbles that bulge and stare Up at the moon through the gloom it weaves Out of the willows waving there! Is it despair I am wading through? Louella Wainie! where are you?
Louella Wainie, listen to me, Listen, and send me some reply, For so will I call unceasingly Till death shall answer me by and by-- Answer, and help me to find you too! Louella Wainie! where are you?
THE TEXT
The text: Love thou thy fellow man! He may have sinned;--One proof indeed, He is thy fellow, reach thy hand And help him in his need!
Love thou thy fellow man. He may Have wronged thee--then, the less excuse Thou hast for wronging him. Obey What he has dared refuse!
Love thou thy fellow man--for, be His life a light or heavy load, No less he needs the love of thee To help him on his road.
WILLIAM BROWN
"He bore the name of William Brown"-- His name, at least, did not go down With him that day He went the way Of certain death where duty lay.
He looked his fate full in the face-- He saw his watery resting-place Undaunted, and With firmer hand Held others' hopes in sure command.--
The hopes of full three hundred lives-- Aye, babes unborn, and promised wives! "The odds are dread," He must have said, "Here, God, is one poor life instead."
No time for praying overmuch-- No time for tears, or woman's touch Of tenderness, Or child's caress-- His last "God bless them!" stopped at "bless"--
Thus man and engine, nerved with steel, Clasped iron hands for woe or weal, And so went down Where dark waves drown All but the name of William Brown.
WHY
Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? I catch faint perfumes of the blossoms white That maidens drape their tresses with at night, And, through dim smiles of beauty and the din Of the musicians' harp and violin, I hear, enwound and blended with the dance, The voice whose echo is this utterance,-- Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes?
Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? I see but vacant windows, curtained o'er With webs whose architects forevermore Race up and down their slender threads to bind The buzzing fly's wings whirless, and to wind The living victim in his winding sheet.-- I shudder, and with whispering lips repeat, Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes?
Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? What will you have for answer?--Shall I say That he who sings the merriest roundelay Hath neither joy nor hope?--and he who sings The lightest, sweetest, tenderest of things But utters moan on moan of keenest pain, So aches his heart to ask and ask in vain, Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes?
THE TOUCH OF LOVING HANDS
IMITATED
Light falls the rain-drop on the fallen leaf, And light o'er harvest-plain and garnered sheaf-- But lightlier falls the touch of loving hands.
Light falls the dusk of mild midsummer night, And light the first star's faltering lance of light On glimmering lawns,--but lightlier loving hands.
And light the feathery flake of early snows, Or wisp of thistle-down that no wind blows, And light the dew,--but lightlier loving hands.
Light-falling dusk, or dew, or summer rain, Or down of snow or thistle--all are vain,-- Far lightlier falls the touch of loving hands.
A TEST
'Twas a test I designed, in a quiet conceit Of myself, and the thoroughly fixed and complete Satisfaction I felt in the utter control Of the guileless young heart of the girl of my soul.
So--we parted. I said it were better we should-- That she could forget me--I knew that she could; For I never was worthy so tender a heart, And so for her sake it were better to part.
She averted her gaze, and she sighed and looked sad As I held out my hand--for the ring that she had-- With the bitterer speech that I hoped she might be Resigned to look up and be happy with me.
'Twas a test, as I said--but God pity your grief, At a moment like this when a smile of relief Shall leap to the lips of the woman you prize, And no mist of distress in her glorious eyes.
A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS
Chant me a rhyme of Christmas-- Sing me a jovial song,-- And though it is filled with laughter, Let it be pure and strong.
Let it be clear and ringing, And though it mirthful be, Let a low, sweet voice of pathos Run through the melody.
Sing of the hearts brimmed over With the story of the day-- Of the echo of childish voices That will not die away.--
Of the blare of the tasselled bugle, And the timeless clatter and beat Of the drum that throbs to muster Squadrons of scampering feet.--
Of the wide-eyed look of wonder, And the gurgle of baby-glee, As the infant hero wrestles From the smiling father's knee.
Sing the delights unbounded Of the home unknown of care, Where wealth as a guest abideth, And want is a stranger there.
But O let your voice fall fainter, Till, blent with a minor tone, You temper your song with the beauty Of the pity Christ hath shown:
And sing one verse for the voiceless; And yet, ere the song be done, A verse for the ears that hear not, And a verse for the sightless one:
And one for the outcast mother, And one for the sin-defiled And hopeless sick man dying, And one for his starving child.
For though it be time for singing A merry Christmas glee, Let a low, sweet voice of pathos Run through the melody.
SUN AND RAIN
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