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Read Ebook: Katydid's Poems by McKinney Kate Slaughter
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Ebook has 635 lines and 43266 words, and 13 pages
Little Blanche.
Gather up the broken playthings, Scattered on the nursery floor; Blanche is gone!--her little fingers Ne'er will fondle with them more.
Hide away the dolls, the dishes-- Precious treasures! O! so dear! Lay aside the little dresses-- In each fold a mother's tear.
God hath given--God hath taken, Though it rends the heart in twain, He but sends his frowns upon us, To give back his smiles again.
She hath gone to 'wait your coming, Smiling where the angels stand; Lingering there at heaven's gateway, That she first may clasp your hand.
The Little Front Gate.
Away from the world and its bustle, When the daylight grows pleasant and late; In our own cosy cot, I am waiting For the slam of the little front gate.
The birds at the doorway are singing, The roses their beauty debate; But I sit here alone, and I listen For the slam of the little front gate.
Sometimes, ere the shadows of twilight Send the roving bird home to its mate, I list for a hurrying footstep, And the slam of the little front gate.
O! you who are burdened with sorrow, And believe that life is but fate, Learn from me there is joy in waiting For the slam of the little front gate.
Drifting.
Scotta, you are drifting from me, O'er the billows of life's tide; You and I have sailed together, With our frail barks side by side.
You are drifting with the current, But my feeble oar is light, Too light to follow; and, in anguish, I must watch you drift from sight.
Drifting, gliding, moving onward, Tide and sky seem one deep blue; All in vain my eyes are yearning, You have drifted from my view.
But there's yet a broader current, Where our meeting barks will land; You and I still bound together, Heart to heart, and hand to hand.
Looking Back.
She opened a little worn package, Scarred yellow by Time's ruthless hand; Disclosing a bundle of letters Tied up with a pale ribbon band.
"These," she said, "are like leaves from a fernery, Long pressed in a book with a flower; And the memories wafted up from them, Like perfume that follows a shower.
"With no wormwood or gall in the essence, Few tares in life's garden were sown; The clouds partly hiding the sunshine, Some weeds with the blossoms have grown.
"But we loved"--here she held out a picture; A tear-drop was dimming her eye, As a cloud will o'ershadow the landscape, Or shut out a star in the sky.
I took up a ring and a locket, Set deep with a ruby and pearl; The clasp was all tarnished and broken, And tear-stained the face of the girl,
Whose eyes were awake in Hope's morning, Love kindled their depths with his spark-- Even then, from the red velvet lining, They glowed like a gem in the dark.
I turned to the sad little figure, 'Round the package the faded cord tied; Pressed my lips to her cheek--ah, how sadly The roses had bloomed there and died.
Long we sat in the lingering twilight, Looking back o'er the vanishing years; She sobbed out her grief on my bosom, And moistened my brow with her tears.
What comfort in words could I offer? There was more in a soul-telling glance; For each heart hath its season of springtime, Each heart hath a buried romance.
Scotta.
I Saw her last night in a vision Through the garden of Heaven she loitered, Then stood by a clear, placid stream.
And out of the heart of the river A bunch of white lilies she drew, I scarce could discern from the blossoms Her fingers, so waxen their hue.
But her face wore the same quiet features, And her smile was enhancing the light That fell on this friend of my bosom, This angel robed softly in white.
I longed to reach upward and touch her, To ask why the flowers she twined; Wondered often for whom was the garland, And the crown with the lily buds lined.
So I cried and my voice soared onward Farther than sight could extend-- "For whom are you weaving this chaplet? Speak, Scotta! sweet spirit and friend."
"O! tell me just why from the portals Of Heaven you've wandered away, And sit here alone by the river Wreathing these lilies to-day."
It resounded along Heaven's archway, But soft on my ear that word fell, Soft as her accents of friendship, Soft as a Sabbath eve bell.
And the dewdrops and spray of the river On the garlands to crystals had turned, The crown she embedded with snow-drops, One jewel there glittered and burned.
And what if Life's thorns pressed my temples Or sorrow to midnight turns day, I will press on alone through the darkness, Believing her hand leads the way.
I will traverse the chill "Swamp of Cypress" Where the "Rivers of Death" slowly wind; For she'll beckon me over with garlands, And the crown with the lily buds lined.
The Lover and Flower.
I found it, one day, in a pretty shade Which a vine and a maple together made; 'Twas blooming away in a dress of white, With eyes of a blue transparent light. I knelt at its shrine, And this heart of mine Drank in the fragrance as one drinks wine.
Then I said, "Sweet flower, this cooling shade With the summer weather will dim and fade, There's a place in my heart--a cozy room-- Where you may nestle and grow and bloom." Thus I wooed the flower, In this shady bower, And lovers we were that self-same hour.
I carried it home, I pruned it with care, I gave it the sun and the morning air. The honey bees came its dew to sip, But I drove them away with pouting lip; For I loved my flower, And with jealous power I banished the bees from our curtained bower.
A butterfly came on wings of lace, And tried to fan my blossom's face; But I brushed it away with cruel hands, And tore from its wings the velvet bands; Then I kissed my flower; But a summer shower Burst from the clouds with mesmeric power.
Then the pale little blossom heaved a sigh, And opened a blue and timid eye To thank the cloud as it did in the shade, Which the vine and the maple together made; But my heart would rebel; I could not quell Its raging fire--it seemed from hell.
I slammed the shutters with curses of doom; I made it dark as a dungeon room, Then I hurried away like a thief in the night; But I strolled again in the warm sunlight, And another flower From Fashion's own bower I culled, and nursed it only an hour.
It proved but a weed with a gaudy bloom, And a poisonous odor filled my room. So I turned once more to my wildwood flower, That I locked in my heart that sinful hour, When the angel of love, To its mansion above, Had fluttered away like a wounded dove.
My Cloud--To Scotta.
There's a cloud on my life's horizon Of wonderful shape and hue, Like the feathery down of a snow-drift 'Tis dimpled with changeful blue. I gaze on its shadowy outline And drink in the calm of the skies, Till I fancy it floats out of heaven, As an angel in disguise.
No slumbering storm in its bosom, No hint of the lightning's glare, Only a feast for the heart and soul Is this treasure of the air; For I know from its silvery edges, And glimpses of hidden gold, That a picture of rare tranquility Its tender depths enfold.
Else whence is this mystic feeling Of peace that's stealing o'er me? Like the magic of summer moonlight Enchanting a restless sea. O! heavenly cloud! why are you So calm? so angelic you seem, My spirit escapes in its longing-- I am lost in a beautiful dream.
Up, up on the wings of a swallow Piercing the heaven's deep blue, O'er meadow and mount I am rising, And floating, sweet spirit, to you; Onward, in trance I am wafted, Now into the cloudlet above; And a face smiles out from its drapery, And ah! 'tis a face that I love.
The Decision.
A dispute once arose in a bee-hive As to which of the little brown bees Could gather the sweetest nectar From blossoms or budding trees.
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