ࡱ> ikha `jbjb )Z:::::::NNNNN ZN5*JJJJJJJJ,_ R f:JJJJJ::JJJV:J:JNN::::J::> YN 05  :NNNNNNPoems of Mary Byers Smith The Coming of Winter (1) What does it matter how we found that out Which set us dancing in the winter wood? The jigging, mocking lights of towns swam round Between thetrees, and brances snapped beneath Our lumbering feet. Our heaviness we said Was winter coats. We puffed. The snow came down. We talked about the coming of the snow. Justfor an instant we were faun and nymph And caught up in the laughter of the leaves, Our safety was our minds were far afield; Our danger that our wants were so akin. Two charred sticks rubbed together cause no fire. But looking back across the field that night As now across a wilderness of years, I saw the hill and marked the spot again. This was the hill and this the night, I swear, When youth and spring and laughter died in me. (n.d.) The Coming of Winter (2) What does it matter how we found that out Which set us dancing on a winter night? Like fireflies the jigging town about Pierced the dark circling trees with mocking light; Dead branches snapped beneath our lumbering feet, Moss underlay the crumpled leaves and slow On the unforzen ground fell the first sleet. . . We talked about the coming of the snow. Just for a instant wewere nymph and faun And caught up in the laughter of the leaves. It was the moment when the seasons blend And human spirit from the earth withdrawn Some starry rhythm of the night achieves Winter beginning, summer at an end. English 12 October 29, 1832 Fools Errand I bruise my heart taking this path again, This shore-way grown waist-high with tangle of wild Swamp-roses, bayberry, and solitary purple Thistles. A northwestwind beatsback the soft Smell of the sea . . . For eighteen years the gulls Called in vain from their rocky island. Now, At last, foolishly, I am hurrying, Stumbling along the winds path, driven as stars are driven. English 12 December 17, 1932 Jess Cattnach A mile or more above the Dundee road, Jess Cattnach, an ancient woman, bode; Wisely she lived amid the clouds and heather, Unvisited sometimes for months together. She was older than memory; no man Recalled another of her race or clan; So long it was that she had lived alone, The ancient tongue she spoke was all unknown. But when the March wind dropped, some village child, With the first bud and bird and the first wild Honey-bee, would come shyly to spy her out Where she stood singingand turning her wheel about. She smiled at children, taught them how to tread Smoothly and swiftly, how not to break the thread. Game-keepers, hunters, herders with their herds Drank at her well and learned her ancient words, And every country lover came to Jess For final judgment on his happiness; Her ageless eyes would look him through and through Before she told him where white heather grew. Variant on lines 9-12 (not authorial): But when the March wind dropped into the sea, Shy as the first bird and the first honey-bee, Some village child would come to spy her out Where she stood singing and turning her wheel about. English 16 March 6, 1933 Miss G. Has a Story Read in Class Quiet, The wounded gull Suffers a questing hand; Then, mounted on superb young wings, Escapes. (n.d., but done for Radcliffe class) Hymn to Sincerity Thou lesserspirit of the upper air, Handmaid of Truth, Humility and Love, Receive above Her whom we mourn today, That in some happy, flowery region there, Serene she may, In service at thy shrine, her votive offering pay. Bring savin and bring pine! Bring trees of smellless winter pine from snowy lot; Forgo incense of lily and gardenia; banish all Palms, but bring the sturdy garden flowers in Larkspur and snap-dragonreverently spin her pall Of maiden-hair and blue forget-me-not. Sincerity, She said her earliest prayers to thee, A child In a strange land. By night and day, Through pastures roughor wild, She held thee tightly by the hand And, often frightened, quietly went her way. Age in thy service walked the earth again Wisely and simply as in days gone by; Children Adored thy worshipper, Sincerity, Saw through her cloak of years and dignity Whence Came to her in death that look of innocence. English 16 [1933?] Home Made Wine Heres something more than so much liquid weighed With equal quantities of sugar, pound For pound; more than the work of sun and shade And labor of bees from all the country round. The rule is simple; but who knows what chance Sweet song it was, and of which passing bird, Set all the atoms dancing their mad dance, Or when this change from death to life occurred? If you would taste of wind and rain and flower, Keep wine in dark and loneliness until, As church clocks strike some early morning hour, Cleared of the dark disturbance, it is still. Taste spring! Taste lusty spring you thought long dead! My wine is strong and cool and still and red. English 16 April 24, 1933 Mr. Hillyer Jock O the Den When old Jock lay dying, In his tavern at Ferry Den, He sorely repented his wicked life And wished he might live it again. But he wouldnt speak to the minister, Who walked in from the Glen; He sent for the lawyer from the Montrose road, And called for his book and pen. In even shares, so he wrote it, To all who drnk here when I first took over the tavern And ruled in the Ferry Den. To their heirs and assigns forever; He named not over ten, Whose surnames half the village bore, With regards from Jock of the Den. Stuff your pockets with silver And stand in the kirk-door ben; Youll have no doubt to carry out The will of Jock of the Den. But theres one you must look for at dawning On the wharves of the Ferry Den, Lady cousin to the Laird of Tannadice, Pitching scrod with the men. To her, a tenth part of roup and savings, For shes the last of hr line, you ken; Death makes us bold; present the gold From Jock of the Ferry Den. English 16 February 27, 1933 Chantecler A Portrait of Agnes Park She folded up the brilliant cashmere shawl And sank into an arm-chair by the fire; Her idle fingers traced the edges of A jagged card-board comb . . . The time shed spent In tugging up the hill would just suffice To boil the water . . . so the tea was on . . . Lines from Rostand about the Guinea Hen Ran with satiric lightness through her brain; She gave a little weary, crowing laugh. Of course, shed overstrained her voice. But more Than voice and bursting head she cared that she Had lived this part as never yet in all Her long career of village triumphs . . There Had been no scenery and she appeared A spectacled old woman with a book, The home-made scarlet cockscomb on her head. Then, as if versed in hidden laws that rule The current of our unseen life, she made Connection and the silence fell. The air Grew vibrantdull minds napped or drowsy ceased To intercept the tingling force of what She had to say. Another effort and The whole cast came alive and uttered in Full measure all that barn-yard tragedy. Dawn on an ocean just too far to see . . . The lights of cities . . . sun on mountain tops. Yet live with those whose eyes were on the ground, Pecking at this and that of passing interest. This the occasion of her high reward, The luxury of being understood Not caught out in a moment of despair But seen afresh by wondering neighbors as A traveller returned from lonely trek Through the unpeopled countries of the earth. (Propped up and knitting through the sleepless nights, She rnaged the outposts of the ancient world And hailed the sun, as any traveller would, With unexhausted appetite for life) And now the play was over and the tea Was on; the commonplaces of the hour Were half-a-mile and half-a-world away. The sudden dark like weariness came down, She settled deeply in her padded chair And gave a merry little crowing laugh. English 12 October 15, 1932 Halloween Ball at Tewksbury. A Fresco after Sackville. Eftsoons, we came upon a portico Without a hall where sweet music played And peering in we saw swing to and fro A motley crew in dominoes arrayed; The witch, the bride, the master and the maid, Now here now there they darted in their fun, Like devils darning needles in the sun. Whenas, from out that high and vaulted hall, A strange procession burst upon our sight, Starting to move full slow along the wall And through the doorway underneath the light Till from the doorstep we are forcd quite; A hundred chairs propelled on rubber wheels And each in silence after other steals. This ancient beldame flies a childs balloon, And from that shawl two hookd claws hold cakes; Sleep ad oercome the next. Sweet sleep full soon Will put an end to grief and pain and aches. Some little flicker of attention takes A worn-out mind clean back to happier things And quiet smiles to gentle faces brings. In endless slow progression go they back To the hard beds that charity provides; Nothing but homes and youth and health they lack (Though some have lost thier limbs or wits besides). A white-clad maiden every wheel chair guides; A pattern make they, maids, and huddled shawls, Under the trees whereon the still rain falls. English 12 November 12, 1932 I Thought I Saw A Mermaid How could I tell that Tilly was not a mermaid? I said that I was hiding behind that alder bush; She stood in the water, little waves lapping her; The tide was on the turn and tinkled around her feet. If she noticed, she was too busy; and her barrel, by that time, heavy with herring and too hard to roll away. Was her lantern lighted? Lighted and flickering; Phosphorescent circles floated all about; Her face was in darkness, her dainty breasts shining With rubies and diamonds that dripped from her fingers, And spangled her fair skin. Scales of her fishes! She snipped them, boy, with scissors and spattered them on her dress. Dull bloue, her dress, as a drift-wood blaze is, Blue-green and green into a gray-blue fading, With little pointed lights along the upper edge. English 16 February 13, 1933 To A. S., Seedsman For miles and miles your trial seed-beds lie Along a road where heedless travellers go; And dahlias sway and Chinese lilies blow Their orange horns against an August sky. It needs no trained sense, no discerning eye, To revel in this living beauty show These satin dresses swaying row on row; These eager faces greeting passers-by. But when the seedsman, Life, has culled and bred, And saved the seed and set the rest on fire, Who then remembers, when the stalks are dead, That youth, that ardor, that most young desire? From dusty leaves bright polyanthus rise In your minds eye; therefore, I count you wise. English 16 March 27, 1933 Hunters Moon The restless, horned moon is high Above the woods and snowy plain; Noone awake but only I; And quiet such as this is pain. Last night, the stealthy bears were out Ringing the green bark of the cherry; And reckless deer were holding rout On scarlet ash and elder-berry. Beside the house, the lilac wears Her heavy, heart-shaped leaves of white; No sign of hibernating bears; No thirsty deer will run tonight. On lovely things, on lovely men, The magic charms of winter creep; And bears are sleeping in their den; And I must close my door and sleep. English 12 November 25, 1933 (The Bowling Green, __________) The Home Guard He said, Ive signed up for the Cavalry. From one, a look of irritation that An old man and a sick man, too, should play Such pranks: he read the silence easily. From one an obvious solicitude, Gently reminding him of waning powers How lightly used this way of breaking hearts! He hummed, the sighed, glanced up at Billy then. Her eyes laughed into his incredulous, Sickness and ageand grief were all unreal, This was her father; she was still the child Who watched him from the window fearfully! The great pine shivering from the shock, the hurt Of lightning and the rush of wind came back. She saw her father walking up and down, And calling faintly to her from the storm. Lightning could not touch him! He had no fear. Nov. 11, 1919 About Marion Dodds father The Bound Girl Told in a country kitchen. An Old Man speaks. When Jennie was thirteen, she went to live With Wilbur and his wife, doing rough work To pay for board and clothes. Their own two girls Were still in school. Nobody dreamed that things Were not all right until it got around That Liza, Wilburs wife, had gone to town, Got her a job, and taken the two girls . . . All this was forty years ago and more. The night that Wilbur died was one of those Wild storms that sometimes follow harvest moon, More wind than rain, but rain enough at times To make you think metallic fingers tapped The windows, then a hush only the wind, Sweeping the grass and stirring up the leaves, And moaning in the distance. We all know That Wilbur in his fever thought he still Was driving oxen. You could hear above The gale his shrieks and curses. Nights liek that Still make me shiver, but I dont believe Any one thinks of Jennies minding it. Shes kept on living on that empty farm. Nobody goes there she comes down at night To do her trading as she always has. In summer she might get some comfort from The view the islands up and down the Bay, And coast-wise traffic in the Thoroughfare, Or hens and flower-gardens round the house; But winters! Country time is measured by A record depth of snow or scarcity Of wood or spells of cold . . . Yet she lives on, Bound by relentless bahit of the years. English 16 April 17, 1933 (Jan. 16, 1921 Family) Spring-cleaning Nobody really house-cleans any more Three ceiling-high step-ladders at a time, Creaking with energetic splashquick talk, Keen smell of soapsuds met with the soft air From open windows overlooking beds Of trillium, pansies and forget-me-not, And through the sounds and through the smells, the falls, Swollen with freshets, yellow in the sunthese are The memories that come to baffled eyes As to old generals swept aside by new. English 12 December 10, 1932. (The Book Scorpion, _____________) (Washington, D.C. 1922) Tramping Blankets When Liz and Kitty Haddon were alive, The used to wash our blankets out each spring: Long before breakfast you could hear them at it, Singing and laughing and not minding if They woke us up or not. And, when theyd had Their porridge and anip of gin to give Them heart, theyd jump into the tubs again. Bare legs, thick woolen skirts bunched out behind, They leaped and capered, holding to each other, And calling out hoarse, raucous wordsechoes Beyond a doubt of dim, outrageous revels And tipsy songs, filling our pious house. And then for hours in a drone they sang Songs of white pebbles and brown, icy pools Gaelic their songs of sun and tawny sand And heather0hunting bees on Cattherthn. Caustic across a world of small pretense, The stale, familiar odor of their smoky Skirts cut like a blighttheir ancient art, In gaunt, gigantic branding blurred by time, Impressed upon the bed-rock of the mind. English 12 (n.d.) (1922 Saturday Cove) At Tewskbury This northwest wind means whitecaps on the Bay . . . Two hundred miles to summer and a sea Blue-green, intense, and unforgettable! Four shaded crosswalks cut the little square; The sun lies warmer underneath the wall, And gray-shawled, lumphy figures cluster round. Theres Ann, she has a foolish face. She sits Right in the doorway where you have to speak To her. An oily welcome to each visitor And ugly words and scowls for any else. Nobody dares not humor Ann. She wears A flowered hat with strings for everyday . . . A sort of crippled clown in womans dress. Across the threshold in the musty dark, A brick-floored hall, a room half filled with beds . . . Ferns, potted ferns, and chatter in the room: These are the aged sick, unsettled poot Of the State . . . Their eyes trurn toward you heopfully, Then fade back into listlessness again. I spoke to an old woman making lace, And found I knew the pasture where she kept Her cow; she thinks I know the cellar, too, That used to be her home; three elms in front, And lilac and syringa on the south . . . The bees and humming birds are all thats left. (Ive heard a forest burning and Ive seen An arch of black smoke scarlet-lined, the whole World else a blur of yellow film, racing To swallow up familiar things) She said her husband had a weak heart and he tried To carry water all that afternoon. Water or ploughing did no good; their house Was in the path . . . The neighbors took them in And did for them as long as Henry was Alive . . . A married daughter in this State . . . The daughters husband out of work . . . a fall . . . Tewksbury the only place for her to go. Her daily walk is barefoot through her past, Along the clean, hard gravel road, across A field of clover patches and dry stubble, To spongy moss and sub-warm,ed granite rock The millpond where her cow would stop to drink. Here in between two strangers beds she lives, Yet every night she looks out on thye Bay The mist, the lights, the shifting beauty there She watches till the Boston boat goes down, Then shuts and bolts her door against the world. English 12 November 19, 1932 (1921 Andover and Saturday Cove) The Storm. Rain sodden moors; rose petals drenched in rain, And the old gray tumult of the sea again. Wind, I defy you! See, I lean Far out from the end of the land! How you clutch at my hair, how you wail in my ear, How you shatter the waves in your power-proud hand! Rain sodden moors; rose petals drenched in rain, And the old gray tumult of the sea again. O, wind! how the touch of you, cry of you enters my soul; How you carry my voice away loike the foam, That flies with a sting from the writhing sea! O, wind! I am tired I yeild take me home. [Prob. 19041905] Wayfarers Harbour. Today, the rush of the sea Gladness and sorrow Tonight, quietwaters and sleep, Then, on! tomorrow. [1909 or 1910] Late Spring Never havemaples bloomed for me before; I am the bride whom this new loveliness Of etched trees on thesky-line stands to bless, Rain-clean and flushed with all their years in store. Only the oaks wear what last year they wore And by their gnarled hands and their sober dress An ever-anxious care for usconfess; I must walk modestly but love you more. Soon, on the arm of spring who fathered me, I shall come slowly down the long, pine aisle, And soft, so soft the needles I shall tread Than even you will not first hear but see That I am come to you . . . And all the while The wind blows in the grass as we are wed. (Andover, April 26, 28 and May 13, 1928.) English 12 November 6, 1932 April 23, 1929* (was this date of Fannie Donald Smiths death?) You know these flowers, not perhaps by name . . . Kaufmanniana is a clumsy coast To wrap around a slender tulips throat A lily wanting only lilys fame . . . Both you and they the wintry air defied; You called the venturing April bee to sup From blue chionodoxas icy cup And bade adonis spread his petals wide; Therefore, my dear, in your still hand I lay These earliest, choicest flowers of the snow. I name them all, no one of them to miss, That I, upon another April day, May gather them for you as long ago . . . Blue scylla, crocus and white arabis. English 12 December 3, 1932 A Handful of Spring Flowers You never called these flowers by their name. Kaufmanniana is a clumsy coat To wrap around a slender tulips throat A lily wanting onyl lilys fame. But you and they defied the wintryair: You told the venturing April bee to sup From blue chionodoxas icy cup And bade Adonis sun his yellow hair. Therefore, my dear, in your still hand I lay These earliest, choicest flowers of the snow. I name them all, not one of them to miss, That when another April comes I may Gather them for you then as long ago . . . Blue scylla, crocus and white arabis. (As amended, MBS.) A Whole Worlde of Thynges Verye Memorable. At night I draw these decorative maps A village street, a river and a mill. They may seem commonplace to you, perhaps; Once they had magic and enchant me still. One special robin and a collie dog; A feathery-footed pony and a fox; A curve of beach, an ocean bound in fog; A garden full of raspberries ad phlox. Somehow, someshere, I must at least suggest A journey and a night away from home In lands as yet unknown to south and west, An outpost city with a golden dome; And reindeer bells and ring of little feet, Rounding the corner into Dartmouth Street. English 16 March 20, 1933 The Red Badge To S. E. Why did you wear a scarlet tie that day? It blanched your fair hair and your paler skin, So that we only saw your steady eyes Deep purple shadows in the poppys cup Crinkled, white poppies that the sun shines through. Someone had said enough to make me stop, Seeing you in the corridor at dusk. I wished you luck; you shook my hand and smiled, Saying you hoped youd left the files in shape, So that your patients would be understood; The little things they count on you to do Are hardest to put down in black and white . . . You planned to be away six weeks ore more. A smile, not an affairof lips or eyes, Shone througha flicker of your self from far. Fragile and brief yet luminous your life, And I, a stranger, am remembering How like a flower you were delicate Like poppies, white and red, on sunny noons. (The Family, June 1923, p. 91) To a Littel Blind Boy Lookng Up Why do you suppose It has not occurred to someone, That being blind you didnt need a chapel, But only a covering with a tall Chimney instead of a tower? Ah, little boy, If it were not for that tower Watching the sunset and the grey twilight Creep up the river, There would be no music for you Nor promises kept. (The Family 3:6, October 1922, p. 147) Bare-Need I saw the letter postmarked Labrador; Her youngest brother wrote she might come home. He was a freckled lad ten years ago The only one who had his mothers eyes. Hed fix the front room up for her, he wrote, Set up a bed and stove and cut some wood, And, if theyd gone to sea, she knew to look Behind the shutter next the white rose bush; Hed hang the key there for her on a nail Fish had been plentiful and low, of course It was a very cold and backward spring. She saw white roses drenched in drifting fog, And smelled the hidden water down the bluff. She told the doctor that she had a home One summer and one winter would be all One blossom-time in Bare-Need, Labrador. (July 1919, Ogonquit; Sept. 1919, Ipswich; Family 1920) My Trout To G. H. C. You have a goldfish flashing orange through The duskThis is a very proper town To be mewed up in and there must be times When his bright curves suggest a possible Compromise with life. I get your point? I? Of, I have a well eleven feet deep. 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