Relationships and Family

Hannah Thomburn

They lifted her out of a story
Too sordid and selfish by far,
They left me the innocent glory
Of love that was pure as a star;
They left me all guiltless of “evil”
That would have brought years of distress
When the chance to be man, god or devil,
Was mine, on return from Success.


With a name and a courage uncommon
She had come in the soul striving days,
She had come as a child, girl and woman—
Come only to comfort and praise.
There was never a church that could marry,
For never a court could divorce,
In the season of Hannah and Harry
When the love of my life ran its course.


Her hair was red gold on head Grecian,
But fluffed from the parting away,
And her eyes were the warm grey Venetian
That comes with the dawn of the day.
No Fashion nor Fad could entrap her,
And a simple print work dress wore she,
But her long limbs were formed for the “wrapper”
And her fair arms were meant to be free.


(Oh, I knew by the thrill of pure passion
At the touch of her elbow, or hand—
By the wife’s loveless eyes that would flash on
The feeling I could not command.
Oh, I knew when revulsion came rushing—
Oh, I knew by the brush strokes that hurt
At the sight of a sculptor friend brushing
The clay from the hem of her skirt.)


She was mine on return from succeeding
In a struggle that no one shall know;
She only knew my heart was bleeding,
She only knew what dealt the blow.
I had fought back the friends that were clutching,
I had forced back the heart-scalding tears
Just to lay my hot head to her touching
And to weep for Two Terrible Years.


Oh! the hand on my hair that was greying!
Oh! the kiss on my brow that was lined!
Oh! the peace when my reason was straying
And the rest and relief for my mind.
Till, no longer world shackled or frightened,
The voice of the past would be stilled,



Hearts quickened, cheeks flushed and eyes brightened,
And the love of our lives be fulfilled!


It was Antwerp, and Plymouth—th’ Atlantic
And, so well had Love’s network been laid,
That I heard of her illness, grown frantic,
At Genoa, Naples—Port Said.
I was mad just to reach her and “tell her”,
But a sandbank at Suez tripped me,
And we limped, with a crippled propeller,
Through all Hades adown the Red Sea.


Through the monsoon we rolled like a Jumbo
With a second blade shaken away,
There was never a dock in Colombo
So the captain drank hard to Bombay.
Then a “point” in the south like an anthill
Or seawastes—then hove into sight—
I called for no news at Fremantle
For I wanted to hope through the Bight.


There’s a gentleman, reading, shall know it,
There’s an earl who will now understand
Why I “slighted” the son of their poet
(And a vice regal lord of the land)—
Semaphore—and a burst through the wicket
On platform left guards in distress—
A run without luggage or ticket,
A cab, and the Melbourne Express.


’Twas a brother-in-grief of mine told me
With harsh eyes unwontedly dim,
With a hand on my shoulder to hold me
And a grip on my own—to hold him.
A dry choke, and words cracked and hurried,
A stare, as of something afraid,
And he told me that Hannah was buried
On the day I reached Port Adelaide.


They could greet me—let Heaven or Hell come,
They could weep—for the grave by the sea
Oh! the mother and father could welcome
And the kinsfolk without fear of me.
For they watched her safe out of a story
Where she slaved and suffered alone—
They could weep to the tune of the hoary
Old lie “If we only had known”.


But I have the letter that followed
That she wrote to England and me—
That crossed us perchance as we wallowed
That birthday of mine on the sea,



That she wrote on the eve of her going,
Hopeful and loving and brave,
To keep me there, prosperous, knowing,
No care save the far away grave.


They have lifted her out of a story
Too sordid and selfish by far,
And left me the innocent glory
Of love that was pure as a star:
That was human and strong though she hid it
To write before death in last lines—
And I kneel to the angels who did it
And I bow to the fate that refines.

Genoa


A long farewell to Genoa
That rises to the skies,
Where the barren coast of Italy
Like our own coastline lies.
A sad farewell to Genoa,
And long my heart shall grieve,
The only city in the world
That I was loath to leave.


No sign of rush or strife is there,
No war of greed they wage.
The deep cool streets of Genoa
Are rock-like in their age.
No garish signs of commerce there
Are flaunting in the sun.
A rag hung from a balcony
Is by an artist done.


And she was fair in Genoa,
And she was very kind,
Those pale blind-seeming eyes that seem
Most beautifully blind.
Oh they are sad in Genoa,
Those poor soiled singing birds.
I had but three Italian words
And she three English words.


But love is cheap in Genoa,
Aye, love and wine are cheap,
And neither leaves an aching head,
Nor cuts the heart too deep;
Save when the knife goes straight, and then
There’s little time to grieve—
The only city in the world
That I was loath to leave.


I’ve said farewell to tinted days
And glorious starry nights,
I’ve said farewell to Naples with
Her long straight lines of lights;
But it is not for Naples but
For Genoa that I grieve,
The only city in the world
That I was loath to leave.

Do You Think That I Do Not Know?

They say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings
With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men
In the fields where Love's roses grow,
And they say I must write with a halting pen
Do you think that I do not know?


When the love-burst came, like an English Spring,
In days when our hair was brown,
And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing
And her hair was an angel's crown.
The shock when another man touched her arm,
Where the dancers sat round in a row;
The hope and despair, and the false alarm
Do you think that I do not know?


By the arbour lights on the western farms,
You remember the question put,
While you held her warm in your quivering arms
And you trembled from head to foot.
The electric shock from her finger tips,
And the murmuring answer low,
The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips
Do you think that I do not know?


She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps,
When I was a world away;
And the sad old garden its secret keeps,
For nobody knows to-day.
She left a message for me to read,
Where the wild wide oceans flow;
Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed
Do you think that I do not know?


I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies,
When the sunlit scenes were fair,
And the white clouds high in the autumn skies,
And I answered the message there.
But the haunting words of the dead to me
Shall go wherever I go.
She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been
Do you think that I do not know?


They sneer or scoff, and they pray or groan,
And the false friend plays his part.
Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone
Knows aught of a pure girl's heart?
Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy
With his warm young blood aglow,
Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy



Do you think that I do not know?


They say that I never have written of love,
They say that my heart is such
That finer feelings are far above;
But a writer may know too much.
There are darkest depths in the brightest nights,
When the clustering stars hang low;
There are things it would break his strong heart to write
Do you think that I do not know?

Do You Think That I Do Not Know?

They say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings
With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men
In the fields where Love's roses grow,
And they say I must write with a halting pen
Do you think that I do not know?


When the love-burst came, like an English Spring,
In days when our hair was brown,
And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing
And her hair was an angel's crown.
The shock when another man touched her arm,
Where the dancers sat round in a row;
The hope and despair, and the false alarm
Do you think that I do not know?


By the arbour lights on the western farms,
You remember the question put,
While you held her warm in your quivering arms
And you trembled from head to foot.
The electric shock from her finger tips,
And the murmuring answer low,
The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips
Do you think that I do not know?


She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps,
When I was a world away;
And the sad old garden its secret keeps,
For nobody knows to-day.
She left a message for me to read,
Where the wild wide oceans flow;
Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed
Do you think that I do not know?


I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies,
When the sunlit scenes were fair,
And the white clouds high in the autumn skies,
And I answered the message there.
But the haunting words of the dead to me
Shall go wherever I go.
She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been
Do you think that I do not know?


They sneer or scoff, and they pray or groan,
And the false friend plays his part.
Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone
Knows aught of a pure girl's heart?
Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy
With his warm young blood aglow,
Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy



Do you think that I do not know?


They say that I never have written of love,
They say that my heart is such
That finer feelings are far above;
But a writer may know too much.
There are darkest depths in the brightest nights,
When the clustering stars hang low;
There are things it would break his strong heart to write
Do you think that I do not know?

Cameron's Heart

The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came,
With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson `at hame';
He read me his recommendations -- he called them a part of his plant --
The first one was signed by an Elder, the other by Cameron's aunt.
The meenister called him `ungodly -- a stray frae the fauld o' the Lord',
And his aunt set him down as a spendthrift, `a rebel at hame and abroad'.


He got drunk now and then and he gambled (such heroes are often the same);
That's all they could say in connection with Alister Cameron's name.
He was straight and he stuck to his country


and spoke with respect of his kirk;
He did his full share of the cooking, and more than his share of the work.
And many a poor devil then, when his strength and his money were spent,
Was sure of a lecture -- and tucker, and a shakedown in Cameron's tent.

He shunned all the girls in the camp,

and they said he was proof to the dart --
That nothing but whisky and gaming had ever a place in his heart;
He carried a packet about him, well hid, but I saw it at last,
And -- well, 'tis a very old story -- the story of Cameron's past:
A ring and a sprig o' white heather, a letter or two and a curl,
A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron's girl.

. . . . .

It chanced in the first of the Sixties that Ally and I and McKean
Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin, near Fosberry's puddle-machine.
The bucket we used was a big one, and rather a weight when 'twas full,
Though Alister wound it up easy, for he had the strength of a bull.
He hinted at heart-disease often, but, setting his fancy apart,
I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron's heart.


One day I was working below -- I was filling the bucket with clay,
When Alister cried, `Pack it on, mon! we ought to be bottomed to-day.'
He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface until
It reached the first log on the top,


where it suddenly stopped, and hung still.
I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me:
`Climb up for your life by the footholes.

I'LL STICK TAE TH' HAUN'LE -- OR DEE!'

And those were the last words he uttered.

He groaned, for I heard him quite plain -There's
nothing so awful as that when it's wrung from a workman in pain.
The strength of despair was upon me; I started, and scarcely drew breath,
But climbed to the top for my life in the fear of a terrible death.
And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my mate,
And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron's weight.

I wonder did Alister think of the scenes in the distance so dim,
When Death at the windlass that morning took cruel advantage of him?



He knew if the bucket rushed down it would murder or cripple his mate --
His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than Fate;
He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the smart,
And stuck to the handle in spite of the Finger of Death on his heart.

Bush Hay

The stamp of Scotland is on his face,
But he sailed to the South a lad,
And he does not think of the black bleak hills
And the bitter hard youth he had;
He thinks of a nearer and dearer past
In the bright land far away,
When the teams went up and the teams came down,
In the days when they made bush hay.


The fare was rough and the bush was grim
In the “years of his pilgrimage”,
But he gained the strength that is still with him
In his hale, late middle age.
He thinks of the girl at the halfway inn
They use as a barn to-day—
Oh, she was a dumpling and he was thin
In the days when they made bush hay.


The ration teams to the Bathurst Plains
Were often a fortnight full.
And they branched all ways in the early days
And back to the port with wool.
They watched for the lights of old Cobb & Co.
That flashed to the West away,
When drivers drove six on a twelve-mile stage
In the days when they made bush hay.


He has made enough, and he’s sold his claim,
And he goes by the morning train,
From the gold-field town in the sultry West
To his home by the sea again,
Where a bustling old body’s expecting him
Whose hair is scarcely grey,
And she was the girl of the halfway house
In the days when they made bush hay.

Break o’ Day

You love me, you say, and I think you do,
But I know so many who don’t,
And how can I say I’ll be true to you
When I know very well that I won’t?
I have journeyed long and my goal is far,
I love, but I cannot bide,
For as sure as rises the morning star,
With the break of day I’ll ride.
I was doomed to ruin or doomed to mar
The home wherever I stay,
But I’ll think of you as the morning star
And they call me Break o’ Day.


They well might have named me the Fall o’ Night,
For drear is the track I mark,
But I love fair girls and I love the light,
For I and my tribe were dark.
You may love me dear, for a day and night,
You may cast your life aside;
But as sure as the morning star shines bright
With the break of day I’ll ride.


There was never a lover so proud and kind,
There was never a friend so true;
But the song of my life I have left behind
In the heart of a girl like you.
There was never so deep or cruel a wrong
In the land that is far away,
There was never so bitter a broken heart
That rode at the break of day.


God bless you, dear, with your red-gold hair
And your pitying eyes of grey—
Oh! my heart forbids that a star so fair
Should be marred by the Break o’ Day.
Live on, my girl, as the girl you are,
Be a good and a true man’s bride,
For as sure as beckons the evening star
With the fall o’ night I’ll ride.


I was born to ruin or born to mar
The home wherever I light.
Oh! I wish that you were the Evening Star
And that I were the Fall o’ Night.

Black Bonnet

A day of seeming innocence,
A glorious sun and sky,
And, just above my picket fence,
Black Bonnet passing by.
In knitted gloves and quaint old dress,
Without a spot or smirch,
Her worn face lit with peacefulness,
Old Granny goes to church.


Her hair is richly white, like milk,
That long ago was fair --
And glossy still the old black silk
She keeps for "chapel wear";
Her bonnet, of a bygone style,
That long has passed away,
She must have kept a weary while
Just as it is to-day.


The parasol of days gone by --
Old days that seemed the best --
The hymn and prayer books carried high
Against her warm, thin breast;
As she had clasped -- come smiles come tears,
Come hardship, aye, and worse --
On market days, through faded years,
The slender household purse.


Although the road is rough and steep,
She takes it with a will,
For, since she hushed her first to sleep
Her way has been uphill.
Instinctively I bare my head
(A sinful one, alas!)
Whene'er I see, by church bells led,
Brave Old Black Bonnet pass.


For she has known the cold and heat
And dangers of the Track:
Has fought bush-fires to save the wheat
And little home Out Back.
By barren creeks the Bushman loves,
By stockyard, hut, and pen,
The withered hands in those old gloves
Have done the work of men.


.....


They called it "Service" long ago
When Granny yet was young,
And in the chapel, sweet and low,
As girls her daughters sung.
And when in church she bends her head



(But not as others do)
She sees her loved ones, and her dead
And hears their voices too.


Fair as the Saxons in her youth,
Not forward, and not shy;
And strong in healthy life and truth
As after years went by:
She often laughed with sinners vain,
Yet passed from faith to sight --
God gave her beauty back again
The more her hair grew white.


She came out in the Early Days,
(Green seas, and blue -- and grey) --
The village fair, and English ways,
Seemed worlds and worlds away.
She fought the haunting loneliness
Where brooding gum trees stood;
And won through sickness and distress
As Englishwomen could.


.....


By verdant swath and ivied wall
The congregation's seen --
White nothings where the shadows fall,
Black blots against the green.
The dull, suburban people meet
And buzz in little groups,
While down the white steps to the street
A quaint old figure stoops.


And then along my picket fence
Where staring wallflowers grow -World-
wise Old Age, and Common-sense! --
Black Bonnet, nodding slow.
But not alone; for on each side
A little dot attends
In snowy frock and sash of pride,
And these are Granny's friends.


To them her mind is clear and bright,
Her old ideas are new;
They know her "real talk" is right,
Her "fairy talk" is true.
And they converse as grown-ups may,
When all the news is told;
The one so wisely young to-day,
The two so wisely old.


At home, with dinner waiting there,



She smooths her hair and face,
And puts her bonnet by with care
And dons a cap of lace.
The table minds its p's and q's
Lest one perchance be hit
By some rare dart which is a part
Of her old-fashioned wit.


.....


Her son and son's wife are asleep,
She puts her apron on --
The quiet house is hers to keep,
With all the youngsters gone.
There's scarce a sound of dish on dish
Or cup slipped into cup,
When left alone, as is her wish,
Black Bonnet "washes up."

Andy's Return

With pannikins all rusty,
And billy burnt and black,
And clothes all torn and dusty,
That scarcely hide his back;
With sun-cracked saddle-leather,
And knotted greenhide rein,
And face burnt brown with weather,
Our Andy’s home again!
His unkempt hair is faded
With sleeping in the wet,
He’s looking old and jaded;
But he is hearty yet.
With eyes sunk in their sockets—
But merry as of yore;
With big cheques in his pockets,
Our Andy’s home once more!


Old Uncle’s bright and cheerful;
He wears a smiling face;
And Aunty’s never tearful
Now Andy’s round the place.
Old Blucher barks for gladness;
He broke his rusty chain,
And leapt in joyous madness
When Andy came again.


With tales of flood and famine,
On distant northern tracks,
And shady yarns—‘baal gammon!’
Of dealings with the blacks,
From where the skies hang lazy
On many a northern plain,
From regions dim and hazy
Our Andy’s home again!


His toil is nearly over;
He’ll soon enjoy his gains.
Not long he’ll be a drover,
And cross the lonely plains.
We’ll happy be for ever
When he’ll no longer roam,
But by some deep, cool river
Will make us all a home.

Andy's Return

With pannikins all rusty,
And billy burnt and black,
And clothes all torn and dusty,
That scarcely hide his back;
With sun-cracked saddle-leather,
And knotted greenhide rein,
And face burnt brown with weather,
Our Andy’s home again!
His unkempt hair is faded
With sleeping in the wet,
He’s looking old and jaded;
But he is hearty yet.
With eyes sunk in their sockets—
But merry as of yore;
With big cheques in his pockets,
Our Andy’s home once more!


Old Uncle’s bright and cheerful;
He wears a smiling face;
And Aunty’s never tearful
Now Andy’s round the place.
Old Blucher barks for gladness;
He broke his rusty chain,
And leapt in joyous madness
When Andy came again.


With tales of flood and famine,
On distant northern tracks,
And shady yarns—‘baal gammon!’
Of dealings with the blacks,
From where the skies hang lazy
On many a northern plain,
From regions dim and hazy
Our Andy’s home again!


His toil is nearly over;
He’ll soon enjoy his gains.
Not long he’ll be a drover,
And cross the lonely plains.
We’ll happy be for ever
When he’ll no longer roam,
But by some deep, cool river
Will make us all a home.

They Who Prepare My Evening Meal Below

They who prepare my evening meal below
Carelessly hit the kettle as they go
With tongs or shovel,
And ringing round and round,
Out of this hovel
It makes an eastern temple by the sound.


At first I thought a cow bell right at hand
Mid birches sounded o'er the open land,
Where I plucked flowers
Many years ago,
Spending midsummer hours
With such secure delight they hardly seemed to flow.

Rumors from an Aeolian Harp

There is a vale which none hath seen,
Where foot of man has never been,
Such as here lives with toil and strife,
An anxious and a sinful life.
There every virtue has its birth,
Ere it descends upon the earth,
And thither every deed returns,
Which in the generous bosom burns.


There love is warm, and youth is young,
And poetry is yet unsung.
For Virtue still adventures there,
And freely breathes her native air.


And ever, if you hearken well,
You still may hear its vesper bell,
And tread of high-souled men go by,
Their thoughts conversing with the sky.

The Dying Child

Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let me repose upon thy bosom sick;
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.


Here it is cold: the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel-children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut out light.


Mother, one stands beside me now! and, listen!
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten?
Surely those wings were given him by the Lord!


Green, gold, and red, are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Should I have also wings while life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?


Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek so unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing!
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!


Do not sigh thus - it marreth my reposing;
But if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!
Ah, I am tired - my weary eyes are closing -
Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!

June


'Glemt er nu Vaarens Kamp og Vinter-Sorgen,
Til Glæde sig forvandler hvert et Suk.
Skjøn som en Brud, den anden Bryllups-Morgen,
Ei længer Barn, og dog saa ung og smuk,
Den skjønne Junimaaned til os kommer;
Det er Skærsommer!


*
De høie Popler hæve sig saa slanke,
I Hyldetræet qviddrer Fuglen smukt.
Paa Gjærdet groer den grønne Humle-Ranke,
Og Æble-Blomstret former sig til Frugt.
Den varme Sommerluft fra Skyen strømmer,
Sødt Hjertet drømmer!


Paa Engen slaae de Græs; hør, Leen klinger.
Paa Himlen smukke Sommerskyer staae.
Og Kløvermarken Røgelse os svinger,
Mens høit i Choret alle Lærker slaae.


-Med Vandringsstav hist Ungersvenden kommer
Hjem i Skærsommer.
Ungersvenden.
Alt jeg Kirketaarnet øiner,
Spiret kneiser stolt derpaa.
Og hvor Marken hist sig høiner,
End de fire Pile staae.
Her er Skoven. Store Rødder
Før af Træerne der laae.
Her, som Dreng, jeg plukked' Nødder,
Og trak Jordbær paa et Straa!


-Barndoms Minder mig besjæle!
Jeg vil flyve, jeg vil dvæle!
Grønne Skov, min Barndoms Ven,
Kan Du kjende mig igjen?
Grønne Hæk, du brune Stamme,
Jeg, som før, er end den samme,
Har vel seet og hørt lidt meer,
Ellers Du den Samme seer! -
Her er Pladsen end med Vedet,
Godt jeg kjender Parken der!
Her er Stenten tæt ved Ledet,
Gud, hvor lille den dog er!
Alt jeg kjender her saa godt,
Men det er saa nært, saa smaat -
Det var stort, da jeg var liden,
Jeg er bleven større siden! -
Lille Fugl paa grønne Qvist,
Saae Du mig derude hist,
Naar jeg stundom sorgfuld sad?
Seer Du nu - - nu er jeg glad!

Var der ude Himlen graae
Hjemmet bar jeg i min Tanke,
Hjemmet jeg i Solskin saae,
Derfor maatte Hjertet banke.

-Moder er vist ældet lidt,
Jeg har tænkt paa Dig saa tidt.
Fader! fuld af Kraft og Mod! -
Gode Gud, Du er saa god.
Jeg kan ei min Glæde bære,
Din jeg er, Din vil jeg være! -
Jeg i Sjælen er saa glad,
Kysse maa jeg Blomst og Blad;
Glemt er Længsel, Suk og Vee,
Gamle Venner skal jeg see,
Og den smaa Marie-Moer -
Ja, nu er hun bleven stor! -
O, med hvilken Lyst og Gammen
Har vi to dog leget sammen!
Mit Theater var ei stort,
Men jeg havde selv det gjort.
O, jeg har det grant i Minde.
Jeg forglemmer ingensinde
Mine smaa Marionetter,
O, med Guld og Paillietter,
Hun besyed' een og hver.
Store Stykker gav' vi der.
Blanka, Hakon Jarl, saa net,
Selv Rolf Blaaskjæg, som Ballet.
Hvis ei andre saae derpaa,
Altid Bedstemoder saae;
Og om der var allerflest,
Hun dog klapped allermeest! -
Hende skal jeg ikke see,
O, det gjør mit Hjerte Vee!
Afskeds-Kysset hun mig gav, -
Græs nu groer paa hendes Grav.
O jeg kunde næsten græde!
-Nei! Du lever - seer min Glæde
Lever! lever! mig omsvæver!
Tanken Du til Himlen hæver.
Det er Aarets bedste Dag!
Alt jeg skuer Hjemmets Tag!
Her ved Poppelpilens Rod,
I den kolde Vinter-Scene,
Var det jo min Sneemand stod,
Pyntet ud med Kul og Stene.
Her er Bækken, reen og klar,
Den min Sommer-Snekke bar!
Her staaer Haugen, sommergrøn - -
Moder, see - her er Din Søn!
Moder! kjender Du min Stemme!
O, nu er jeg atter hjemme!

*


Sønnen hviler ved sin Moders Bryst,
Faderen ham kysser glad, men stille;
Hunden logrer ved hans Fod med Lyst,
Og de store brune Øine spille.
'See, Marie! vi ham har igjen -'
Jubler høit den lykkelige Moder;
Pigen rødmer, rækker Haanden hen
Til den kjære, kjære Legebroder.
'Han er voxet i de sidste Aar!
Kom! paa Døren end hans Mærke staaer.
Eduard! o! Gud har hørt min Bøn;
Seer Du Fader, han er bleven kjøn?
Er saa god - ja! ja! jeg veed det nøie.
Jeg maa kysse ham paa Mund og Øie!


-Kjender Dagligstuen Du igjen?
Men Du er vist træt? Sæt Dig dog hen!
Seer Du, hvad der staaer paa mit Klaveer?
(O, den søde Dreng! nei see, han leer)!
Dit Theater, dine Dukker smaae -
Ja, det har Marie fundet paa, -'
Saadan gaaer det fort, glad Hjertet banker,
Kun Marie falder hen i Tanker. -
Nu vi dem i Spisestuen see.
Dækketøiet skinner som en Snee,
Sommersolen mildt fra Ruden straaler,
Jordbær dufte fra crystalne Skaaler;
Kun de bedste har Marie bragt;
Og paa Bordet smukt en Krands er lagt,
Friske Blomster der i Vasen prange,
Medens Lærken synger Velkomst-Sange.
*


Det er ud paa Aftnen snart,
Men endnu det er saa klart.
Solen synker hist bag Byen,
Ild og Roser staae paa Skyen;
Høet dufter sødt paa Marken,
Og hist henne over Parken
Dandse Myggene i Ring,
Medens Blomster rundt omkring
See til Maanen, som nu kommer
I den deilige Skærsommer!
Hør, fra Skovens dunkle Sal
Fløiter smukt en Nattergal.
Hvem gaaer hist i Haugen ene
Under Æbletræets Grene? -
Kjolen sig ved Hækken hæfter -
Tys, der kommer Nogen efter!



Pigen rødmer der og standser,
Mens det sidste Blomsterblad,
Som endnu paa Træet sad,
Falder ned og Lokken Krandser;
Træet pynter hende ud,
Som det tænkte, hun var Brud.


Eduard.
Er det Dig, som gaaer og spøger?


Marie.
Nei, om Stikkelsbær jeg søger,
Om de største jeg kan faae.
Mange Stedmo'ers-Blomster staae
I Salaten her saa net;
Jeg har plukket en Bouqvet,
Maa jeg Blomsterne Dig byde?


Eduard.
Veed Du vel, hvad de betyde?
Blomstersproget, kan jeg troe,
Kjender Du til Punkt og Prikke.


Marie.
Nei saa lærd, det er jeg ikke.


-Er det noget godt?
Eduard.
Ih jo!
Vel for mig, men
(spøgende)
Dig? - desværre!
Giv dog aldrig nogen Herre
Slige Blomster, Gud bevar' os!
Tænk Dig, hvis det galt forklares;
Jo, der har Du handlet net!


Marie.
Nu, saa giv mig min Bouqvet!


Eduard.
Nei, see kun, hvor rød Du bliver!


-Jeg den ene Blomst dig giver,
Resten faaer Du ikke meer,
Skjøndt Du saa alvorligt seer.
Lad nu Bærrene kun være,
Vi har talt saa grumme lidt!
Marie.
Skal jeg Blomstersproget lære?
Nu er det jo saa forslidt!



Eduard.
Naa, hvor Du seer ud i Haaret!
Grenen paa Toupeen slaer.
Har Du hele Dagen baaret
Æbleblomster i dit Haar?


Marie (spøgende).
Hjertet faaer kun Spot og Trængsel;
See, det har man for sin Længsel,
Nu, han er her, gjør han Nar.


Eduard.
Efter mig Du længtes har!
O, saa tidt mit Hjertes Stemme
Kaldte mig til Dig her hjemme.
Du har ofte tænkt paa mig?
O, jeg holder ret af Dig!
Men Du skrev saa korte Breve!
Tidt kun, naar de andre skreve,
Jeg fra Dig, det var Din Skik,
Bare Efterskriften fik.
Jeg mig maatte forestille,
At Du endnu var den Lille,
Og saa er Du nu saa stor! -
O, Marie, lad os vandre
Her i Haven med hverandre.
Hvert et Træ, som her jo groer
Kjender jeg fra gamle Dage.


Marie.
Gud skee Lov, Du kom tilbage!
Du er dog min kjære Broder!


-Skal vi nu gaae op til Moder?
Eduard.
Lad mig see Dig i dit Øie!
Hvert et Træk jeg kjender nøie.
Ældre, mere smuk Du staaer,
Og dog, som for otte Aar! -


Marie.
- Skal vi nu gaae op til Moder? -


Eduard.
(kysser hende paa Panden).
Det tør jeg jo nok - som Broder.


En lille Fugl (i Træet).
Hjertet maa af Elskov slaae
Baade Nat og lyse Dage!
Kjærlighed jeg synge maa,
Har dog ingen Mage!



Glade To i Havens Gang,
Jeg til Eder kommer,
Synger Eders Bryllups-Sang
Næste Aars Skærsommer!

Ja Skærsommer skal det staae,
Den har smukke Dage!

-Kjærlighed jeg synge maa,
Har dog ingen Mage!

April


'- Frihed, synger Du, April!
med nyfødt Grønt og Sommer-Smiil.'
*
(Strandveien).


En ung Herre (til Hest).
O, April! en deilig Maaned!
En Champagne-Maaned er Du!
Gjennem Snee og Vinterkulde
Du fremsprudler Liv og Varme.
Sommersol og Vinterhagel,
Marken Grøn, og dog lidt Snee!
Mig i Sind og Skind Du ligner,
Som en Draabe ligner Draaben.
Ungdomsglad jeg slynger Armen
Om hver buttet deilig Pige,
Trykker Kys paa Barm og Læbe;
Sværmer nu hos Pleisch og Minni, 1
Siger Vittighed, par Diable!


-Andre Tider Regn og Taage,
Slemme Breve uden Penge;
Creditorer slaae paa Døren. -
Det er nu en Hagelbyge!
Solen skinner! - bort med Griller!
Du April, min egen Maaned!
En Champagne-Maaned er du!
(han jager afsted).
Elskeren (under Træet).
Høit paa Grenen Fuglen gynger;
Hører dog, hvor smukt den synger!
Qviddrer lystigt, hvad den veed,
Synger om min Kjærlighed;


Nævner over tusind' Gange
Hendes Navn i sine Sange.
Hjertet finder atter Ro,
Thi jeg veed, hun er mig tro!
Fuglen.
Vinter-Kulden mig bortskræmmed'.
Bryllup er der nu i Hjemmet;
Bruden var Din Hjertenskjær,


-Du forstaaer ei Sangen her - !
Elskeren.
Budskab den fra hende bringer,
O, saa saligt , sødt det klinger!
Mig hun seer paa Tankens Strøm
Og i hendes bedste Drøm.
Fuglen.


-Brud og Brudgom sad nu sammen,
Der var Lystighed og Gammen,

Smukt om Troskab blev der talt,
Men, - ak! Dig ei Talen gjaldt.
Elskeren.
Gud! til Dig jeg Tak vil sende;
Fader, ja Du gav mig hende!
Hun, min første Kjærlighed
Min i Tid og Evighed!


Lille Fugl! løft glad Din Vinge,
Hilsen Du til hende bringe;
Du om Troskab synge maa,
Ogsaa hun vil Dig forstaae!


*
Chor af de Kjørende.
Med Graad i Øie, med Smiil paa Kind,
I Elskovs Drømme, i Sind og Skind,
Hvor ligner Du - o, Pigelil!


-April.
See Haabet med sin Blomsterkrands,
Dets hele Liv er kun en Dands!
Hvad fandt Du i dets Graad og Smiil?
-April!
For Laurbærkrandsen paa sin Grav
Saa mangen Helt sit Liv hengav;
Maaskee han løb mod Dødens Piil
April!
Fortuna med sit Hersker-Blik,
Og Brittens Tro 2 i Politik,
Hvor ligne I og Eders Smiil
April!
Den hele Jord, det hele Liv,
Med Kjærlighed, med Sorg og Kiv,
Er med sin Stræben, Kamp og Smiil
April!
*
Vandringsmanden.
Nei, Frihed synger Du, April,
Med nyfødt Grønt og Sommer-Smiil!
Stolt svulmer frem hver Aae, hver Bæk,
Alt grønnes her den brune Hæk,
Og Sneen smelter bort paa Vang,
Mens Fuglen synger Friheds Sang!
En lille Fugl (paa Grenen).
Hen over Sø og salten Vand
Jeg kommer fra et fremmed Land;
Nær Polens Grændse Landet laae,
I Byen jeg en Galge saae,
Der var saa mange Navne paa.
Men Heltenavne man kun skrev,
Og Hædersstøtte Galgen blev,



Thi bøiede sig hver en Fri
Ærbødigt, mens han gik forbi,
Og aarle, alt ved Lærkens Slag,
Den stod bekrandset næste Dag.*
Jeg satte mig paa Støtten lidt,
Og sang mit Friheds Qvirrevit!


*Historisk Sandhed.
Eccho.
'Qvirrevit!'
Fuglen.
Ak! er min Friheds Sang ei meer?
Eccho.
'Ei meer!'
En skikkelig Mand.
Hvad behager? Her er allerede saadan en Qvinkeleren og Qviddren med Spurve og
Lærker! Alt det Fugle-Rak, vor Herre lader skabe, kommer strax og giver deres Besyv!


-Nu kan de da snart faae lidt i Skrotten igjen, nu Sommeren kommer! Hvor det ellers
er et deiligt Veir.
En Kritiker.
Hr. Forfatter! Gud bevare os! hvad tænker De paa? At lade saadan en Person komme
ind her? Er det Orden? Er det Logik? Hvad skal denne skikkelige Mand i Friheds
Maaneden?
Forfatteren.
Det er just en poetisk Frihed.
Kritikeren .
Vil De bare see at faae ham ud! eller jeg skal lære Dem [rettet fra 'dem'] begge to! ['!'
rettet fra '?']
Den skikkelige Mand.
Hvad? Faae mig ud! - Har jeg ikke Lov at spadsere i April Maaned? - Jeg fornærmer
ingen, og jeg skylder, Gud skee Lov, heller ingen Noget.
Kritikeren.
Jeg skal rive ham ned 3 i Kritikkerne!
Den skikkelige Mand.
Kom han mig ikke saa! for jeg har en Søstersøn, der skal op til første Examen næste
Aar, og han har allerede længe skrevet den Ene og den Anden en X for et U 4 i
Bladene; - men uden Navn - det er en Fandens Dreng, tag han sig i Agt for ham. -
Forfatteren.
O Gud, mine Herrer, De sætte mig i den største Forskrækkelse! Kom dog ikke op at
slaaes. -
Kritikeren.
Vil De forbyde os det! Hvad vil De med Deres skikkelige Mand her? Er De ikke selv
Skyld i det Hele. Nu vil jeg banke ham -
Forfatteren.
Ja Gud bevare os! det er jo Frihedens Maaned.


(trækker sig tilbage).
En ung Maler.
(kommer med sin Mappe og sine Tegne-Redskaber).
Den friske grønne Eng med sine Damme,
Den knopped' brune Skov, den aabne Sø,



Og Skyerne ved Firmamentets Ramme,
Der i en violetblaa Taage døe,
Dem maler jeg, de blive skal mit Eie.


(Han sætter sig paa en Steen under Træet).
Smukt hæver sig det lille Fiskerleie!
See, Garnet hænger udspændt høit ved Strand!
Her ligger Baaden trukket op paa Land,
Og Græsset under den, for Solen skjult,
Staaer høit og tykt, men med et grønligt Guult.
To Smaa-Børn lege foran Huset hist
Med tørre Pinde og en Bøgeqvist. ['.' indsat her]
De plante dem en Have smukt i Solen,
Mens Bedstemoder her i Lænestolen
Maa tage Plads og lege med de Smaae.
De [',' slettet] som to muntre Vaarens [',' slettet] Alfer staae
Ved Vintrens Snee, hvor mangt et Minde hviler.
Ømt til de kjære Smaae den Gamle smiler!
Vandringsmanden.
Hvor festligt klinger over Bondens Vang
Fra Kirketaarnet Klokkens dybe Klang,
Mens Havets Bølger synge med fra Stranden;
Hør, det er Paaske, Christus er opstanden!
Bølgerne.
Sæt Dig her paa Stenen, ved det brune Tang,
Vi skal Dig fortælle mangen Havfrue-Sang.
Dybt, saa dybt dernede, paa den vaade Grund,
Bygge Havets Piger, under Øresund.
Der er' [',' slettet] smukke Blomster, Tangen er saa grøn,
Og - som Søens Lillier er den Havfrue skjøn!
Tidt i Sommer-Natten hun fra Dybet gaaer,
Leger da heroppe med sit lange Haar.
Hver April hun bringer, under Bølge-Sang,
Danmark Friheds-Krandsen af sit grønne Tang;
Og mens Vinter-Kysten blomstrer smukt igjen,
Synger Danmarks frelse ved Niels Ebbesen;*
Synger Brittens Skjændsel og hans fule 5 Smiil,
Mens hun skjænker Danmark Krandsen for April!**

the sonnet-ballad

Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
They took my lover's tallness off to war,
Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess
What I can use an empty heart-cup for.
He won't be coming back here any more.
Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew
When he went walking grandly out that door
That my sweet love would have to be untrue.
Would have to be untrue. Would have to court
Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange
Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort)
Can make a hard man hesitate--and change.
And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes."
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

the sonnet-ballad

Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
They took my lover's tallness off to war,
Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess
What I can use an empty heart-cup for.
He won't be coming back here any more.
Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew
When he went walking grandly out that door
That my sweet love would have to be untrue.
Would have to be untrue. Would have to court
Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange
Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort)
Can make a hard man hesitate--and change.
And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes."
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

the vacant lot

Mrs. Coley’s three-flat brick
Isn’t here any more.
All done with seeing her fat little form
Burst out of the basement door;
And with seeing her African son-in-law
(Rightful heir to the throne)
With his great white strong cold squares of teeth
And his little eyes of stone;
And with seeing the squat fat daughter
Letting in the men
When majesty has gone for the day—
And letting them out again.

The Ballad of Rudolph Reed

Rudolph Reed was oaken.
His wife was oaken too.
And his two good girls and his good little man
Oakened as they grew.


"I am not hungry for berries.
I am not hungry for bread.
But hungry hungry for a house
Where at night a man in bed


"May never hear the plaster
Stir as if in pain.
May never hear the roaches
Falling like fat rain.


"Where never wife and children need
Go blinking through the gloom.
Where every room of many rooms
Will be full of room.


"Oh my home may have its east or west
Or north or south behind it.
All I know is I shall know it,
And fight for it when I find it."


The agent's steep and steady stare
Corroded to a grin.
Why you black old, tough old hell of a man,
Move your family in!


Nary a grin grinned Rudolph Reed,
Nary a curse cursed he,
But moved in his House. With his dark little wife,
And his dark little children three.


A neighbor would look, with a yawning eye
That squeezed into a slit.
But the Rudolph Reeds and children three
Were too joyous to notice it.


For were they not firm in a home of their own
With windows everywhere
And a beautiful banistered stair
And a front yard for flowers and a back for grass?


The first night, a rock, big as two fists.
The second, a rock big as three.
But nary a curse cursed Rudolph Reed.
(Though oaken as man could be.)


The third night, a silvery ring of glass.
Patience arched to endure,



But he looked, and lo! small Mabel's blood
Was staining her gaze so pure.


Then up did rise our Roodoplh Reed
And pressed the hand of his wife,
And went to the door with a thirty-four
And a beastly butcher knife.


He ran like a mad thing into the night
And the words in his mouth were stinking.
By the time he had hurt his first white man
He was no longer thinking.


By the time he had hurt his fourth white man
Rudolph Reed was dead.
His neighbors gathered and kicked his corpse.
"Nigger--" his neighbors said.


Small Mabel whimpered all night long,
For calling herself the cause.
Her oak-eyed mother did no thing
But change the bloody gauze.

Sadie and Maud

Maud went to college.
Sadie stayed home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine toothed comb.


She didn't leave a tangle in
Her comb found every strand.
Sadie was one of the livingest chicks
In all the land.


Sadie bore two babies
Under her maiden name.
Maud and Ma and Papa
Nearly died of shame.


When Sadie said her last so-long
Her girls struck out from home.
(Sadie left as heritage
Her fine-toothed comb.)


Maud, who went to college,
Is a thin brown mouse.
She is living all alone
In this old house.

A Penitent Considers Another Coming of Mary

For Reverend Theodore Richardson

If Mary came would Mary
Forgive, as Mothers may,
And sad and second Saviour
Furnish us today?


She would not shake her head and leave
This military air,
But ratify a modern hay,
And put her Baby there.


Mary would not punish men—
If Mary came again.

She did not scream.
She stood there.
But a hatred for him burst into glorious flower,
And its perfume enclasped them--big,
Bigger than all magnolias.


The last bleak news of the ballad.
The rest of the rugged music.
The last quatrain.

Vitam Impendere Amori

(Vitam Impendere Amori: To Threaten Life for Love)

Love is dead within your arms
Do you remember his encounter
He’s dead you restore the charms
He returns at your encounter

Another spring of springs gone past
I think of all its tenderness
Farewell season done at last
You’ll return as tenderly

****

In the evening light that’s faded
Where our several loves brush by
Your memory lies enchained
Far from our shades that die

O hands bound by memory
Burning like a funeral pyre
Where the last black Phoenix
Perfection comes to respire

Link by link the chain wears thin
Deriding us your memory
Flies ah hear it you who rail
I kneel again at your feet

****

You’ve not surprised my secret yet
Already the cortège moves on
But left to us is the regret
of there being no connivance none

The rose floats at the water’s edge
The maskers have passed by in crowds
It trembles in me like a bell
This heavy secret you ask now

****

Evening falls and in the garden
Women tell their histories
to Night that not without disdain
spills their dark hair’s mysteries

Little children little children
Your wings have flown away
But you rose that defend yourself
Throw your unrivalled scents away


For now’s the hour of petty theft
Of plumes of flowers and of tresses
Gather the fountain jets so free
Of whom the roses are mistresses

****

You descended through the water clear
I drowned my self so in your glance
The soldier passes she leans down
Turns and breaks away a branch

You float on nocturnal waves
The flame is my own heart reversed
Coloured as that comb’s tortoiseshell
The wave that bathes you mirrors well

****
O my abandoned youth is dead
Like a garland faded
Here the season comes again
Of suspicion and disdain

The landscape’s formed of canvasses
A false stream of blood flows down
And under the tree the stars glow fresh
The only passer by’s a clown

The glass in the frame has cracked
An air defined uncertainly
Hovers between sound and thought
Between ‘to be’ and memory

O my abandoned youth is dead
Like a garland faded
Here the season comes again
Of suspicion and disdain

The Skirt

Hallo Germaine that's a fine skirt you have
A fine skirt for a queen A cruel queen
Let's feel the silk of it Silk from Japan
And trimmed with wide lace made on no machine

Your skirt's a silken bell whose double clapper
Your legs have struck the passing of my fancies
O Germaine now I ring it my breast heaving
My hands press down upon your willing haunches

Your bedroom O my bell is a fine belfry
My hands touch silk and seem to tear my ears
Those pegs are gallows on which skirts are hanging
Those hanging men are dazzling my eyes

Motionless as an owl the oil lamp watches