Gray Days

Gray Days By Grace Ingles Frost GRAY earth, gray sky and grim gray leafless boughs, Not sorrow to my heart you bring, But mind me of the resting time When I, like nature, far away shall fling My robe, and slumber. i I love you, earth, sky, boughs of leaden hue! Love you for the thoughts you to me give. You let me not forget the teaching true — That e'en though I must sleep, I still shall live To come forth in the spring. Old Roads By Grace Ingles Frost J LOVE old roads that lure my feet Along the way of quiet streams With rustic spans where I may pause And weave a golden web of dreams; I love old roads with pebbles strewn — - Old roads with broidered edge of bloom Touched by a languid loveliness That graces summer's afternoon; I love old roads all covered o'er With feathery flakes of white That sparkle like rare diamond drops, When gleams of blue and silver light Fall from the moon — And when the sun in benison With crimson glory floods the west, I love old roads — 'tis then, methinks, That they are at their very best. Sequestered roads of paradise are these Devoid of stress or plod; Here I may heed the wood-dove's note And let my soul reach up to God. Yesteryear By Grace Ingles Frost YESTERYEAR I sang a song Of sweet, bright things a-growing. O violets and lily bells And yellow poppies glowing With golden shafts shot by the sun From skies of azure hue; The whole wide world seemed filled A DELIGHTFUL thing it is to read new poems from the pens of those whose names have become more and more familiar with the passing years of the Young Wom- an's Journal and the Improvement Era. Grace Ingles Frost is one of these, and the reading of her new poems is made more pleasant through the re- membered charm of her earlier ones. From 1906 she has been one of the faithful contributors to the maga- zines, and many have loved her work, for she puts into her lines a fine emotional quality which marks it as real. Some of the fol- lowing are reprinted from earlier volumes; some are recent; all are so lovely that it is impossible to dis- tinguish the old from the new. Land of Tomorrow By Grace Ingles Frost OUT in the untrodden land of to- morrow What is there lurking, I question, for me? Guerdon of joy, or burden of sorrow? What may be waiting, mine eyes may not see. Out in the far-reaching land of tomorrow Will there be work for these hands to perform? Land of deep mystery, land of tomorrow, Stretching beyond with the birth of each morn. Land of futurity, land of tomorrow, If you hold gladness or if you yield pain, Yet there is One from whom I may borrow Strength that will shield me from sun or from rain. 1 i i with song For very love of you. But that was yesteryear, and now The blue has turned to gray; Mine eyes see naught to make them glad; Where e'er I wend my way. In notes that tremble on the breeze, A monody I hear, For love has come, and love has gone — It fled with yesteryear. A Mother Pays By Grace Ingles Frost FOR every silky curl that lies Above a child's wide, wond'ring eyes, A mother pays as never can Another in creation's plan. I For feet that lightly through life trip, A mother pays; but when feet slip Into the dark of sin's dense maze, Ah, that is when a mother's days Are anguish-rent! 'Tis then she pays Her toll in full for mothering man Each hour of life's allotted span. A mother pays in pain and tears For every child she bears and rears; But know you not, from Cross and Thorn, The glory of a God was born? When the Wind Sang, Its Babes to Sleep By Grace Ingles Frost rHE wind sang its babes to .sleep last night, With a sweet low croon, with a sweet low croon, Rocking them high in a tree near by, Tucked into beds of apple bloom. The stars came blinking out from the blue, And the moon peeped from over the hill. And for each wee head in its trundle bed There was left on the window sill A bundle held by a sheath of light, That the tiny moon-beams had spun From their own gleams into wondrous dreams, For a gift to each little one. When the wind sang its babes to sleep last night With a sweet low croon, with a sweet low croon, Rocking them high in a tree near by, Tucked into beds of apple bloom. Mad Waves By Grace Ingles Frost PELL-MELL they gallop to the shore Like mighty steeds of Neptune, Madly neighing, roar on roar In tossing-maned abandon. Before the keen lash of the wind Band after band is driven, Without a rein to curb or bind Until their strength is riven. The voice of each that paws the land By those which follow after Is hushed, and each bows on the sand To water's rippling laughter.