Fabric

Fabric By Florence Hartman Townsend ''f 'IS not for me to question J. The color of the thread — I would choose blue and purple; I would choose gold and red. 'Tis mine to weave a fabric From skeins placed on the loom, E'en though the thread be murky As shadows in a room. But, somehow, as I'm weaving, If I but weave aright, There will be spots of beauty To catch and hold the light. And if the pattern's stilted, The colors dull and cold, I'll tinge the warp with laughter To shimmer in each fold. And though my soul may hunger To trace a filigree, I'll sing into the plain design The gold of melody. Then in and out and over The silver of a song Will trace a lovely pattern And make the fabric strong. i i i A Son& for You By Florence Hartman Townsend O could I fashion a song for your i singing, First I should dip in the pool of my heart; Warm with its blood, with the wound sharply stinging, Then should my pen be endowed for the part. I then would set me a snare in the heaven, Catch the soft glow from the earliest star, Sweep back to earth, for earth's temper- ing leaven, Gathering color where meadows spread far. I should not reach for the city's bright grooming, Nor for bright jewels in arrogant store, But for your song I'd find red roses blooming — Blooming and sweet by a -brown cottage door. Somewhere a bar like a child's happy laughter, Somewhere a note like a glistening tear, Music like rainfall, with sunshine soon after; Somehow together I'd weave these, my dear. Starshine and color and laughter and weeping; (Tears, just a few, add a mellower note) , But, O, forever, my love, I'd be keeping Heartbreak from marring the song in your throat. If I Were Earth By Florence Hartman Townsend /WISH that I were Earth ; I'd like To lift a scarlet flower spike Upon each naked hill. And if I found a roadside bare I'd plant some brave red sumac there, And wild sweet clover spill. I wish that I were Earth; I'd grow Five baby cedars in a row In some secluded nook. And sycamores, whose trunks shine white As ghostly sentinels at night, Would guard each silver brook. I wish that I were Earth; methinks I'd sow the seed of fragrant pinks Upon each furrowed field. Perhaps some beauty-loving heart Would choose them as the better part Of all the cherished yield. I wish that I were Earth; I'd dare Start flaunting growth and beauty where Are now but cruel scars. I'd flower countless blooms of white To wear upon my breast at night And be the earthly stars. If I were Earth for one brief night There'd be new beauty when the light Came up on rosy wing. But, O, what beauty could I add To make the poet's heart more glad Than red-bud in the spring? Your Voice By Florence Hartman Townsend 7 LOVE the tones of instruments of music, Tuned and strung; I wait for lilting bird-note on the Sweet air flung; I thrill to song of artist singer, High and clear; I crave the strain of soothing viols On my ear; I often sit entranced by ringing Chorus song; My pulses leap to sound of bugles, Deep and strong; But I've never heard the music' that My soul has stirred As the music of your voice in just One spoken word. J.N a day of unrhymed and un- measured poetry, it is restful and lovely to find a complete page of verse which could never be mis- taken for "free verse," and yet which sings and glows in its very freedom. The six poejns for May are not exactly love poems, nor are they really Spring poems, hut the depth and gladness and tender charm lilting through the lines of them bring back the warmth of love and the fragrance of Spring. Barrier By Florence Hartman Townsend TJECAUSE you see the dusty road that -O stays Aswarm with dingy commerce — trucks and drays — And miss the clump of sumac, flaming red, And whirr and dip of bird wings over- head; Because you speculate in moneyed terms And wonder what per cent it pays the firms. And miss the jolly quirk about the mouth Of that young fellow, driving toward the south; Because you see in golden harvest fields Naught that inspires your soul, except the yields; And when in busy cities, mounting high, A building, brick on brick, lifts to the sky, You see but rentals, making rich and fat A soul, like yours, that craves no more than that. You cannot see the beauty of the soul That permeates and binds the noble whole; A dream come true to live in light of day; A builder's vision come to earth to stay; Because your eyes are blind to such a treat As coral-footed pigeons in the street, Strangers are we. Our minds can never meet Though we may walk together down the street. i i i Awakening, By Florence Hartman Townsend DOWN all my garden paths sweet Spring came walking, Where Winter's frosty feet so late were stalking, And when she paused, in softest whispers talking, The smallest rootlet waked from sleep to bear. I could not hear the words that Spring was saying, But budding boughs began a rhythmic swaying, As if in time to fairy music playing, And bird-note lifted skyward, sweet and clear. I followed down the paths where Spring had drifted, And found peony-buds and jonquils lifted, For Winter's icy bonds young Spring had rifted, And out of death life started, fresh with dew. Oh, Spring has been abroad! her emerald fingers On shrub and clod and tree a moment lingers, Her fragrance thrills the throat of feath- ered singers, And lovers speak the old, old words anew.