Memory

Memory 23 y Mary Hale Woolsey MEMORY'S a treasure-house, built of golden hours, Filled with precious moments — pre- cious just to, be; Things, perhaps, no other knew, or knowing, would remember — Ever hold a favored place in secret reverie. Here's a day of long ago — a flawless gem of springtime, Green of leafy bough and gold of sun and blue of sky; Here's a song that thrilled me, from a joyous woodland singer, — Every note my heart can echo, clear and sweet and high. Here's a blossom, waxy petal wet with dew of morning — Still in full perfection, for remem- brance keeps it so: And a butterfly that flitted, radiant prophecy of sunshine, 'Cross a path dark-shadowed by a cloud of fear and woe. Here's a friendly hand-clasp, which when life was dark with doubting, Came with someone's smile and words of sympathy and cheer; This, an angel-touch of softly-curling baby fingers; That, a crystal jewel, was a limpid childish tear. Memory, my treasure-house, built of golden hours, Filled with joy and sorrow, pain and rapture, life complete! Time hath bade the passing years to sift and blend and mellow — Draw the sting from bitterness, and concentrate the sweet. The Poplars By Mary Hale Woolsey ACROSS the valley, row on row, Lombardy poplars straightly grow Towards the watching sky, — Like soldiers bold and bravely tall, In uniform so handsome all And gayly marching by. Across the valley, mile on mile, Through winter's bleak and dreary while Like soldiers bearing arms — ■ They braved the whirling blizzards white, Or, gauntly waiting through the night, Stood sentinel 'gainst the storms. But under skies no longer cold The balmy days of spring unfold, Earth's miracle re-made — And o'er the valley, row on row, Our gallant poplars gayly grow — ■ Soldiers on dress parade! J UNE has a witchery all its own — -the loveliness of perfect hours touched with the sadness which per- fection brings. Gardens, brides, and memories are woven into these songs in a way which catches one by the throat. Beauty, life's June- time gift to her children, is the ink in which the pen for these singing lines is dipped, and through it they become inviolate. Tke Little Road By Mary Hale Woolsey 'INHERE was a little winding road we J. followed long ago; Uphill and down it led, beneath kind trees and smiling sky; The little breezes played there, birds flitted to and fro, And flowers grew so close they touched our hands as we passed by. * * * True, this highway is smoother — Lures us swiftly on and on To a goal that's ever forward — The miles behind are gone. * * * And always there was time to spare along the little road; Long moments just to loiter if we chanced to meet a friend; For gaiety and laughter, or to ease an- other's load — There was no need for hurry, time seemed to have no end! * * * But the wide highway is crowded; Eyes must be straight ahead. We're anxious lest each hour May be too quickly sped. * * * Oh, somewhere near are little roads so narrow and so sweet (If we'll but leave the rushing, crowded highway now and then) Where each turning holds a secret, and who knows but we might meet Our own old carefree spirits on a Little Road again! June By Mary Hale Woolsey OKIES of the bluest — they're June's; O Longest and goldest her days; Her birds sing the merriest tunes; Softest the zephyr that plays. Clouds of the whitest afloat On clearest of azure each day ; Tallest the grass underfoot, And fairest her flowers so gay. Greenest the shadowy wood — Oh, she will be gone all too soon ! Earth in her loveliest mood Welcomes superlative June. In a Deserted Garden By Mary Hale Woolsey /WILL tread softly here, where once you trod, Dear, busy gardener of long ago ! Between these crumbling walls you used to know, Along these walks you laid so smooth, and broad. I will tread softly- — for the very air Seems fragrant with the dreams you planted here. Your hands long since were stilled; no other came To tend the flowers you loved so dearly then — Yet every spring your lilacs bloom again, And iris bluely blossoms just the same. Pale daisies struggle up among the weeds, And violets are hiding just below; Upon the wall the rambling roses grow, And honeysuckle, where the wild bee feeds. Each summer brings the yellow roses, too, To scatter spicy sweetness all around; Verbena spreads a carpet on the ground And hollyhocks stand tall again for you. Flowers and walls your dreams still hold, I know; Perhaps, to tend the spot you held so dear, Your spirit self at dusk may linger here! — Oh, in your garden, I will tread softly + + ♦ CQ + ♦ ♦ Finding me here, you'd know I love them, too — These flowers so sweet with memories of you! 111 An Old Mirror Speaks By Maty Hale Woolsey JT is June! I know by the rose in her hand, By the gown that she wears — should not I, Who have mirrored them many and many a year, Know what frocks are worn when summer is nigh? It is June! But I need not look at the rose, Nor a gown need my calendar be! 'Tis June by the light in her shining eyes. By her lips smiling tenderly. It is June! Sweet maiden, a-thrill with dreams, I know what he whispered tonight! — Before me, so many a maid has stood With her face aglow with that same love-light. Dream on, of orange-blossoms and lace, And dream of your tall lover close by your side! It is June! Soon again to my silvered depths shall turn The joy-hallowed face of a bride.