Helen Leah Reed

Rest here, my horse, the night is dull, - the blood-sick stars are gone, Listen, for thou like me wert bred in far Saskatchewan. And this September night at home, under a happier sky,

I knew a little boy, not very long ago, Who was as bright and happy as any boy you know. He had an only fault, and you will all agree

The world of dreams is all my own, Wherein I wander - free, alone; - And each weird, fervid fantasy

Like many another I have crossed Oftener than once the broad Atlantic, And - feeling qualms when tempest-tossed,

A liberty bond! What a queer contradiction! Although truth, as you've heard, may be stranger than fiction. For Liberty should from all fetters release us,

I want to see a grandmother like those there used to be, In a cosy little farm-house, where I could go to tea; A grandmother with spectacles and a funny, frilly cap,

Oh, daughter, lovelier than your lovely mother, Whatever punishment you may desire Give my offending verses; in the fire

My Auntie has a camera, and when I'm out at play And see her coming with it, I try to hide away. For oh, it is so bothersome to hear her, with a laugh,

Ah! little lake, though fair thou art, A sapphire flashing to the sky, Thy charm is only for the eye,

Here, where the proud hibiscus blooms in flame, Where swaying palms nod lightly to the sea, Where each azalea towers - a stately tree -

Of all the luckless women ever born, Or ever to be born here on our earth, Most pitied be Cassandra, from her birth

Flowers for brave soldiers, Flowers for those who gave us A Country undivided.

Today I had the awfulest time, Dear mother, in the wood. That hill out there we were to climb,

From top to pedestal you scan it lightly - Capped head to lettered base - and you are smiling. What see you there to set your lips a-quiver?

"One time when I was pleasing to you, Lydia, And when no other youth, preferred to me, Your snowy neck could with his arms encircle,

If Love were all, how dark the world! What sorrow for the stricken heart! If Love were all, with Love grown cold -

Oh! it is little Margery who has a garden-bed, Wherein grow purple pansies and geraniums white and red, With feverfew and dahlias, and delicate pink phlox,

A monument outlasting brass I have builded, Higher than pyramids in their crumbling glory, That no devouring storm, nor futile North wind

"Death after life" shall we sigh as we say it, Sigh as if death were the end for us all, Pale at the thought, as in silence we weigh it,

For thee he thought, The Greek, who by the sea Lay in his lithe-limbed grace, as dreamily

No warrior he, a village lad, needing nor words nor other prod To point his duty; he was glad

Companioned by the lonely hours, My vigil with the stars I keep, - The happy stars that never weep, -

Crinkled oak-leaves, twinkling in the sun, Splashed by midday showers, dripping cold - Serrate oak-leaves, silvered by the sun

God's mean and careless servant - while I wander Deep in the madness of Philosophy, - Now backward I must set my sail, and ponder

Well satisfied with all his own, he stands Holding a trembling balance in his hands; On one scale - wealth and ease, men's praises, too -

Serbia, valiant daughter of the Ages, Happiness and light should be thy portion! Yet thy day is dimmed, thine heart is heavy;

"For nearly eighteen years upon my head The crown of Empire heavily has set. The burden on my shoulders I have borne

He has a taste that's superfine who flouts at every subway sign, He reckons not that some there be, who cannot tell, unless they see Spelled plain before them on the wall, what things their own they ought to call

On every bush are roses blooming, everywhere the nightingale To his love again is warbling plaintively his oft-told tale. Now within our balmy garden dances the tall cypress tree,

Ant'us, as the ancient poets sing, Though in his contest with the God of Power Doomed to be conquered, stayed the fatal hour,

Oh, the noise of Piccadilly - its rumble and its roar! A tide of life's broad ocean surging toward the shore. Who once has listened, ever can hear its long refrain

"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage" High halls do not a College make, nor book-lined shelves a sage. So might I follow haltingly these olden words to show

They loved life, even as we, who went away From their dear dwelling-place to one unknown To us who linger here. They could not stay,

I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better; If mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter To uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand-aunt Gray,

A new year dawning on a warring world! And many fight, and many pray for peace; But yet the roar of battle will not cease,

The vision fades - dome, pinnacle and tower, All the white beauty of the lake-side dream, The artist's ideal, the poet's theme

I'm sure I did not break this cup; It just fell down, - I know it did - For I was only climbing up,

Behold a long procession passing proudly, And yet no glittering pomp adorns its way, Only the emblems of our States and Nation,

The hardy youth, my friends, in bitter warfare To narrow poverty must learn to bend, And, for his spear a horseman to be dreaded,

We saw the Regiment, alert and strong, In marching line, on Soldiers' Field today, Ah! ready they to battle with the wrong; -

Sorrowful pleading on her face is written With love commingled, and my heart throbs fast, Flooded with currents of a deep emotion

You are the loveliest parasol I ever saw, - and all my own, - What frilly frills! I feel as tall

Said the Bicycle to the Automobile: "How high and mighty and gay you feel; Yet I can remember the day when I

That it be love, I dare not say, I only know when he's away, Dark as the night, so dark the day.

'Twas a Spanish galleon sailed the seas, - Two centuries since have rolled - Laden with silver and gems to please

There soars a warbler toward high Heaven, His course seems sure and straight; - So speeds an arrow from the bow-string,

Out of the misty North A stealthy foeman stole; Far from the haunted Pole

Sage of the silver pen! Wherever thy thought was heard, Thou wert a leader of men.

What prays the poet of enshrined Apollo? What is he asking for with lifted hands, Pouring a fresh libation from his flagon? -

With kindly thought I'd give, Oh Censorinus, Bowls and bronze vases pleasing to each friend; Tripods I'd offer, prizes of brave Grecians,

Ah Chloe, like a fawn you now elude me, Seeking its timid dam on lonely hills, Its dam who not without an idle tremor

Diana, Protector of mountain and wood, Who when three times invoked, hast so well understood, And young mothers in child-birth hast rescued from death,

Oh, Fuscus, he whose life is pure and upright, Wants not the Moorish javelin nor the bow, Nor may he need the quiver, heavy laden

Gay Summer sees the flowering Of buds that were the gift of Spring; And Winter counts the ripened sheaves

Seek not to learn - Leucono', - a mortal may not know - What term of life on you or me our deities bestow. The Babylonian soothsayer consult not; better bear

M'cenas, scion of Tyrrhenian rulers, A jar, as yet unpierced, of mellow wine Long waits thee here, with balm for thee made ready

Oh, him whom at birth you with favor regarded Melpomene! never an Isthmian game Shall render renowned, though he's skilled as a boxer,

Dear Lady of Tranquillity, Ah! lightly have the years Their music on thy heart-strings played, and all the smiles and tears That mark the joy of living, that sound the depths of pain

Ah! Unhappy are the maidens, who love's game are kept from playing, Nor in mellow wine may wash away their cares; Who, scared by scolding uncles' tongues, their terror are displaying, -

You see how our Soracte now is standing Hoary with heavy snow, and now its weight To bear the struggling woods are hardly able,

Oh! Ship of State! fresh billows to sea will bear thee back, Then turn about and bravely toward the harbor tack, Thou see'st that thy naked sides defending oarsmen lack.

Lately was I to gentle maidens suited, And not without some glory did contend, But now my weapons and my lute made useless

About the country they may talk who will, Who praise it ever to the town's despite. Let him extol the charms of wood and hill

When your father, long ago, tried to train you - and you know He thought mornings meant for school, and not for swimming - How your heart beat loud in dread as relentlessly he said,

"'Tis but a common thing," one coldly said, "Nay, call it not a flower - this little weed, If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed -

Who then is rich, who poor? I'll tell you now Of one, a meagre life who had to live, Wear dingy garb, and scarcely could allow

Sing of America, sing of our Country! Land of two oceans, of palm-tree and pine! Firm as the rock of her towering mountains,