John Charles McNeill

Where the rails converge to the station yard She stands one moment, breathing hard, And then, with a snort and a clang of steel,

I pass a cobbler's shop along the street And pause a moment at the door-step, where, In nature's medley, piping cool and sweet,

Near where the shepherds watched by night And heard the angels o'er them, The wise men saw the starry light

When in this room I turn in pondering pace And find thine eyes upon me where I stand, Led on, as by Enemo's silken strand,

If many years should dim my inward sight, Till, stirred with no emotion, I might stand gazing at the fall of night

A little baby went to sleep One night in his white bed, And the moon came by to take a peep

Not long the living weep above their dead, And you will grieve, Admetus, but not long. The winter's silence in these desolate halls

The Sun has come again and fed The lily's lamp with light, And raised from dust a rose, rich red,

Upon a gnarly, knotty limb That fought the current's crest, Where shocks of reeds peeped o'er the brim,

I care not what his name for God may be, Nor what his wisdom holds of heaven and hell, The alphabet whereby he strives to spell

When the dim, tall sails of the ships were in motion, Ghostly, and slow, and silent-shod, We gazed where the dusk fled over the ocean,

He who wills life wills its condition sweet, Having made love its mother, joy its quest, That its perpetual sequence might not rest

'T will not be long before they hear The bullbat on the hill, And in the valley through the dusk

The girls all like to see the bluets in the lane And the saucy johnny-jump-ups in the meadow, But, we boys, we want to see the dogwood blooms again,

The cat sleeps in a chimney jam With ashes in her fur, An' Tige, from on the yuther side,

The hills again reach skyward with a smile. Again, with waking life along its way, The landscape marches westward mile on mile

When merry milkmaids to their cattle call At evenfall And voices range

If fate had held a careless knife And clipped one line that drew, Of all the myriad lines of life,

A soaking sedge, A faded field, a leafless hill and hedge, Low clouds and rain,

Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold; Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold; A heron's far flight to a roost somewhere;

The little loves and sorrows are my song: The leafy lanes and birthsteads of my sires, Where memory broods by winter's evening fires

When in the Scorpion circles low The sun with fainter, dreamier light, And at a far-off hint of snow

When first I stood before you, Isabel, I stood there to adore you,

If I have had some merry times In roaming up and down the earth, Have made some happy-hearted rhymes

God willed, who never needed speech, "Let all things be:" And, lo, the starry firmament

To you, dear mother heart, whose hair is gray Above this page to-day, Whose face, though lined with many a smile and care,

Oh, I can jest with Margaret And laugh a gay good-night, But when I take my Helen's hand

(Died October 8, 1904) For him, who in a hundred battles stood Scorning the cannon's mouth,

Her brown hair knew no royal crest, No gems nor jeweled charms, No roses her bright cheek caressed,

Green moss will creep Along the shady graves where we shall sleep. Each year will bring

The thought of old, dear things is in thine eyes, O, month of memories! Musing on days thine heart hath sorrow of,

A horror of great darkness over them, No cloud of fire to guide and cover them, Beasts for the shambles, tremulous with dread,

Love, should I set my heart upon a crown, Squander my years, and gain it, What recompense of pleasure could I own?

Give over now; forbear.    The moonlight steeps In silver silence towered castle-keeps And cottage crofts, where apples bend the bough.

A century of silent suns Have set since he was laid on sleep, And now they bear with booming guns

Oh, I am weary, weary, weary Of Pan and oaten quills And little songs that, from the dictionary,

We sang old love-songs on the way In sad and merry snatches, Your fingers o'er the strings astray

I have not been among the woods, Nor seen the milk-weeds burst their hoods, The downy thistle-seeds take wing,

The home of love is her blue eyes, Wherein all joy, all beauty lies, More sweet than hopes of paradise,

To-day was but a dead day in my hands. Hour by hour did nothing more than pass, Mere idle winds above the faded grass.

I would that love were subject unto law! Upon his person I should lay distraint And force him thus to answer my complaint,

Down on the Lumbee river Where the eddies ripple cool Your boat, I know, glides stealthily

Hills, wrapped in gray, standing along the west; Clouds, dimly lighted, gathering slowly; The star of peace at watch above the crest--

Tear-marks stain from page to page This book my fathers left to me,-- So dull that nothing but its age

The little white bride is left alone With him, her lord; the guests have gone; The festal hall is dim.

Repose upon her soulless face, Dig the grave and leave her; But breathe a prayer that, in his grace,

The Old Bad Woman was coming along, Busily humming a sort of song. You could barely see, below her bonnet,

All day low clouds and slanting rain Have swept the woods and dimmed the plain. Wet winds have swayed the birch and oak,

From pacing, pacing without hope or quest He leaned against his window-bars to rest And smelt the breeze that crept up from the west.

Coiled like a clod, his eyes the home of hate, Where rich the harvest bows, he lies in wait, Linking earth's death and music, mate with mate.

They locked him in a prison cell, Murky and mean. She kissed him there a wife's farewell

Some time, far hence, when Autumn sheds Her frost upon your hair, And you together sit at dusk,

A flight of doves, with wanton wings, Flash white against the sky. In the leafy copse an oriole sings,

When summer's languor drugs my veins And fills with sleep the droning times, Like sluggish dreams among my brains,

What shall I bring you, sweet? A posy prankt with every April hue: The cloud-white daisy, violet sky-blue,

One sits in soft light, where the hearth is warm, A halo, like an angel's, on her hair. She clasps a sleeping infant in her arm.

This is the time for birds to mate; To-day the dove Will mark the ancient amorous date

The wintry sun was pale On hill and hedge; The wind smote with its flail

When I go home, green, green will glow the grass, Whereon the flight of sun and cloud will pass; Long lines of wood-ducks through the deepening gloam