Classic Poem

I

MOTHER MAGIC .

I N days of childhood, now long-lapsed and dim,
Often I sat within a holy place,
Where mystic word and solemn-rolling hymn
Touched the tranced souls of men to thoughts of grace.

Too small to comprehend, yet happy there
I lingered, since beside me, close and dear,
Sat the slim mother with her rippled hair,
Her smile, her breathing and her color clear.

And she would hold my hand and so express
In some deep way the wonder of the hour:
Our spirits talked, by silent tenderness,
As easily as flower nods to flower.

And to this day, whenso I go alone
Into some shadowed quiet, hear a choir,
Hark the great organ's most melodious moan
And watch the windows flush day-light with fire,

Over me once again those memories steal;
I sit dream-struck and seem to understand
God's meaning; for, across the years, I feel
The meek, sure magic of my mother's hand.

II

IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL

May be it was her littleness, may be
Because she looked so frail and so forlorn,
But when, in that sad place, they showed to me
The shy, small stranger and I knew the morn.

Must pass to noon, and noon give place to night,
Bringing no promise of a better day,
And she so slight, so hungry for the sight
Of aught to drive her misery away:

Then with a sacred pity my heart bled,
And seemed rebuked for all its easy years;
Down on that little hand I bowed my head
And cherished her; her tears became my tears.

III

THE DOLLS' HOSPITAL

I N a little old building, up under the roof,
Where you grope your way to the door,
The Hospital hides, and it seems aloof
From the city's rush and roar.

And here, to be tinkered as good as new,
Come the battered dolls at last,
Who have lived with children the long year through,
The favorites of the past.

High and low, they are hither borne,
Troops of them fill the place;
The fine French miss with her look of scorn,
And the rag child, meek of face.
They say, could you visit the wards by night,
When the grown-ups are all away,
You would witness then a wondrous sight
That you never will see by day.

For the small doll people forgather there,
The maimed and the mended all,
The limping beaux and the faded fair,
For a talk and a festival.
They dance to music, their limbs grow fleet,
They feast with a right good cheer,
Their tiny laughter shrills high and sweet,
Each walks with his chosen dear.

But, best of all, when the dance is done,
They chat of their checkered fates,
Of all doll-doings under the sun:
Their griefs, and their missing mates,

The sudden splendors, the chance and change,
The violence and the bliss;
And they whisper: " The thing called Life is strange! "
Then they say good night, with a kiss.

In the morning, never a doll has stirred,
And daylight has dimmed their charms;
You could swear that nothing at all occurred
But the mending of legs and arms!

IV

EARLY LOVES

I MIND me of a maid with tawny hair
That grew in somber glory round her head;
And of another maid — long since she's dead —
Sunnily fair.
And oh, I loved them both when I was ten!
They, being angels, had no age like men.

Touching their hands, I trembled with delight,
Their voices blent to music in mine ear;
Together or apart, they were so dear,
By day or night,
It turned me sick with rapture, if they leant
Momently down to me with kind intent.

They dubbed me " little sweetheart, " I recall,
And with each other vied to give me joy;
For they were women grown, I but a boy,
Their humble thrall.
My love was desperate-earnest, holy and high
The passion that I nursed beneath the sky.

So, when they were betrothed, and I must know
The transiency that dooms all loves of earth,
It seemed a curious, bitter, second birth
Into man's woe.
" They're mine no more, they're mine no more, " I said,
A ten-year-old lamenting for his dead.