Results for ‘POEMS’
[Welland Tribune September 1905]
A fair young maiden chose to wed
A man both bent and old;
She did not love his silver hairs,
But loved his yellow gold.
But soon of silks and jewels tired,
And pining to be free,
She wept in silence all day long
Above her ‘broidery.
She left her necklace and rings
Beside her bridal gown,
But took a bag of heavy coin
To weigh her body down.
The moon was shining on the lake,
All black and still it spread–
With scarce a ripple in the reeds
It closed above her head.
But when the summer came again,
From oozy depths below,
Upon a cold and coiling stem
Arose a bud of snow.
Like waxen fingers reaching up
It opened and behold!
Revealed the lily’s creamy heart
Half full of gleaming gold.
–Minna Irving in September Lippincott’s
[Welland Tribune September 8, 1905]
In ancient days we paid our cash
For anything that we might need,
That anyone was rather rash
To buy on credit was agreed.
Who got what he required “on tick.”
The cautious held him under ban,
But now at that we never stick–
It’s all on the instalment plan.
Suburban residences neat
And modern, anyone can get
And have them fitted out complete
From kitchenware to parlor set,
A small deposit’s all required
From any well-conducted man,
So go and pick the home desired–
It’s yours, on the instalment plan.
A diamond engagement ring,
Or knives and forks of triple plate,
A suit of clothes—or anything,
You’ll own them—at some future date,
All that the heart of man can crave
Within his life’s allotted span.
A cradle or a cosy grave,
We buy on the instalment plan.
–Chicago News
[Welland Tribune July 7, 1905]
What wonder that the poets of this prosy age regret
That themes for making posey are now so hard to get.
Those pleasant rural pictures which for years employed the pen
Of poets have been crowded out to never come again.
The weary plowman never ore shall plod his weary way.
He rides a sulky-like affair-a jockey trim and gay.
The sower scattering the seeds afield no more is seen,
For that, like all other work, is done by a machine.
The Scythe the mower used to swing is rusting in the shed.
A hired man now whacks the mules that do the work instead,,
The merry cradlers in the wheat we can no more discern,
The job they had they yielded to a patent right concern.
The joly thrasher, with his flail, upon the old barn floor-
He, too has left the country, for his usefulness is o’er.
With others he was pushed aside and forced to clear the way
For mechanism, dull and dry, that rules the land today.
Since nearly every task is done by steam or horse,
Toil, as a poet’s these, has grown too practical of course.
Wherever we may turn there’s nought but mechanism seen.
And even poetry like this is made by a machine.
-Chicago Mail.
Herbert McBean Johnston
December Canada Monthly
[The Welland Telegraph, 3 December 1912] 
Wake up! Wake up!
I say, wee tad.
Drop your crib and tell your dad
Who came last night
With his reindeer.
Do you think Santa Claus was here?
Run to the hearth
In your bare feet,
Tell me, who left those candies sweet
And that great orange,
Round and fat;
Tell me-did Santa Claus do that?
The Noah’s Ark.
Those lettered blocks,
The timid bunny-see, he walks
When you just press
The rubber ball.
And whence, I wonder, came that doll?
Who brought that engine
And that drum?
And that gay top- my, hear it hum!
Who weighted down
Beneath his pack,
Found our home lay right on his track?
That stocking packed,
Those wonders bright-
What good old Saint was here last night
To leave his treasure
Trove so rare?
No Santa Claus! Ah who would dare?
What! Shatter faith
And bare the truth!
Would you? I’d not do that forscoth!
No! Santa paused
Here on his way
To help make Christmas “Children’s Day!”
Mrs J.B. Shrigley
[Riverside, Dorset, Muskoka - Sept, 18th, 1905]
Fifty years since we were wedded,
Fifty changeful, checkered years;
Years of sunshine and of shadows,
Years of gladness and of tears.
Years that oft seemed full of promise–
Bright as rainbow-tinted skies,–
But, too oft. The mists would gather
And along our pathway rise.
Well, indeed, do I remember
How my young heart thrilled with pain,
When, awakened by the patt’ring
Of a chill September rain.
When my bridal morn was clouded,
Of all mornings of the year,
Filling me with dark forebodings,
Filling me with nameless fear.
And I wondered, sadly wondered,
If it could a forecast be,
If the years would thus be clouded,
Filled with cares for you and me.
But my fears were all forgotten
E’er the closing of the day,
For the rain had ceased its falling
And the clouds had rolled away
Still, it seemed a fitting emblem,
Of the years that were to come,
Of the shadows that have fallen
Dark’ning oft our hearts and home.
But today we’ve reached the milestone
On life’s broad, uneven way,
Reached the goal so few attain to,
Reached our golden wedding day.
And new friends, and grownup children,
Loving words and gifts bestow,
Still we miss the oldtime faces,
Miss the friends of long ago.
Miss the fair, young smiling faces,
With their wishes, kind and gay,
As they fondly pressed about us
Fifty years ago today.
Ella Higginson in Woman’s Home Companion
[Welland Telegraph April 1900]
Long had we pleasant comrades been
And loved each other well,
Yet never had a traitor glance
The secret dared to tell.
And when that first sweet night we stood–
That rose sweet night in June–
Alone and watched the herald clouds
Outride the languid moon.
Yes, even then we did not guess,
But stood entranced, apart,
Until the silence suddenly
Beat with God’s mighty heart.
And then—we know not how it was–
We trembled, each to each,
And kissed, **** and all our pulses thrilled
Too holily for speech.
James Daly [Welland Tribune October 29, 1931]
My friends the leaves, who used to entertain me
On summer afternoons with idle chatter,
Are dropping off in ways that shock and pain me.
I wonder what’s the matter.
My friends the birds are quietly withdrawing;
The meadowlarks are gone from fence and stubble;
Even the cows are gone; I liked their chatter,
I wonder what’s the matter.
My friend the sun is here, but altered slightly;
He acts more coolly than he had been doing;
He seems more distant and he smiles less brightly
I wonder what’s the matter.
Fay Inchawn [Welland Tribune October 29, 1931]
One step too far, this way, or that;
A sleepless night;
A headache, oh, some extra cleaning;
A trivial worry, overleaning
A fancied slight;
Such little things as these are fret and tear
The fragile casket that my soul must wear,
Yes; progress in the life of faith is slow.
This makes me wonder why
My body is so easily laid by, why.
When the will seems resolute and straight
Should nerves respond to temper so?
Why do I wish to say the things I hate?
How should wet footmarks or a rug awry
Disturb my peace and put me out of tune?
I marvel that I am removed so soon.
Harry Van Dyke [Welland Tribune October 13, 1905]
Not to the swift. The race;
Not to the strong, the fight;
Not to the righteous, perfect grace;
Nor to the wise, the light.
But often faltering feet
Come surest to the goal;
And they who walk in the darkness meet
The sunrise of the soul.
A thousand times by night
The Syrian souls hosts have died;
A thousand times the vanquished righteous
Hath risen glorified.
The truth the wise men sought
Was spoken by a child;
The alabaster box was brought
In trembling hands defiled.
Not from my torch, the gleam,
But from my stars above;
Not from my heart life’s crystal stream,
But from the depths of love.
Chicago News [People’s Press January 19, 1909]
It said so on the sign,
But still you felt a doubt
About it, and, in fine,
You thought you’d find it out.
It didn’t help you much,
But still your heart was set
To put it to the touch–
Of course, the paint was wet.
You’ll find such signs, my friend,
Along this life’s highway,
The men who know intend
To warn by that display,
But we, of course, are bound
Experience to get,
Although we’ve always found
The paint we touched was wet.
My boy, control the itch
To prove—be not beguiled
Who handles paint—or pitch–
Is sure to be defiled.
At warnings never scoff
And then you’ll not regret
You kept your fingers off
Believe the paint is wet.
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