The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 259 : THE REASON Oh, hark the pulses of the night, The crickets hidden in the field, That be

THE REASON

Oh, hark the pulses of the night, The crickets hidden in the field, That beat out music of delight Till summoned dawn stands half revealed!

Oh, mark above the bearded corn And the green wheat and bending rye, Tuned to the earth, and calling morn, The stars vibrating in the sky!

And know, divided soul of me, Here in the meadow, sweet in speech, This perfect night could never be Were we not mated each to each.

James Oppenheim [1882-1932]

"MY OWN CAILIN DONN"

The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree, And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are caroling their glee; And the dews upon the gra.s.s are made diamonds by the sun, All to deck a path of glory for my own Cailin Donn!

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me, More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree!

More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is the coming of my true love--my own Cailin Donn!

O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green!

Let all your pennons flutter, O beech! before my queen!

Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand ye run; But my heart has pa.s.sed before ye to my own Cailin Donn.

Ring out, ring out, O linden, your merry leafy bells!

Unveil your brilliant torches, O chestnut! to the dells; Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for morn it cometh on!

Oh, the morn of all delight to me--my own Cailin Donn!

She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day; There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away; Oh, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of freedom's won, Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cailin Donn!

George Sigerson [1839-1925]

NOCTURNE

All the earth a hush of white, White with moonlight all the skies; Wonder of a winter night-- And... your eyes.

Hues no palette dares to claim Where the spoils of sunken s.h.i.+ps Leap to light in singing flame-- And... your lips.

Darkness as the shadows creep Where the embers sigh to rest; Silence of a world asleep-- And... your breast.

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-

SURRENDER

As I look back upon your first embrace I understand why from your sudden touch Angered I sprang, and struck you in the face.

You asked at once too little and too much.

But now that of my spirit you require Love's very soul that unto death endures, Crown as you will the cup of your desire-- I am all yours.

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-

"BY YON BURN SIDE"

We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side; Though the broomy knowes be green, And there we may be seen, Yet we'll meet--we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn side.

I'll lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side, Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side; There the busy prying eye, Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy, While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side.

Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side; There fancy smooths her theme, By the sweetly murmuring stream, And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side; Far frae the noisy scene, I'll through the fields alane, There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

A PASTORAL

Flower of the medlar, Crimson of the quince, I saw her at the blossom-time, And loved her ever since!

She swept the draughty pleasance, The blooms had left the trees, The whilst the birds sang canticles, In cherry symphonies.

Whiteness of the white rose, Redness of the red, She went to cut the blush-rose buds To tie at the altar-head; And some she laid in her bosom, And some around her brows, And, as she pa.s.sed, the lily-heads All becked and made their bows.

Scarlet of the poppy, Yellow of the corn, The men were at the garnering, A-shouting in the morn; I chased her to a pippin-tree,-- The waking birds all whist,-- And oh! it was the sweetest kiss That I have ever kissed.

Marjorie, mint, and violets A-drying round us set, 'Twas all done in the faience-room A-spicing marmalet; On one tile was a satyr, On one a nymph at bay, Methinks the birds will scarce be home To wake our wedding-day!

Theophile Marzials [1850-

"WHEN DEATH TO EITHER SHALL COME"

When Death to either shall come,-- I pray it be first to me,-- Be happy as ever at home, If so, as I wish, it be.

Possess thy heart, my own; And sing to thy child on thy knee, Or read to thyself alone The songs that I made for thee.

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]