New Dreams for Old

Is there no voice in the world to come crying,

“New dreams for old!  New for old!”

Many have long in my heart been dying,

Faded, weary, and cold.

All of them, all, would I give for a new one.

Is there no seeker of dreams that were?

Nor would I ask if the new were a true one;

Only for new dreams!  New for old!

For I am here, half-way of my journey,

Here with the old!  All so old!

And the best heart with death is at tourney

If naught new it is told.

Will there no voice, then, come, or a vision,

Come with the beauty that ever blows

Out of the lands that are called Elysian?

I must have new dreams!  New for old!

Cale Young Rice[1] in “The Century”[2]

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[1] Cale Young Rice was an American poet and dramatist. He was born in 1872 in Dixon, Kentucky, where his birthplace is designated by Kentucky State Historical Marker 1508. Rice was the son of Laban Marchbanks Rice, a Confederate veteran and tobacco merchant, and his wife Martha Lacy. He was a younger brother of Laban Lacy Rice, a noted educator, who later collected and published Rice’s works in a single volume. Rice grew up in Evansville, Indiana and Louisville, Kentucky. He was educated at Cumberland University and at Harvard (A.B., 1895; A.M., 1896). In a 1906 New York Times review of Plays and Lyrics: The Collected Poems of Cale Young Rice, Jessie B. Rittenhouse opined that Rice’s dramatic works outshone his poetry “though occasional lyrics…evidenced a delicate touch.”

Rice married the popular author Alice Hegan (see footnote 187); they worked together on several books. They had no children. In 1942 Alice died. The following year, overwhelmed with sorrow at her loss, Rice took his own life at his home in Louisville.  (Source: Wikipedia)

[2] The Century Magazine began publication in 1881, as a successor to Scribner’s Monthly Magazine.  It ceased publication in 1930.  The image adjacent is of the cover of the August 1903 issue.

The Father

Ever his eyes are fixed on a glorious sight,

A boy is leading, calls his men to come on;

Light as a deer he leaps, slender and bright,

Up the hill, irresistible—it is won.

Ever he sees the boy against the sky,

A slender Victory, light on his golden head

Hardly the down on his lip, he hath leaped so high

His name is writ among the undying Dead.

Captain at two-and-twenty!  Much was to come.

Great things yet to be done, heights to be scaled.

Love and comradeship, all fruition of bloom

He has attained to the highest, not he who failed.

The mother weeps her boy, who comes not again,

The father sees him splendid and laughing still,

Leaping like a young deer, calling men.

The glory dazzles!  The boy is keeping the hill!

- Katharine Tynan[1]

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[1] Katharine Tynan was an Irish-born writer, known mainly for her novels and poetry. She was born in 1861 into a large farming family in Clondalkin, County Dublin, and educated at a convent school in Drogheda. Her poems were first published in 1878. She went on to play a major part in Dublin literary circles. For a while, Tynan was a close associate of William Butler Yeats (who may have proposed marriage and been rejected, around 1885), and later a correspondent of Francis Ledwidge.

In 1898, Tynan married writer and barrister Henry Albert Hinkson and moved to England. They had three children; one, Pamela Hinkson, would become a writer in her own right. In 1914, the family moved to Claremorris, County Mayo, in Ireland, where her husband had been made a magistrate. He died in 1919. Tynan is said to have written over 100 novels; there were some unsurprising comments about a lack of self-criticism in her output. Her Collected Poems appeared in 1930; she also wrote five autobiographical volumes. Tynan died in Wimbledon, London, in 1931 at the age of 70.  (Source: Wikipedia)

Missing

Oh, who can measure the lonely nights or the long and dreary days,

The weary wait, and the hope deferred that the sight of that word conveys,

How eager you read each printed page, and list for Postie’s ring,

For something to ease the aching heart, in tidings that he may bring.

Perhaps he is lying too ill to write, or letters have gone astray,

There are so many things can happen now; your reason from day to day.

What words can comfort the lonely heart as the days and weeks go by,

And life is dark with a nameless dread and courage and hope must die.

Oh the lonely ones who sit and wait for the tidings that never come,

Though the tearful eyes the sorrows speak, yet the trembling lips are dumb.

And each one must their burden bear while the river of life doth flow,

But the aching void in a broken heart there’s no one but God can know.

Beth

Lad of My Heart

Lad of my Heart—for you I am lonely,

And drear are the hills tho they say they are green.

‘Tis a sad lass I am with loving you only,

Will you never come back to your Irish colleen?

Lad of my Heart—that day I remember,

When out of the town with the soldiers away,

You marched to the war in the early September,

And left me to fight, while I left you to pray.

Lad of my Heart—do you hear my love calling?

You that’s been gone this many a day.

Lad of my love—do you see my tears falling?

Waiting for you in the dusk of the May.

Lad of my Heart—I have your last letter,

Ever I’ll keep it held close to my breast;

For the pain deep within it seems to make better,

And the stain that’s upon it my lips oft have pressed.

Lad of my Heart—I still hear you speaking,

“Molly Aroon, shure now try to be brave.”

And fondly, with love, your lips mine were seeking,

Lad of my Heart, Oh where is your grave?

Somewhere in France—lad of mine, you are lying

And never again will we tryst on the sod;

But we’ll meet in the dawn, where there’s no more of sighing,

Lad of my Heart, for I know you’re with God.

-       T. A. Browne[1]

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[1] Born in London in 1826, Thomas Alexander Browne was raised in Sydney, Australia. His father, an East India Company ship captain, settled his family there after delivering a load of convicts. Thomas attended Sydney College, traveled, and became a gentleman. He spent 25 years as a squatter, and about the same amount of time as a government official—including police magistrate, goldfields commissioner, and justice of the peace—but during all this time he also wrote. His mother, he maintained, was his first and most influential critic. Thomas often used the pen-name Rolf Boldrewood. In 1888 he produced his most popular work, the novel Robbery under Arms. He died in 1915, so the above poem, obviously dealing with the Great War, may have been one of his last.  (Source: Wikipedia)

Dark Days

Yes, I know the sun is shining

Far behind the clouds so grey,

But I cannot see a corner

To let out a single ray.

How can you expect contentment

From us mortals here below,

If we’re living in the shadows

When we need the sunlight so?

If you had a dearly loved one

Living far across the main,

And your heart was always aching

Just to see them once again.

Would it ease the weary longing

Would your heart be satisfied;

If between you and your dearest,

Rolled a never ending tide.

Or if you of thirst were dying

Out upon a desert drear,

And you thought you heard the music

Of a brooklet singing near.

Would it ease the dreadful longing

Would it help your thirst allay,

If the brook so sweetly singing

Were a thousand miles away.

Yes, a pessimist you’ll call me,

And I don’t deny you’re right,

But I cannot bask in sunshine

When it’s hidden out of sight

Beth

Benny, Come Back to the Farm

By Thomas P. Westendorf[1]

Away from the house of your childhood you’ve gone,

To join in the worlds’ busy throng.

And my heart aches to think that perhaps you’ll be borne

Into paths that are sinful and wrong.

I miss you, my boy, and I want you to come

Away from all danger and harm.

My prayer is to-night, as I silently kneel,

O Benny, come back to the farm.

Chorus

O Benny, my boy!  I am praying for you,

May God keep you safe from all harm;

And bring you again to your mother so true.

Dear Benny, come back to the farm.

I think of you now as you sat on my knee,

The pride of a fond mothers’ heart;

And I listen again to your prattle and glee,

But oh, how the bitter tears start;

To know that the hopes that I cherished so bright

Are losing their power to charm.

And so as I weep I am pleading to-night,

Dear Benny, come back to the farm.

Chorus

“Tis the voice of the tempter that bids you remain

‘Mid pleasures that soon will destroy;

The end of your course is but sorrow and pain—

Then follow no longer, my boy.

If you would return, my heart would grow light,

I’d then have no cause for alarm;

Oh, list to a poor mother pleading to-night,

Dear Benny, come back to the farm.

Chorus

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[1] Thomas Paine Westendorf was born in 1848 and died in 1923. He was an American composer of popular music during the 1870s and 1880s. He was prolific, writing over 300 vocal and nearly as many instrumental pieces. His best-known song is I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen. The portrait of Westendorf at left hangs in the courthouse of Carolina County, Virginia. (Source: Getting Kathleen Home Again, by Richard S. Hill)

Bereft

Though I know that from sorrow and pain and care,

You are safe in that wonderful land,

Yet I long for the sound of your loving voice,

And the clasp of your kindly hand.

For life seems now like a lonely road

So weary and long and drear,

That I fear to travel the path alone

Dear heart, when you are not near.

The summer will come with birds and bees,

And flowers of every hue,

The sun will shine with a golden glow,

Just as it used to do.

The river sings where the violets grow

With the same sweet song of old,

The sunlight kisses each dancing wave

With showers of molten gold.

But a shadow has fallen across the sky,

And my heart cries out for you,

The sweets of summer have fled away,

It’s winter the whole year through.

Beth

To a Friend in Sorrow

Dear friend I know that o’er your path

That once was fair and bright

A shadow has fallen dark and deep

And shut out the golden light.

I know that you gaze on a pictured face

Through eyes that are dim with tears,

That the glowing hopes that were rosy hued

Are gone from the coming years.

The birds still warble the same sweet notes

And the sky is just as blue;

The flowers till shed the same perfume

But they’re not as sweet to you.

I know that you gaze on a pictured face

And the nights are long and drear;

That you long for the old familiar step,

And the loving voice to hear.

Ah, Life is never the same again

And my heart is sore for you;

The cup is bitter my lips have pressed

And the shadows are ‘round me too.

But we know that over the swelling tide

And safe in his tender care,

Away from sorrow, and care, and fret,

Our loved ones await us there.

And the sorrows we suffer here below

And the cords of love that’s riven

Is only the Father’s way to guide

Our wandering steps to Heaven.

-       Beth

Bluebells

Oh Bluebells, dainty bluebells,

On slender stems aquiver,

Do you see your fair reflection

In the ripples of the river;

Oh bluebells, gently swaying,

Is it but a year ago

We sat upon the mossy bank,

And watched the river flow.

The ripples danced and sparkled

In the sunlight’s golden rays,

And birds gave of their sweetest,

In an ecstasy of praise;

The summer wind blew softly,

Of time we took no heed;

When we picked the dainty bluebells,

And life was sweet indeed.

The bluebells sway and quiver,

On every passing breeze,

And a burst of joyous music

Comes from the leafy trees;

But the waters of the river,

That flows onward to the sea,

Like the years that are gone forever,

Can come back no more to me.

What We Might Have Said

We live beside each other day by day

And speak of myriad things, but seldom say

The full sweet word that lies within our reach

Beneath the common ground of common speech;

Then out of sight and out of reach they go,

These dear, familiar friends that loved us so;

And, sitting in the shadows they have left,

Alone with loneliness and sore bereft,

We think with vain regret of some kind word

That once we might have said and they have heard.[1]

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[1] These lines were written by Nora Perry (1841-96).  She was an American poet, journalist, and writer of juvenile stories, and for some years Boston correspondent of the Chicago Tribune. She was born in Dudley, Mass. Her verse is collected in After the Ball (1875), Her Lover’s Friend (1879), New Songs and Ballads (1886), and Legends and Lyrics (1890). Her fiction, chiefly juvenile, includes The Tragedy of the Unexpected (1880), stories; For a Woman (1885), a novel; A Book of Love Stories (1881); A Flock of Girls and their Friends (1887); The New Year’s Call (1903); and many other volumes. These are briskly told and, like her verses, appeal to the sentiment of the broader reading public.

In the Twilight

Gone are the tints of gold and red

One star comes out in the west,

I hear the twitter of mother birds,

Hushing their young to rest.

A night-moth flutters against the pane,

And a bat flits noiselessly by.

I see a spark where a glowworm shines,

Where the deeper shadows lie.

Into the depths of the arch above,

I gaze with tear filled eyes;

And wonder if there is a little chink

In the gates of Paradise?

Just a little rift where my voice will reach,

When I’m lonely and call for you,

Surely the cry from an aching heart

Will pierce through the arch of blue.

Surely you know though you answer not,

And no message comes to me,

And I often fancy your presence near

Though your form I cannot see.

The shadows deepen, I sit alone,

And watch and wait in vain;

The love that gilded the passing years,

Will never come back again.

-       Beth

Solace

I’m lonely, oh so lonely 

For a message just to say

You still are thinking of me,

Though so very far away;

And my heart is aching, aching

When I gaze into the blue,

For in every fret and trouble,

My thoughts still turn to you.

The autumn winds are sighing,

As the leaves of gold and red

Come fluttering down about us,

And we know that summer’s dead.

The short sweet summer’s vanished,

With its pleasure and its pain,

And winter storms will chill us,

Ere the flowers bloom again.

And so along life’s pathway,

We pluck the fairest flowers,

And revel in their sweetness,

Nor heed the passing hours.

Then comes a storm of sorrow,

And shadows dark and grey;

Not all of life’s allurements

Can chase the gloom away.

But a door is always waiting,

Beyond this world of sin,

And we sometimes catch a glimmer

Of the wondrous light within.

Some day the door will open,

Far across the Great Divide,

And we’ll meet the dear ones waiting

Safe on the other side.

Oh then what joy, what rapture,

When the shadows fade away,

And we leave the gloom and darkness,

For a land of perfect day.

When our barque is safely anchored

Beyond the rolling tide,

Never more to breast the billows,

Then, we will be satisfied.

Beth

Torrents

I know that if our lives could meet 

Like torrents in a sudden tide,

Our souls should send their shining sheet

Of waters far and wide.

But ah! my dear, the springs of mine

Have never yet begun to flow—

And yours, that were so full and fine

Ran dry so long ago!

Mild is the Parting Year

Mild is the parting year, and sweet 

The odour of the falling spray;

Life passes on more rudely fleet,

And balmless is its closing day.

I wait its close, I court its gloom,

But mourn that never must there fall

Or on my breast or on my tomb,

The tear that would have soothed it all.

-       Landor[1]

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[1] Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864) was a poet, classicist and essayist. He was born at Ipsley Court, Warwick, the son of a physician. He went to Rugby School then on to Trinity College, Oxford, but was sent down in 1794. The following year he published his first collection, Poems (1795). He lived abroad from 1814, not returning to England until 1835. His strong views and quick temper led him into many disputes and following a potential law suit he spent the remainder of his life, from 1858, on the continent, particularly Florence. He is now remembered more for his prose than his poetry, his best known work being Imaginary conversations of literary men and statesmen (1824-1829), a series of dramatic dialogues. A commemorative plaque to the author is at the church at Bishop's Tachbrook, Warwickshire. (Source: literaryheritage.org.uk)

The Birds

Birds of Peace and Hope and Love

Come fluttering earthward from above,

To settle on life’s window-sills,

And ease our loads of earthly ills;

But we, in traffic’s rush and din

Too deep engaged to let them in,

With deadened heart and sense plod on,
Nor know our loss till they are gone.[1]

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[1] This is actually the second stanza of The Sparrow by Paul Laurence Dunbar. Paul Laurence Dunbar was born in 1872 to Matilda and Joshua Dunbar. His mother was a former slave; his father had escaped slavery and served in the Union Army. The family was poor, and when Paul was only two, his father left home. Matilda supported her children by working in Dayton as a washerwoman. One of the families she worked for was the family of Orville and Wilbur Wright, with whom her son attended Dayton’s Central High School. Matilda taught her children a love of songs and storytelling, and encouraged them to read. Inspired by his mother, Paul began reciting and writing poetry at age six.

Although Dunbar was the only African-American in his class at high school, he rose to great heights there. He was a member of the debating society, editor of the school paper and president of the literary society. He also wrote for Dayton community newspapers. Dunbar worked as an elevator operator in Dayton’s Callahan Building until he established himself locally and nationally as a writer. He published an African-American newsletter in Dayton, the Dayton Tattler, with help from the Wright brothers.

Dunbar began to gain regional attention, and in 1892 published Oak and Ivy, his first collection of poems. Though it was received well locally, he still had to work as an elevator operator to help pay off his debt to his publisher. He sold his book for a dollar to people who rode the elevator. As more people came in contact with his work, however, his reputation spread. In 1893, he was invited to recite at the World’s Fair. He moved to Toledo, Ohio, in 1895, with help from attorney Charles A. Thatcher and psychiatrist Henry A. Tobey. Both were supporters; they arranged for recitals at local libraries and literary gatherings. They also funded publication of his second collection, Majors and Minors—the book that propelled him to national fame. In 1897, Dunbar traveled to England to recite his works on the London literary circuit.

Home from England, Dunbar married Alice Ruth Moore, a young writer and teacher who had a master’s degree from Cornell University. He took a job at the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. He found the work tiresome, however, and worked there for only a year before quitting to write and recite full time. In 1902, He and Alice separated. Depression set in, complicated by a worsening case of tuberculosis. Dunbar became dependent on alcohol. He continued to write, however. He ultimately produced 12 books of poetry, four books of short stories, a play and five novels. His work appeared numerous magazines and journals. Dunbar returned to his mother in Dayton in 1904. There he eventually succumbed to tuberculosis, dying in 1906.  (Source: dunbarsite.org)

After Long Years

They told me then that time would heal my heart—

They did not know!

They said the years would help me to forget—

It is not so!

I count the cruel years gone by since you

Left me to mourn,

Each one so full of weary days and hours

That must be born!

And oh, the long long nights, so blessed—or cursed—

With dreams of you,

Dreams that you are not dead—and then, the dawn

That proves it true!

Yes, I have seen the seasons come and go

Each passing year;

Have seen the others at the sports you loved—

And you not here!

The books you loved are round me everywhere—

But you are gone!

And friends come in and out—but when they go,

I am alone!

And only echoes in the empty house,

Where once your voice

Was wont to call—and calling, made

My heart rejoice!

I have lived on—though it still beats, my heart

Has not been cured!

I have not conquered—I have not succumbed—

I have endured!

Oh, they may tell you time will heal the heart—

It is not so!

Ah, let them say the years make one forget—

They do not know!

            Roselle Mercier Montgomery[1] in The Boston Transcript

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[1] These words are on a historical marker located at the corner of Alexander and Commerce Streets in Crawfordville, Georgia:

The renowned Georgia poetess, Roselle Mercier Montgomery, daughter of Col. William Nathaniel and Emma Smith Mercier, was born on this site in 1874. Educated at Washington Female Seminary and Mary Baldwin Seminary, she married distinguished N. Y. lawyer J. Seymour Montgomery and lived in Conn. Her early death in 1933 cut short an outstanding career. Her famous poem Evening on a Village Street was written about this corner in Crawfordsville. Considered Georgia’s best and one of America’s finest poetesses, she is best known for her Ulysses Returns and Helen, Middle-Aged.

The Evening Train

This poem is not mounted on a page of the book, but was inserted between pages 64 and 65.

By Anne Campbell[1]

When the evening train comes in 

To that little country town,

There are ten or more by the depot door,

And the folks walk up and down.

The bus to the hotel

Has a passenger again

The town awakes and a stroll it takes

To wait for the evening train.

When the evening train comes in

To that village on the hill,

They walk in twos to get the news

For there’s mail for Jack and Jill.

The postoffice you’ll find

On a street that still called Main,

And the folks don’t fail to get the mail

That comes on the evening train!

When the evening train comes in

And briefly stops to throw

The mailbag down to that country town

That once I used to know,

There’s a letter lying there

To the folks who wait in vain

For a wanderer who longs once more

To wait for the evening train.

            - [unclear] 1924[2]

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[1] Anne Campbell Stark was born in 1889 in rural Michigan. She married George Stark, an editor of The Detroit News. In 1922, George’s paper began looking for a second staff poet, and Anne jumped at the chance. She called her homely verse “everyday poetry.” It was an apt description in more ways than one; she published a poem every weekday for decades. Her last contribution came in 1984.

[2] Since this clipping was not attached to a page, the 1924 date sheds no light on the timeline of Clare’s book, except to show that perhaps by 1924 she had stopped gluing articles onto pages

“We Are So Few!”

The long, blest chain is broken—

So many links have softly dropped from sight;

So many names are now in sadness spoken—

Names once so bright.

“We are so few!”

We count them on our fingers.

One, two, a half dozen left to cheer;

And then in faltering tones our converse lingers

On those, as dear.

“We are so few!”

And kisses seem more holy,

And partings touch the soul to deeper woe;

Stern hearts grow gentle; pride becometh lowly,

When we say so!

“We are so few!”

And eyes seek signs of failing;

Age groweth dark when years take one by one!

Death fills the air.  A sense of dull bewailing

Blots out the sun.

But hark!  It seems to us an angel speaketh;

“We are so many!”  Aye, so many, there!

A dawn upon the grey horizon breaketh—

A day most fair.

We count them!  Not by fingers, but by heart-beats,

By thrills of joy and hope, by wings of faith!

The chain is drawn together—softly parts—meets—

This is not death!

They keep our places for us.  Some day gladly

Shall fall on us God’s fresh, immortal dew;

In heaven we nevermore can murmur sadly,

“We are so few!”

Cora Linn Daniels[1]

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[1] Cora Linn Morrison Daniels was born in Lowell, Massachusetts in 1852. She was educated in the grammar school of Malden in that state. She studied under a private tutor for two years, and then went to Delacove Institute, near Philadelphia. She returned to her home state and finished her education at Dean Academy in Franklin, and upon graduating married Joseph H. Daniels of that town. Cora published her first poem in 1874, then went to work as a newspaper writer at the Golden Rule in Boston. Next she became the New York correspondent for the Hartford, Connecticut Daily Times, with a special emphasis on dramatic and literary criticism. 

Cora seems to have had a fascination for the mystical; her first novel, Sardia (1891) featured a heroine delivered from the influence of a female vampire. She published articles in The Metaphysical Magazine. Her favorite work, What Is to Be (1893) was subtitled Psychical Philosophy. In 1903, she and C. M. Stevens published the Encyclopedia of Superstitions, Folklore, and the Occult Sciences of the World. She was a member of the American Folklore Society, and a founding member of the Theosophical Society.  (Source: Who’s Who in America (1903-05)