Heart Songs - Jean Blewett

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To lay its bloom on the dead river’s lips, that have kissed them all so oft,

      But look, a ladder is spanning the space twixt earth and the sky beyond,

       A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace—the strong, the subtle, the fond!

      SPRING, with the warmth in her footsteps light, and the breeze and the fragrant breath,

       Is coming to press her radiant face to that which is cold in death.

      SPRING, with a mantle made of the gold held close in a sunbeam’s heart,

       Thrown over her shoulders, bonnie and bare—see the sap in the great trees start,

      Where the hem of this flowing garment trails, see the glow, the color bright,

       A-stirring and spreading of something fair—the dawn is chasing the night!

      SPRING, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein,

       The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again.

      SPRING, with the hyacinths filling her cap, and the violet seeds in her hair,

       With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;

      SPRING, with its daffodils at her feet, and pansies a-bloom in her eyes,

       SPRING, with enough of the God in herself to make the dead to arise!

      For see, as she bends o’er the coffin deep—the frozen valley and hill—

       The dead river stirs, Ah, that ling’ring kiss is making its heart to thrill!

      And then as she closer, and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud,

       Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!

      The hill where she rested is all a-bloom—the wood is green as of old,

       And ’wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.

       Table of Contents

      THERE came a dash of snow last night,

       An’ ’fore I went to bed,

       I somehow got to thinkin’ ’bout

       That old place, Kettletread.

       I’m silly ’bout that spot of earth,

       Though why, I can’t surmise,

       For it has got me in more scrapes

       And made me tell more lies,

       When me, an’ you,

       An’ Taylor’s boys,

       Were always in the spill,

       A stealin’ off

       From work to go

       A-coastin’ down that hill.

      Do you rec’lect how we used to stand

       An’ holler out like sin,

       “Now one must pass that walnut stump

       Afore the rest chips in?”

       An’ if one tumbled in the snow, we only stopped to laugh,

       An’ all the help we ever gave was aggravatin’ chaff.

      Zip! Zip! the frost and snow

       A pickin’ at our face,

       The wind just howlin’ ’cause it knowed

       ’Twas beat fair in the race!

      Good gracious! Jim, if I could stand, a-lookin’ down that hill,

       A-watchin’ you boys tumblin’ off an’ laughin’ at the spill;

       An’ then grab up my Noah’s Ark, so clumsy and so wide,

       An’ pull the rope, an’ hold her back, there let her go kerslide—

      An’ see that glazy piece of ice

       A-spannin’ that old crick,

       An’ know I couldn’t stop this side

       If ’twas to save my neck—

      Now don’t you get excited, Jim, ’cause I’m a-talkin’ so,

       That would be awful foolish—Gosh! just hear that north wind blow.

       Table of Contents

      THE City, girded by the mountain strong,

       Still held the gold of sunset on its breast,

       When Ammiel, whose steps had journeyed long,

       Stood at the gate with weariness opprest.

       One came and stood beside him, called him son,

       Asked him the reason of his heavy air,

       And why it was that, now the day was done,

       He entered not into the city fair?

      Answered he, “Master, I did come to find

       A man called Jesus; it is said He steals

       The darkness from the eyeballs of the blind,

       The fever from the veins—Ay, even heals

       That wasting thing called sickness of the heart.

       His voice they say doth make the lame to leap,

       The evil, tearing spirits to depart.”

      From Nain there comes a tale

       Doth make me weep,

       Of one a widow walking by the bier

       Of her dead son, and walking there alone,

       And murmuring, so that all who chose might hear,

       “A widow and he was my only one!”

       This Jesus, meeting her did not pass by,

       But stopped beside the mourner for a space,

       A wondrous light they say shone in His eye,

       A wondrous tenderness upon His face;

       And He did speak unto the dead, “Young man,

       I say arise”—these tears of mine will start—

       The youth arose, straight to his mother ran,

       Who wept for joy and clasped him to her heart.

      Within me, Master,

       Such a longing grew

       To look on Him, perchance to speak His name,

       I started while the world was wet with dew,

       A gift for Him—Ah, I have been to blame,

       For when a beggar held a lean hand out for aid,

       I laid in it, being moved, a goodly share

       Of this same gift, and then a little maid

       Lisped she was hungry, in her eyes a prayer,

       I gave her all the fruit I plucked for Him, His oil I gave to one who moaned with pain, His jar of wine to one whose sight waxed dim— O, Master, I have journeyed here in vain!

      Within the city Jesus walks the street,

       Or bides with friends, or in the temple stands,

       But shamed am I the Nazarene to meet,

       Seeing

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