THE BROOK RELEASED
WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08
I'm coming, I'm coming,
The miller has lifted
The gates that have bound me;
At last I am free,
And where the grey sands
O'er my courses have drifted
My swift happy waters
Shall hurrying be.
Like hearts that unburdened
From grief come to weeping,
And smile 'mid their tears
At old sorrows past;
So my sunny waters,
The white rapids leaping,
From dark fearsome valleys
Come singing at last.
I'm coming, I'm coming,
The children shall love me;
The beeches, the willows,
The golden elm trees
That close by the village
Are drooping above me,
Shall float on my billows
Their last withered leaves.
The grey flocks shall meet me,
The meadow larks greet me,
And oft the shy new moon,
In veiled halo lace,
Through bare tangled branches,
In sad brooding shallows,
Shall trail her cloud tresses,
Shall bathe her pale face.
I'm coming, I'm coming,
O hearken, sad-hearted,
My sweet singing voices
Shall teach you by day;
And in the night's darkness
The stars gently mirrored,
All borne on my current,
Shall mark you the way.
Dark mountains may tower,
Dark valleys may lower,
But follow, sad-hearted,
Come smiling, light-hearted,
Come fare to the river;
His Hand in the forest
Has marked the true way.
Literary Monthly, 1907.
THE GARDENER
SONNET
WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08
She told me of her garden, all the flowers,
Of hallowed lilies and the glories bright,
Frail tinted cups filled with the morning's light;
The primrose drooping for the evening hours.
She spoke of hedges, hawthorns, and the powers
Of weeds and frost in April, and the blight
Of birds and children; prayed her blossoms might
Not so allure them to her paths and bowers.
And I turned silently upon my way,
And sought His untrod forests and the hills,
My free companions of no guile nor art—
Their holy strength is more than rocks and clay;
I sought the comfort loneliness instills:
Dear Christ! She spoke her own vain, selfish heart.