“So! Berry, so! Now, cherry-blow,
Keep your pink nose out of the pail!
How dull the morning is—how low
The churning vapors coil and trail!
How dim the sky, and far away!
What ails the sunshine and the day?”
Tinkle, tinkle in the pail:
“But for that preposterous tale
Nancy Mixer brought from town,
‘Tom is courting Kitty Brown,’
I’d not walked with Willie Snow,
Just to tease my Tom, you know!
“So! stand still, my thistledown!
Tom is coming thro’ the gate,
But his forehead wears a frown,
And he never was so late!
Till that vexing demon, Doubt,
Angered us, and we fell out!”
Tinkle, tinkle in the pail:
“Tom roosts on the topmost rail,
Chewing straws, and looking grim
When I choose to peep at him;
Wonder if he’s sulking still,
All about my walk with Will?
“Cherry, Berry, Lilywhite,
Hasten fieldward, every one;
All the heavens are growing bright,
And the milking time is done;
I will speak to him, and see
If his lordship answers me:
‘Tom!’ He tumbles off the rail,
Stoops to lift the brimming pail;
With a mutual pleading glance
Lip meets lip—mayhap by chance—
And—but need I whisper why?—
Tom is happy—and so am I!”
[The Singer’s Song]
O weary heart of mine,
Keep still, and make no sign!
The world hath learned a newer joy—
A sweeter song than thine!
Tho’ all the brooks of June
Should lilt and pipe in tune.
The music by and by would cloy—
The world forgets so soon!
So thou mayest put away
Thy little broken lay;
Perhaps some wistful, loving soul
May take it up some day—
Take up the broken thread,
Dear heart, when thou art dead,
And weave into diviner song
The things thou wouldst have said!
Rest thou, and make no sign,
The world, O, heart of mine,
Is listening for the hand that smites
A grander chord than thine!
The loftier strains that teach
Great truths beyond thy reach;
Whose far faint echo they have heard
In thy poor stammering speech.
Thy little broken bars,
That wailing discord mars,
To vast triumphal harmonies
Shall swell beyond the stars.
So rest thee, heart, and cease;
Awhile, in glad release,
Keep silence here, with God, amid
The lilies of His peace.
[Aunt Patty’s Thanksgiving.]
Transcriber’s note: The original text titled this poem here as “Aunt Patty’s Thanksgiving” and in the table of contents as “Aunt Betty’s Thanksgiving.” This discrepancy is intentionally preserved.