| I'm not a chicken; I have seen |
| Full many a chill September, |
| And though I was a youngster then, |
| That gale I well remember; |
| The day before, my kite-string snapped, |
| And I, my kite pursuing, |
| The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;— |
| For me two storms were brewing! |
| |
| It came as quarrels sometimes do, |
| When married folks get clashing; |
| There was a heavy sigh or two, |
| Before the fire was flashing,— |
| A little stir among the clouds, |
| Before they rent asunder,— |
| A little rocking of the trees, |
| And then came on the thunder. |
| |
| Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled, |
| And how the shingles rattled! |
| And oaks were scattered on the ground, |
| As if the Titans battled; |
| And all above was in a howl, |
| And all below a clatter,— |
| The earth was like a frying-pan. |
| Or some such hissing matter. |
| |
| It chanced to be our washing-day, |
| And all our things were drying: |
| The storm came roaring through the lines, |
| And set them all a-flying; |
| I saw the shirts and petticoats |
| Go riding off like witches; |
| I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,— |
| I lost my Sunday breeches! |
| |
| I saw them straddling through the air, |
| Alas! too late to win them; |
| I saw them chase the clouds, as if |
| The devil had been in them; |
| They were my darlings and my pride, |
| My boyhood's only riches,— |
| "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,— |
| "My breeches! O my breeches!" |
| |
| That night I saw them in my dreams, |
| How changed from what I knew them! |
| The dews had steeped their faded threads, |
| The winds had whistled through them! |
| I saw the wide and ghastly rents |
| Where demon claws had torn them; |
| A hole was in their amplest part, |
| As if an imp had worn them. |
| |
| I have had many happy years |
| And tailors kind and clever, |
| But those young pantaloons have gone |
| Forever and forever! |
| And not till fate has cut the last |
| Of all my earthly stitches, |
| This aching heart shall cease to mourn |
| My loved, my long-lost breeches! |
| |
| O.W. Holmes |
| Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing, |
| Where the winds dance and spin; |
| Beyond the reach of my eager hailing, |
| Over the breakers' din; |
| Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, |
| Out where the blinding fog is drifting, |
| Out where the treacherous sand is shifting, |
| My ship is coming in. |
| |
| O, I have watched till my eyes were aching, |
| Day after weary day; |
| O, I have hoped till my heart was breaking |
| While the long nights ebbed away; |
| Could I but know where the waves had tossed her, |
| Could I but know what storms had crossed her, |
| Could I but know where the winds had lost her, |
| Out in the twilight gray! |
| |
| But though the storms her course have altered, |
| Surely the port she'll win, |
| Never my faith in my ship has faltered, |
| I know she is coming in. |
| For through the restless ways of her roaming, |
| Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, |
| Through the white crest of the billows combing, |
| My ship is coming in. |
| |
| Beating the tides where the gulls are flying, |
| Swiftly she's coming in: |
| Shallows and deeps and rocks defying, |
| Bravely she's coming in. |
| Precious the love she will bring to bless me, |
| Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me, |
| In the proud purple of kings she will dress me— |
| My ship that is coming in. |
| |
| White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming, |
| See, where my ship comes in; |
| At masthead and peak her colors streaming, |
| Proudly she's sailing in; |
| Love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering, |
| Music will welcome her glad appearing, |
| And my heart will sing at her stately nearing, |
| When my ship comes in. |
| |
| Robert Jones Burdette. |
| Laugh, and the world laughs with you, |
| Weep, and you weep alone; |
| For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, |
| But has trouble enough of its own. |
| |
| Sing, and the hills will answer, |
| Sigh, it is lost on the air; |
| The echoes bound to a joyful sound, |
| But shirk from voicing care. |
| |
| Rejoice and men will seek you; |
| Grieve, and they turn and go; |
| They want full measure of all your pleasure, |
| But they do not need your woe. |
| |
| Be glad, and your friends are many; |
| Be sad, and you lose them all, |
| There are none to decline your nectar'd wine, |
| But alone you must drink life's gall. |
| |
| Feast, and your halls are crowded; |
| Fast, and the world goes by; |
| Succeed and give, and it helps you live, |
| But no man can help you die. |
| |
| There is room in the halls of pleasure |
| For a large and lordly train, |
| But one by one we must all file on |
| Through the narrow aisle of pain. |
| |
| Ella Wheeler Wilcox. |