Katydid’s Poem

Katydid.

Katydid’s Poems

WITH A LETTER BY
Jno. Aug. Williams.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by
MRS. J. I. McKINNEY (“KATYDID”)
In the Office of the Librarian at Washington.

Printed by the Courier-Journal Job Printing Company.

Dedicated
TO
J. I. McKINNEY.

To him whose every word is one of praise,

Who loves to linger where my thoughts have been,

And who delights in all my rhyming ways,

I offer first these efforts of my pen.

Letter to Katydid.

Dear Katydid:

I am more pleased with your lines than when I first read them; they are intensely womanly, natural, musical and sweet—they are absolutely free from affectation, only the restraint of rhyme and measure seem to deprive your muse of perfect freedom and grace. There is also a delicacy of thought and fancy, and of purity of sentiment that pervades the whole like the sweetest perfume.

No one can listen to your “Chirpings” and feel like touching the bough from which you sing with a rude, critical hand; he would rather listen through the live-long night to the end of your song.

I remember well your first attempt at rhyme while a girl here at school; even then, there was a pleasing promise of a beautiful and useful pen; and I am glad that you have found time and opportunity to improve your early gift. I am glad, too, that you have been persuaded to give some of your sweet little poems to the press; the tender, the true, and the pure of heart will read them with delight.

Affectionately your friend,

Jno. Aug. Williams

Daughter’s College,

Harrodsburg, Ky.

CONTENTS

KATYDID’S POEMS.

To a Katydid.

LITTLE friend among the tree-tops,

Chanting low your vesper hymns,

Never tiring,

Me inspiring,

Seated ’neath the swaying limbs,

Do you know your plaintive calling,

When the summer dew is falling,

Echoes sweeter through my brain

Than any soft, harmonic strain?

Others call you an intruder,

Say discordant notes you know;

Or that sadness,

More than gladness,

From your little heart doth flow;

And that you awake from sleeping

Thoughts in quiet they were keeping,

Faithless love, or ill-laid schemes,

Hopes unanchored—broken dreams.

No such phantoms to my vision

Doth your lullaby impart,

But sweet faces,

No tear traces,

Smile as joyous in my heart,

As when first at mother’s knee

Learned I your sweet mystery.

I defend you with my praises,

For your song my soul upraises.

Do you wonder that at twilight

Always by my cottage door

I am seated?

You’ve repeated

Oft’ner still those tunes of yore;

And I love them, love your scanning

And your noisy tree-top planning;

Though you struggle with a rhyme,

In due season comes the chime.

Oft I fancy when your neighbors,

In some secret thicket hid,

Are debating,

Underrating

What that little maiden did,

That above their clam’rous singing

I can hear your accents ringing,

Like a voice that must defend

From abuse some time-loved friend.

Though the nightingale and swallow

Through the poet’s measures sing,

No reflection

Of dejection

Petrifies or palls your wing.

In the calm and holy moonlight,

On and on with hours of midnight,

In the darkness, in the rain,

Still you whisper your refrain.

Dream I not of fame or fortune,

Only this I inward crave,

Sweet assurance,

Long endurance,

Of a love beyond the grave.

Should my songs die out and perish,

You’ll my name repeat and cherish;

Though all trace is lost of me,

Still you’ll call from tree to tree,

Katydid.

A Day-Dream.

I’M looking in a mirror, Belle,

The mirror of our past;

And many a bright reflection, Belle,

Into its depth is cast;

Reflections that are calm and clear,

And O! to us so very dear.

I see a village—old Kirksville—

Its long and narrow street,

And as it climbs upon the hill,

How many friends I meet!

And, Belle, your face smiles out to me—

The sweetest face that I can see.

There is my home hid ’mong the trees

Back of the village street,

A welcome rushes on the breeze,

And restless grow my feet;

My heart leaps forward, and I view

The dearest spot I ever knew.

Home! home again! and, children, we

Skip through the pastures green;

Your eyes of blue I plainly see—

“The sweetest ever seen;”

And on your cheek the rosy tinge;

And curls of gold your temples fringe.

And see the dogs we used to pet;

Down through the lawn they run;

Not many passing by, forget

Their bark, or fail to shun

Old Carlo of the greyhound race,

And Lion with his vicious face.

Yet us they follow to the hedge,

Where hours with them we’ve played;

And to the pond, along whose edge,

Barefooted, we would wade.

Decorum could not cramp the brain,

And Love unlocked his golden chain.

We climb upon my father’s barn,

Hide in the straw and hay;

We watch aunt “Silvy” spinning yarn

In the old-fashioned way.

She tells us tales by candle light,

That fill our hearts with wild delight.

A shadow falls; I lose your face;

Lost is the fairy-tale;

And just before my eyes I trace

A kind of airy veil;

A network that is strangely planned,

Held by the Present’s cunning hand.

The shadow now has passed away;

I glance the meshes through,

And find strange children there at play

Beside your knee; one, two—

The little faces both foretell

A happy future for you, Belle.

Long, long I gaze. That pretty view

Dissolves away in air,

And still I’m looking, Belle, for you,

And still I’m standing there;

I strive your image to retrace—

All, all has vanished but my face.

And closing ’round me as before,

I see a figured wall,

A carpet blue upon the floor,

And sunlight over all.

Bewildered, yet entranced I seem,

And ’waken from a sweet day-dream.

The Old Ravine.

JUST back of my dear old home it rolled,

With many a crumpled and rocky fold,

Hedged ’round with cherry and locust trees

Their strong arms toyed with the breeze—

Like knights arrayed for march or fight

They stood with waving plumes of white.

And O! that valley’s inmost room

Was a mass of ivy and violet bloom;

The larkspur shook from its purple crest

A dew-drop down on the lily’s breast;

The blue-bell dozed on the rivulet’s brink,

And the myrtle leaned o’er the edge to drink.

Even now, as I write, through the open door

I catch a sound of the cataract’s roar,

And see the girls just out from school

Knee-deep in the ravine’s limpid pool;

And the boys, ah, me! how plain can I see

Them stealing the bark from the slippery tree.

The door slams back, it is scarce apart;

With steady eye and fluttering heart,

I watch the girls up the valley turn,

In search of peppermint and fern;

And the boys are waving their caps to me,

As they stand in that ragged and torn old tree.

In some wild way, I never knew how,

I climbed to the swing on that elm tree’s bough;

Was twitt’ring a song as I used to do,

And counting the clouds in the sky’s soft blue,

When the girls came out from the valley’s shade,

And earth into heaven seemed then to fade.

’Twas the Eden of old, and I was a child

(I have thought of it since and often have smiled);

Sitting there in the swing, with the girls at my feet,

And the boys overhead—my joy was complete;

What a mockery, then, to awaken and part

With the happy illusion—how hollow my heart!

Some Day You’ll Wish for Me.
FOR —— ——

SOME day, my darling, when the rose has died,

That on your pathway throws its petals sweet,

When the sharp thorn is springing near your side

And nettles pierce the mould beneath your feet,

You’ll wish for me.

Some day, my darling, when the crystal cup

Of Beauty shattered lies, and spilled its wine;

When Pleasure’s urn denies your lips one sup,

And you drink deep of Disappointment’s brine,

You’ll wish for me.

Some day the wreath will wilt upon your head;

You’ll smell the bud and find a worm within.

Some day, my darling, when your friends have fled,

And strangers mock your frequent tears, ah! then

You’ll wish for me.

Some day, my darling, when Death’s dews fall cold

Upon your brow, you’ll gladly let me come—

When dreams present the shroud that must enfold

Your limbs, and your sweet lips grow chill and dumb,

You’ll wish for me.

You’ll long for him whose hands were oft denied

To pluck a rose lest they the bush pollute—

Yet he would come and stand a slave aside.

To grasp the bramble and the thorn uproot,

If you but wished for him.

He’d kiss your limbs the hidden briar had torn,

And bathe the wounds with Pity’s saddest tear;

He’d close your eyes that ne’er till death had worn

For him one look of love, and at your bier

He’d kneel and pray

For strength to watch you hidden from his sight,

For strength to turn aside and leave you there

Clasped in the arms of everlasting night;

And yet, my darling, not as great despair

He’d feel than now.

To Hallie.
WRITTEN FOR ——

SAD and cheerless stands the homestead

In its grandeur as of old;

’Tis a casket—lost, the jewel;

’Tis a mine without its gold.

Once a sunbeam at the doorway

Gilded room and gladdened hall;

Making life a golden summer,

Full of joy for each and all.

But the sunshine that has vanished

Ne’er can brighten o’er us more,

Though I bow in meek submission

Yet my heart is sad and sore.

I have lost my life’s sweet treasure,

Earth holds nothing dear for me;

“Upward, onward,” be my motto,

Onward, upward, still to thee.

Hallie! be my guarding angel,

Teach my footsteps not to stray;

Spread your sainted wings above me,

Lead me in “the narrow way,”

So that you can come and meet me—

Waft me heavenward on your breast,

“Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.”

I’ve Asked You to Forget Me.

I’VE asked you to forget me,

To let our happy past

Ne’er be recalled; for ah! it was

Too sweet, too bright! to last.

But yet you say that you’re my friend,

And still as fond and true;

While I ne’er care to see thy face,

Or have one thought of you.

Then ne’er again recall those days

When roguish Cupid played

At twining garlands ’round our hearts