What cruel fate befell thee.
Blithe songster of the air?
In a little berry-bush,
Thy home was built with care.
Blithe songster of the air?
In a little berry-bush,
Thy home was built with care.
Prospective little mother,
What dreams of bliss were thine
Four spheres of crystal azure,
What love in their design!
What dreams of bliss were thine
Four spheres of crystal azure,
What love in their design!
Secrecy, kind Nature gave,
To peering eyes elate;
Thy little home with babies four,
But now how wrecked by Fate!
To peering eyes elate;
Thy little home with babies four,
But now how wrecked by Fate!
Here beneath the berry-bush,
A new-made grave we see,
Enshrined by loyal, loving hands—
Yet no bird sings for me.
A new-made grave we see,
Enshrined by loyal, loving hands—
Yet no bird sings for me.
Vista Buena, June, 1920
To My Grandchild-Teacher, Miss Martha Hoag
Age 7
At eve my teacher oft is seen,
With lifted rule and haughty mien,
Intent to drive each knotty truth
Into the head of gray-haired youth!
With lifted rule and haughty mien,
Intent to drive each knotty truth
Into the head of gray-haired youth!
Hard rows of figures I must try,
Nor can I pass the grammar by;
Th' imperious miss with scornful hand
Bids grandpa mind each stern command!
Nor can I pass the grammar by;
Th' imperious miss with scornful hand
Bids grandpa mind each stern command!
Her finger points the narrow way,
And pupils cannot but obey;
Thus I am forced those things to know
I slighted four score years ago!
And pupils cannot but obey;
Thus I am forced those things to know
I slighted four score years ago!
1921
Mallet and Ball
From out the sweet syringa's shade,
I watch the games so blithely played;
The barefoot train upon the green,
With ball and mallet—restful scene.
I watch the games so blithely played;
The barefoot train upon the green,
With ball and mallet—restful scene.
Croquet's a placid game, they say,
Yet not as these small shouters play;
Their rules they keep with noisy care,
And guard lest any prove unfair.
Yet not as these small shouters play;
Their rules they keep with noisy care,
And guard lest any prove unfair.
Untroubled nymphs! a grandsire's pride,
Who through their games so graceful glide;
A tiny umpire, proud and wise,
Judges each stroke with watchful eyes.
Who through their games so graceful glide;
A tiny umpire, proud and wise,
Judges each stroke with watchful eyes.
Glances dart eager; words are few;
Each player looks the other through.
Keen wits are matched; in mimic strife,
They practice for the game of life!
Each player looks the other through.
Keen wits are matched; in mimic strife,
They practice for the game of life!
1917
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