Poems (Dorr)/Eventide

by Julia Caroline Dorr

For works with similar titles, see Eventide.

EVENTIDE

Whenever, with reverent footsteps,
 I pass through the open door
Of Memory's stately palace,
 Where dwell the days of yore,
One scene, like a lovely vision,
 Comes to me o'er and o'er.

'Tis a dim, fire-lighted chamber;
 There are pictures on the wall;
And around them dance the shadows
 Grotesque and weird and tall,
As the flames on the storied hearth-stone
 Wavering rise and fall.

An ancient cabinet stands there,
 That came from beyond the seas,
With a breath of spicy odors
 Caught from the Indian breeze;
And its fluted doors and moldings
 Are dark with mysteries.

There's an old arm-chair in the corner,
 Straight-backed and tall and quaint;
Ah! many a generation—
 Sinner and sage and saint—
It hath held in its ample bosom
 With murmur nor complaint!

In the glow of the fire-light playing,
 A tiny, blithesome pair,
With the music of their laughter
 Fill all the tranquil air—
A rosy, brown-eyed lassie,
 A boy serenely fair.

A woman sits in the shadow
 Watching the children twain,
With a joy so deep and tender
 It is near akin to pain,
And a smile and tear blend softly—
 Sunshine and April rain!

Her heart keeps time to the rhythm
 Of love's unuttered prayer,
As, with still hands lightly folded,
 She listens, unaware,
Through all the children's laughter,
 For a footfall on the stair.

I know the woman who sits there;
 Time hath been kind to her,
And the years have brought her treasures
 Of frankincense and myrrh
Richer, perhaps, and rarer,
 Than Life's young roses were.

But I doubt if ever her spirit
 Hath known, or yet shall know,
The bliss of a happier hour,
 As the swift years come and go,
Than this in the shadowy chamber
 Lit by the hearth-fire's glow!