Textarchiv - Lizette Woodworth Reese

A wet June day

mrbot — Thu, 24 Jan 2019 21:10:10 +0000

Scents, sounds, as of November fill the air:
Of myriad blossoms down wet pathways strown;
Of ragged leaves off steaming branches blown
And dropped into dank hollows here and there.
Keen little gusts go whirling through the hush,
Driving the mist before them up the lane.
And lo, the lovely world grows ours again!—
The orchard fences, the one eider bush,
Prone with its white face in the thick drenched grass,
The rows of apple-trees, gnarled, dripping, sweet,
The highway with its pools agleam like glass;
Then, as still speeds the mist on shining feet,
Meadow, and wood, peaked roofs—beyond them shows
A windy west, the color of a rose.

Lizette Woodworth Reese

1893

A spinning song

mrbot — Wed, 16 Jan 2019 21:10:02 +0000

How many lilies be ablow?
Count them and see—
Seven by the wail, and seven by the door;
'Tis time he came to me.
Oh, love's bitter!

Was ever a whiter web than this
That I spin to-day?
A wedding gown or a winding sheet,
Love, which shall it be?
Oh, love's bitter!

The old dames stand in the street,
'Neath the willow trees;
And they mark how white my lilies blow,
And they hear my bees.
Oh, love's bitter!

And one dame says, "Five lads of mine
Be in the sea;"
Another says, "That lad of mine,
He came not back to me."
Oh, love's bitter!

The willow trees grow down to the wharves,
Green as of old;
(Green as the day he went from me;)
The sea is of gold.
Oh, 1ove's bitter!

Two ships I see: one in the west—
Love is it thine?
One in the east, in a windy mist—
0h, love, which is thine?
Oh, love's bitter!

Then speak the dames : "Her ship went down
That night at sea."
My seven white lilies—do ye hear?
For this they speak of me!
Oh, love's bitter!

Lizette Woodworth Reese

1893

A thought of May

mrbot — Thu, 10 Jan 2019 21:10:01 +0000

All that long, mad March day, in the dull town,
I had a thought of May — alas, alas!
The dogwood boughs made whiteness up and down;
The daffodils were burning in the grass;
And there were bees astir in lane and street,
And scent of lilacs blowing tall and lush;
While hey, the wind, that pitched its voice so sweet,
It seemed an angel talked behind each bush!
The west grew very golden, roofs turned black.
I saw one star above the gables bare.
The door flew open. Love, you had come back.
I held my arms; you found the old way there.
In its old place you laid your yellow head,
And at your kiss the mad March weather fled!

Lizette Woodworth Reese

1893

A passing mood

mrbot — Wed, 02 Jan 2019 21:10:05 +0000

You say not that you love me, yet 'tis so.
Your mood is such the days in April wear,
Driving their last flakes down the ashen air,
And yet with all their buds ready to blow;
Aye, with full-blossomed stalks in many a row,
Purpling the grass beneath the hedges bare.
Therefore I wait. As sure as April fair,
Grown bolder, knows its boughs bear bloom, not snow;
So you, who halt betwixt the old and new,
Will know your life's sweet, settled weather come,
And marvel how the blessed thing befell —
How love from out the chill of friendship grew.
Ah, then no longer, love, will you keep dumb;
Caught to my heart you must your secret tell.

Lizette Woodworth Reese

1893

A good deed

mrbot — Mon, 31 Dec 2018 21:10:02 +0000

A good deed knows nor age nor winding-sheet;
The centuries find and leave it quick and sweet;
Even the miser is remembered
By that one time he gave the beggar bread.

Lizette Woodworth Reese

1893

A November afternoon

mrbot — Sat, 29 Dec 2018 21:10:08 +0000

The long and sad week's wind, like any child,
Has sobbed itself to sleep. This morning's rain
Has strewn the stairway with the petals wild,
Red, ragged, of my sweet last rose. The lane
Shows me the poplar tree, blackened and bare,
Clasped to its heart a dangling empty nest.
A few dull yellow leaves stir here and there,
And all the air is clear from east to west.
The year, I think, lies dreaming of the May,
As old men dream of youth, that loved, lost thing.
A spring-like thrill is in this weather gray.
I wait to hear some thrush begin to sing;
And half expect, as up and down I go,
To see my neighbor's cherry-boughs ablow!

Lizette Woodworth Reese

1893

A Song for Candlemas

mrbot — Wed, 26 Dec 2018 21:10:07 +0000

There's never a rose upon the bush,
And never a bud on any tree;
In wood and field nor hint nor sign
Of one green thing for you or me.
Come in, come in, sweet love of mine,
And let the bitter weather be!

Coated with ice the garden wall;
The river reeds are stark and still;
The wind goes plunging to the sea,
And last week's flakes the hollows fill.
Come in, come in, sweet love, to me,
And let the year blow as it will!

Lizette Woodworth Reese

1893

A December Rose

mrbot — Mon, 24 Dec 2018 21:10:08 +0000

A ROSE is a rose all times of the year.
I have one out in my garden there,
In the deep grass out by the gray old stair —
A breath of June in December drear.

Ah, but its red is a little sere,
And nipped by the frost in last night's air!
A rose is a rose all times of the year.
I have one out in my garden there.

So, when Love comes, he is counted dear,
With his reed at his lips, in June-tide fair,
A-piping sweet, or with wind-blown hair,
And tears in his eyes in December drear.
A rose is a rose all times of the year.

Lizette Woodworth Reese

1893

A seller of herbs

mrbot — Sun, 23 Dec 2018 21:10:08 +0000

Black, comely, of abiding cheer,
Three times a week she fares,
Townward from gabled Windermere,
To sell her dainty wares.

Green balms she brings from winding lanes,
And some in handfuls tall,
Of the old days of Annes and Janes
Grown by a kitchen wall.

Keen mint has she in dewy sprigs,
With spears of violet;
And the spiced bloom of eider-twigs
In a field's hollow set.

My snatch of May I get from her,
In white buds off a tree;
June in one whiff of lavender,
That breaks my heart for me.

The swaying boughs of Windermere,
Each gust that takes the grass,
High over the town roar I hear,
When that old stall I pass.

What homely memories are mine,
At sight of her quaint stalks;
Of grave dusks mellowing like wine
Down long, box-bordered walks;

Of garret windows eastward thrust,
Of rafters showing dim,
And heaped with herbs as gray as dust,
A11 scented to the brim.

This lady of the market-place,
Three times a week and more,
I pray her seasons thick with grace;
And ever at her door,

Shut from the road by wall of stone,
And ample cherry-trees,
A garden fair as Herrick's own,
And just as full of bees!

Lizette Woodworth Reese

1893

A rhyme of Death's inn

mrbot — Sat, 22 Dec 2018 21:10:09 +0000

A rhyme of good Death's inn!
My love came to that door;
And she had need of many things,
The way had been so sore.

My love she lifted up her head,
"And is there room?" said she;
"There was no room in Bethlehem's inn
For Christ who died for me."

But said the keeper of the inn,
"His name is on the door."
My love then straightway entered there:
She hath come back no more.

Lizette Woodworth Reese

1893