Jane Caroline Reed's Poem Book
Poem Book Cover
Jane Caroline Reed's Signature
THREE KISSES OF FAREWELL
[these exquisite verses are from on of “Esther Wynn’s Love Letters” in Scribner’s for December]
Three, only three, my darling,
Separate, solemn, slow;
Not like the swift and joyous ones
We used to know
When we kissed because we loved each other
Simply to taste Love’s sweet,
And lavished our kisses as the summer
Lavishes heat,-
But as they kiss whose hearts and wrong,
When hope and fear are spent,
And nothing is left to give, except
A sacrament
First of the three, my darling,
Os sacred unto pain;
We have hurt each other often;
We shall again,
When we pine because we miss each other,
And do not understand
How the written words are so much colder
Than eye and hand.
I kiss thee, dear for all such pain
Which we may give or take;
Buried, forgiven, before it comes
For our love’s sake!
The second kiss, my darling,
Is full of joy’s sweet thrill;
We have blessed each other always;
We always will.
We shall reach until we feel each other.
Past all of time and space;
We shall listen till we hear each other
In every place;
The earth is full of messengers,
Which love sends to and fro;
I kiss thee, darling, for all joy
Which we shall know!
The last kiss, oh, my darling,
My love-I cannot see
Through my tears, as I remember
What it may be.
We may die and never see each other,
Die with no time to give
Any sign that our hearts are faithful
To Die as live.
Token of what they will not see
Who see our parting breath.
This one last kiss, my darling, seals
The kiss of death!
HERE AND THERE A GEM
GATHERED FROM THE NEW YORK OBSERVER
Like a cradle rocking, rocking,
Silent, peaceful, to and fro.
Like a mother’s sweet looks dropping
On the little face below
Hangs the green earth, swinging, turning
Jarless, noiseless, safe and slow;
Falls the light of God’s face bending
Down and watching us below.
And as feeble babes that suffer,
Toss, and cry, and will not rest,
Are the ones the tender mother
Holds the closest, loves the best,-
So when we are weak and wretched,
By our sins weighed down, distressed,
Then it is the God’s great patience
Holds us closest, loves us best.
Katie Lee and Willie Gray
Two brown heads with tossing curls,
Red lips shutting over pearls,
Bare feet white + wet with dew,
Two eyes black + two eyes blue;
Little boy + girl were they,
Katie Lee + Willie Gray.
They were standing where a brook,
Bending like a shepherd’s crook,
Flashing its silver + thick ranks
Of willow fringed its banks;-
Half in thought + half in play.
Katie Lee + Willie Gray.
They had cheeks like Cherries hot;
He was taller, most a head-
She, with arms like wreaths of snow,
Swung a basket to and fro
As they loitered, half in play,
Chatting to Willie Gray.
“Pretty Katie,” Willie said
And there came a dash of red
Through the brownness of his cheek;
“Boys are strong + girls are weak,”
And I’ll carry, so I will,
Katie’s basket up the hill.”
Katie answered with a laugh,
“You shall carry only half;”
Then said, tossing back her curls,
“Boys as weak as well as girls.”
Do you think that Katie guessed
Half the wisdom she expressed!
Men are only boys grown tall:
Hearts don’t change much, after all;
And when, long years from that day,
Katie Lee + Willie Gray.
Stood again beside the brook
Bending like a shepherd's crook
Is it strange that Willie said,
While again a dash of red
Crossed the brownness of his cheek
“I am strong and you are weak;
Life is but a slipper steep,
Hung with shadows cold + deep.
“Will you trust me Katie Lee?
Walk beside me without fear;
May I carry, if I will,
All your burdens up the hill!”
And she answered, with a laugh,
“No, but you may carry half.”
Close beside the little brook
Bending like a shepherd’s crook
Washing, with it silver hands.
Late + Early t the sand,
Stands a cottage where today
Katie lives with Willie Gray
In the porch she sits, and, lo!
Swings a basket to + fro.
Vastly different from the one
That she swung in year agone;
This is long, + deep, + wide!
And has rockers at the side
From Frank Summer
Northampton, June 1866
Unknown Poem
Yet, on life’s current, he who drifts
Is one with him who rows or sails;
And he who wanders widest lifts
No more of beauty’s jealous vails
Than he who from his doorway sees
The miracle of flowers and trees,
Feels the warm Orient in the noonday air,
And from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to prayer.
Unknown Poem
Better to stem with heart and hand
The roaring tide of life, than lie,
Unmindful, on its flowery strand,
Of God’s occasions drifting by!
Better with naked nerve to bear
The needles of this goading air
Than, in lap of sensual ease, forego
The godlike power to do, the godlike aim to know.
Fear Not
Deeper, Father, grow the shadows,
Darker still the night comes on,
Every human hope departing,
Now I look to Thee alone.
Hopes which I have fondly cherished
Thou hast laid in ruins low;
Props on which I leaned have failed me;
Like a broken reed I bow.
Over all the distant landscape,
Stretching dark and cold away.
Say, my Father, will will thou keep me,
Shall I never lose my way?
Hark! I hear a voice a cheating,
Sounding through the gathering night
Fear not, for I have redeemed thee,
I will be thy guide and light
Only floor when I call thee,
Let no fear turn thee aside
Not a for shall dare to harm thee,
While I am thy constant guide.
Father, full of all compassion
I will take thee at Thy word,
Meeting danger and temptation
Is the strength of Christ, my Lord
Nov 1865
New York Observer
THE THREE LITTLE CHAIRS
They sat alone by bright wood fire.
The gray-haired dame and the aged sire,
Dreaming of the days gone by:
The tear drops fell on each wrinkled check,
They both had thoughts that they could not speak,
As each heart uttered a sigh.
For their sad and tearful eyes descried.
Three little chairs, places side by side,
Against the sitting-room wall:
Old fashioned enough as there they stood,
Their seats flag and their frames of wood,
With their bucks so straight and tall.
Then the sire shook his silvery head,
And, with trembling voice, he gently said:
“Mother, those empty chairs!
They bring us such sad, sad thoughts, to-night,
We’ll put them forever out of sight.
In the small, dark room up-stairs.”
But she answered, “Father, no, not yet,
For I look at them and I forget
That the children went away:
The boys come back, and our Mary, too,
With her apron on of checkered blue,
And sit here every day.
Johnny still whittles a ship’s tall masts,
And Willie his leaden bullets casts,
While Mary her patchwork sews;
At evening time three childish prayers
Go up to God from those little chairs,
So softly that no one knows.
Johnny comes from billowy deep,
Willie wakes from his battle-field sleep,
To say good-night to me;
Mary’s a wife and mother no more,
But a tired child whose play time is o’er,
And comes to rest on my knee.
So let them stand there, though empty now,
And, every time when alone we bow
At the Father’s throne to pray.
We’ll ask to meet the children above,
In our Savior’s home of rest and love,
Where no child goeth away.”
Mrs. H.T. Perry, in Evangelist
Christmas
Over the hills of Palestine
The silver stars began to shine;
Night drew her shadows softly round
The slumbering earth, without a sound.
Among the fields and dewy rocks
The shepherds kept their quiet flocks,
And looks along the darkening land
That waited the Divine command
When lo! Through all the opening blue,
Far up the deep, dark heavens withdrew,
And angles in a solemn light
Praised God to all the listening night.
Ah! Said the lowly shepherds then,
The Seraph sang good-will to men:
O hasten, earth, to meet the morn,
The Prince, the Prince of Peace is born!
Again the sky was deep and dark,
Each star relumed its silver spark,
The dreaming land in silence lay,
And waited for the dawning day.
But in a stable low and rude,
Where white-horned, mild eyed oxen stood,
The gate of heaven were still displayed,
For Christ was in the manger laid.
“Our Young Folks”
Dec. 1865
Labor + Rest
Two hands upon the breast,
And Labor's done;
Two pale feet crossed in rest,
The race is won;
Two eyes with coin-weights shut,
And all tears cease;
Two lips where grief is mute,
And at peace;
So pray we oftentimes morning our lot;
God in his kindness answereth not;
Two hands to work addrest,
Aye for his praise;
Two feet that never rest,
Walking his ways;
Two eyes that look above
Strive, through all tears;
Two lips that breath out love,
Not wrath, nor fears
So pray we afterwards, low at our knees;
Pardon those erring prayers, Father, hear thee!
Minneapolis, Minn.
Oct. 18, 1868
Rest-from hymnbook
Rest is not quitting
The busy career;
Rest is the fitting
Of self to one's sphere.
'Tis the brook's motion
Clear without strife.
Fleeting to ocean
After this life
'Tis loving + serving.
The highest + best;
'Tis onward, unswerving.
And this is true rest.
Minneapolis Oct 18th, 1868
Battle Hymn of the Republic
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trapling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored:
He hath loosed the faiteful lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps:
They have builded him an alter in the evening dews + damps:
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim + flaring lamps;
His truth is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
As ye deal with my condemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
His truth is marching on.
He has sounded form the trumpet that shall never call retreat:
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgement seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him, be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea.
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;
As he died to make men holy let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
The Burial of Moses
By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave:
And no man knows the sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er;
For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth.
And no man heard the trampling.
Or saw the train go forth.
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes back when night is done,
And the crimson steak on ocean's check
Grows into the great sun:
Noiselessly as the springtime
Her crest if verdure means.
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves-
So without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain crown
The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle
On gray Beth-peor's height,
Out of his lonely eyrie
Looked on the wondrous sight.
Perchance the lion, stalking,
Still shuns the hallowed spot,
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.
But with the warrior dieth
His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drum,
Follow the funeral car;
They show the banners taken,
They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his matchless steed.
While peals the minute gun.
Amid the noblest of the land
They lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marble drest,
In the great minister transept.
Where lights like glory fall,
While the organ rings and the sweet choir sings,
Along the emblazoned wall.
This was the truest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Trace, with his golden pen
On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honor-
The hillside for his pall.
To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall.
While the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes.
Over his bier to wave.
And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in his grave;
In that strange grave without a name.
Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again, O wonderous thought!
Before the judgement day,
And stand with glory wrapt around
On the hills he never trod.
And speak of the strife that won our life.
With the incarnate Son of God.
O lonely grave in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor's hill!
Speak to theses curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath his mysteries of grace.
Ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep
Of him He loved so well.
Only
Only a woman's face,
In the dark night and cold,
But oh! the ghost of a vanish'd grace,
And the pitiful tale it told!
Wrapt in a ragged shawl
(Why was it not her shroud?)
It look'd as white as the moon at night,
Through a rift in a driving cloud.
Only a few poor pence,
And a few kind words addressing;
And all they brought was a kindly thought
And a poor lost woman's blessing.
Cypher at the top right of the first page of The Day is Done
The Day is Done
The day is done + the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in its flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain + the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longings,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the cares of the day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest.
Read from some humble poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of care,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And comes like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And Lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of the voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
January 5, 1868
The Power of Life
They are safe in his hands, the tempests
In his, but not in ours;
No hand may wield the lightning
But the hand that folds the flowers.
He is the Lord of the winds + thunder,
But has stronger powers then they;
And the Lord of Life is working,
He is working everyday.
For the Lord of life is working,
And his strongest force is life;
Ever with death it wagest
Silent, victorious strife.
And Truth is strongest then Falsehood,
And needs but an open field;
And Love is stronger the hatred,
And Love will never yield.
And one breath of life is stronger
Than all the hosts of death.
Mrs Charlie
The Mills of God
Though the mills of God grind slowly
yet the grind exceedingly small;
Though with patience he stands waiting.
with exactness grinds he all.
Excerpt from The Builders
Nothing useless is or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.
Build today, then, strong and sure,
With a firm + ample base;
And ascending + Secure
Shall tomorrow find its place.
Excerpts from Resignation
There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call death.
And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,--
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.
A Quote by Walter Scott
O woman! in our hours of ease
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain ad anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!
Mainion
This was actually written by Walter Scott by she attributes it to someone else.
An excerpt from the poem Locksley Hall by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
"Love took up the glass of time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands;
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the cords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
Locksley Hall
An excerpt for Gasper Becerra by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
O thou sculptor, painter, poet!
Take this lesson to thy heart:
That is best which lieth nearest;
From that shape thy work of art.
H.W.L.
An excerpt from Vivien's Song by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
It is the little rift within the lute
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all."
Vivien's Song
An Excerpt from the "Cherubic Pilgrim by Johannes Angelus Silesius
We pray, "On earth, in Heaven, O Lord, be done thy will,"
And yet God has no will, but is forever still.
Johannes Angelus Silesius
Remonstrance by Jean Ingelow
Remonstrance
"Daughters of Eve your mother did not well;
She laid the apple in your father's hand,
And we have read, O wonder what befell--
The man was not deceived, not yet could stand;
He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne
For her could die but could not live alone.
Daughters of Eve he did not fall so low
Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell;
For something better than as gods to know,
That husband in that home left off to dwell;
For this, till love be reckoned less then lore,
Shall man be first + best forevermore.
Daughters of Eve, it was for your dear sake
The world's first hero died an uncrowned king;
But God's great pity touched the grand mistake,
And made his married love a sacred thing;
For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true,
Find their lost Eden in their love to you."
Jean Ingelow
Excerpts from The Burial of the Dead by the Rev Thomas Tylecott
When Autumn leaves are falling
And Golden gleams the West;
We seem to lay more gently
Our dear ones down to rest;
Safe in kind Nature's bosom
We lay them down to sleep,
And pray that holy angels
Round them their watch may keep.
x x x x x
Yet hush; thou troubled spirit,
Be calm thou restless will.
For thee come o'er the waters
Those sweet word "Peace be still".
For thee those angel whispers,
That breathe the hope ere long
With them to share the Palm-wreath,
To sing the conqueror's song.
Miss Tylecott
Living age
Aug 24. 1867
Kathrina by Josiah Gilbert Holland
Kathrina-Complaint
Yet within my inmost spirit I can hear an undertone,
That by law of prime relation hold these voices as its own, -
The full tonic whose harmonic grandeurs rise through
Nature's words.
From the ocean's thunderous rolling to the trolling of the birds.
Spirit, O my spirit! Is it thou art out of tune?
Art thou clinging to December while the earth is in
its June?
Hast thou dropped they part in nature? Hast thou
touched another key?
Art thou angry that the anthem will not, cannot,
wait for thee?
Spirit thou art left alone - alone on waters wild;
For God is gone, and Love is dead, + Nature spurns
her child.
Thou art drifting in a deluge, waves below + clouds
above,
And with weary wings come back to thee, thy raven + thy dove.
Oct 15, 1887 Dr. Holland
The Heart of the War by Josiah Gilbert Holland
The Heart of the War
Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And underneath, in dim repose;
A plain, New-England home.
Within, a murmur of low tones
And sighs from hearts oppressed,
Merging in prayer, at last, that brings
The balm of silent rest.
I've closed a hard day's work, Marty,-
The evening chores are done;
And you are weary with the house,
And with the little one.
But he is sleeping sweetly now,
With all our pretty brood;
So come and sit upon my knee,
And it will do me good.
Oh, Marty! I must tell you all
The trouble in my heart,
And you must do the best you can
To take + bear your part.
You've seen the shadow on my face,
You've felt it day and night;
For it has filled our little home,
And banished all its light.
I did not mean it should be so,
And yet I might have known
That hearts the live as close as ours
Can never keep their own.
But we are fallen on evil times,
And, do whate'er I may,
My heart grows sad about the war,
And sadder every day.
I think about it when I work,
And when I try to rest,
And never more than when your head
Is pillowed on my breast;
For then I see the camp-fired blaze,
And sleeping men around,
Who turn their faces toward their homes,
And dream upon the ground.
I think about the dear, brave boys,
My mates in other years,
Who pine for home and those they love,
Till I am choked with tears.
With shouts + sheers they march away
On glory's shining track,
But ah! low long, how long they stay!
How few of them come back!
One sleeps beside the Tennessee,
And one beside the James,
And one fought on a gallant ship
And perished in its flames.
And some, struck down by fell disease,
Are breathing out their life;
And others, maimed by cruel wounds,
Have left the deadly strife.
Ah, Marty! Marty!, only think
Of all the boys have done
And suffered in this weary war!
Brave heroes, every one!
Oh! often, often in the night,
I hear their voices call:
"Come on and help us! Is it right
That we should bear it all?"
And when I knell + try to pray,
My thoughts are never free,
But cling to those who toil + fight
And die for you and me.
And when I pray for victory,
It seems almost a sin
To fold my hands and ask for what
I will not help to win.
Oh! do not cling to me and cry,
For it will break my heart;
I'm sure you'd rather have me die
Than not to bear my part.
You think that some should stay at home
To care for those away;
But still I'm helpless to decide
If I should go or stay.
For, Marty, all the soldiers love,
And all are loved again;
And I am loved, and love, perhaps,
No more than other men.
I cannot tell, I do not know -
Which way my duty lies,
Or where the Lord would have me build
My fire of sacrifice.
I feel-I know-I am not mean;
And though I seem to boast,
I'm sure that I would give my life
To those who need it most.
Perhaps the Spirit will reveal
That which is fair + right;
So, Marty, let us humbly kneel
And pray to Heaven for light.
Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And understand, in dim repose,
A plain New England home.
Within, a widow in her weeds,
From whom all joy is flown,
Who kneels among her sleeping babes,
And weeps and prays alone!
J.G. Holland
Atlantic Monthly
Aug. 1864
The Blue and the Gray by F.M. Finch
The Blue + the Gray
By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of the iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;-
Under the one, the Blue;
Under the other, the Gray.
Those in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory
In the duck of eternity meet;-
Under the sod + the dew;
Waiting the judgement day;-
Under the laurel, the Blue;
Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hearts
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike, for the friend + the foe;-
Under the sod + the dew,
Waiting the judgement day;-
Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.
So with an equal splendor
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch, impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all;
Under the sod + the dew,
Waiting the judgement day;-
Broidered with gold, the Blue;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So when the Summer calleth,
On forest + field of grain
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain;-
Under the sod + the dew,
Waiting for judgement day;-
Wet with the rain, the Blue:
Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;-
Under the sod + the dew,
Waiting the judgement day;-
Under the blossoms, the Blue.
Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod + the dew,
Waiting the judgement day;-
Love + tears for the Blue,
Tears + love the Gray.
Atlantic Monthly
September 1867-
Excerpt from Haste not! Rest not by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe, 1769
"Haste not! rest not! calmly wait,
Meekly fear the storms of fate;
Duty be thy polar guide;-
Do the right whate'er betide!
Haste not! rest not! conflicts past,
God shall crown they work at last."
Goethe
Excerpt from an Unknown poem
Two eyes hast every soul; one into time shall see, the other binds its gaze into Eternity.
Woman's Heart from the German
Gods angels took a little drop of dew,
New fallen from heaven's far-off blue,
And a fair rivlet of the valley's green.
Shedding its perfumes in the morn's soft sheen
And a forget-me-not so small and bright-
Laid all together gently, out of sight,
Within the chalice of the lily white!
With humbleness and grace they covered it-
Made purity and sadness near to sit;
And added pride to this, and sighs - a few,
One wish, but half a hope, and bright tears too;
Courage and sweetness in misfortune's smart,
And out of this they moulded-Woman's heart!
Northampton, Mass. Cassell's Magazine
Dec 7, 1867
Excerpt from Locksley Hall by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
"Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new;
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do."
Locksley Hall
Excerpt from an unknown poem by G.S. Laxer
"It is all well! God's good design I see,
That Whom our treasure is, our heart may be."
G.S. Laxer