0^ v^ » ^.c5:S^v.<.'^ . O YALE UNIVERSITY PRIZE POEM IQ16 PORTRAITS BY JOHN CHIPMAN FARRAR Yale University Press 1916 Gift ""■> '/ 23 m 1 {^ PREFATORY NOTE This poem received the eighteenth award of the prize offered by Professor Albert Stanburrough Cook to Yale University for the best unpublished verse, the Com- mittee of Award consisting of Professors Chauncey B. Tinker, of Yale University, Alfred Noyes, of Princeton University, and Edwin Mims, of Vanderbilt University. PORTRAITS A SACRISTAN Sometimes on summer noons the silence grows Unbearable; but then I sweep and dust The images, or polish off the rust Blackening the twisted brass. At curfew-time I ring the bell, and then, it seems, the chime Looks in my heart and knows. There are so very many little things Each day — perhaps you might not understand The joy of reaching out a quiet hand To touch the cross ; or once — it was at night — Suddenly all the hushed blue church grew white With holy angels' wings. ONE BORN BLIND They tell me there are gleaming stars afar, Golden and silver-white — I cannot tell Whether they He who speak. Stars may as well Be crimson or blue or darting green-tongued flames ; To me they are but hollow, far-sung names — I know not what they are. They tell me how the world and life began : Some talk of fire-wrought worlds, some mystics dream Of distant heavens with cherubim agleam. I care not whether they have seen or know ; But this is true — my heart has told me so — God was and is a man. A NUN He died at morning, I was nursing then ; The priest had shriven him, and his soul was white ; But in the cruel stillness of that night m His tired eyes opened, and his hand sought mine. I took it softly. Pardon me, divine Mary, Mother of men. Then, first, I noticed his strong face, grown thin, The yearning fever of his lips, the eyes That longed for comfort. Was I too unwise To stoop, and in the unseeing darkness, kiss Away his fear of death ? O speak, was this, Mary, a fearful sin? A HILLSIDE FARMER Dawn — and the mist across the silent lane ; Each day its little round of petty tasks. 'Are you not very lonely" some one asks, 'Here where the old folks stay, and no one new Comes in to start a farm ? You should go, too ; Valleys grow better grain.' 'This may seem still and lonely, but for me Hill-tops are wider than the open land. Maybe you never could quite understand How dear it is to me — this loneliness. You think the hills are narrowing, I guess ; But, oh, how far we see !' A COAL-MINER How dark it is ! This time the load is big And heavier. Somehow, it is so far Up to the places where the carloads are. All I can see is her face, as she sat Coughing and weakening, just for need of that Which I could only dig ! It was so cold that year, and damp, beside. Wages were low, and every day I'd pile The shining lumps in heaping baskets, while I knew she needed it. You would have thought I could have stolen some; but I was caught. She had a chill — and died. A NURSE I can remember quiet times, and those When you had tired yourself with riotous play ; Then we would sit, and while the passing day With fairy tales of lands beyond the sun. You loved me, then, completely — not as one Who does her work and goes. I saw you yesterday. Your hair is light; We thought it would be darker. Oh, why, why Did you not know me as I passed you by ? Have I grown old? You could not be too proud. You might have spoken, yes, or only bowed, Or — have you forgotten, quite ? \^ ?>• 1i .11^ ^ «,- -^ oy