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 .0564 
 
 
 T6 
 
 
 1911 
 
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 Copy 1 
 
 ff3 
 
 '- 
 
 Mofii 
 
 Marjorie Benfcm CooKe 
 
ro 
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2011 with funding from 
 The Library of Congress 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/tomotherOOcook 
 
By the same author 
 
 THE TWELFTH CHKISTMAS 
 The Christ Child's Eevelation 
 
 Fifty Cents 
 

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 % CI.A204743 
 
OH, lend me, Ariel, thy filmy wing, 
 That I may tread the pathways 
 of the sky, 
 Peep through the fingers of the dawn, 
 and try 
 To teach my Muse new vistas, ere I 
 
 sing. 
 I'd chant no marching song for war- 
 rior's feet, 
 No "Laus Deo" shall my voice in- 
 tone, — 
 I would not, with its murmurs and 
 its moan, 
 Transcribe the motley music of the 
 street — 
 
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These mighty themes I leave to mighty 
 
 art; 
 Some stronger voice than mine must 
 
 sing their praise — 
 But I would music in some simple 
 
 lays 
 The gentlest passion of the human 
 
 heart. 
 I, gaining strength from one note to 
 
 another, 
 Would bare my soul in love songs to a 
 
 mother ! 
 
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 II 
 
 OFT like a dusky veil night settles 
 
 down. 
 O ye dead souls of poets up in 
 
 Heav'n, 
 
 Lend me the art that unto you was 
 given, 
 To polish gems more fitting for her 
 
 crown. 
 Alas, my little verses weakly try 
 
 To soar above, but flutt'ring vainly, 
 
 beat 
 And drop, like homing love-birds at 
 her feet, 
 'Neath the divine compassion of her 
 eye. 
 
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Enough for rne that she hath said, "I 
 
 take 
 These pretty cripples and the orphan 
 
 Muse, 
 Which the cold world may scoff at 
 
 and abuse, 
 Safe in my heart I'll keep them for 
 
 love's sake." 
 And so, all fearful in her pity lest 
 They die, she warms them in her 
 
 mother breast. 
 
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Ill 
 
 F on this path which leads from dark 
 
 to light, 
 You meet one soul who knows and 
 
 understands, 
 Who sees the work you mean to do, 
 
 demands 
 That you live up to what in love's clear 
 
 sight 
 You're meant to be — what matters else 
 
 beside? 
 Others may chance along your road, 
 
 and praise, 
 Or scoff and scorn, then go their 
 
 various ways — 
 Your one soul stays, content but to 
 
 abide 
 
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 Not critic, but appreciating friend, 
 Whose loyal faith is like a lambent 
 
 fire 
 To touch with flame the slumbering 
 
 desire 
 In each of us to shape life to some end. 
 This much I know, whatever else may 
 
 be, 
 Mother, thou hast been that one soul 
 
 to me. 
 
LOOK into the quaintly pictured 
 
 face, 
 My mother's face when she was but 
 
 a child — 
 So pale, so sad, so delicately styled, 
 The smitten poet of a stricken race. 
 Her eyes, like two deep pools of sap- 
 phire light, 
 Reflecting naught of sunshine or of 
 
 day — 
 No childish joyousness, but all the 
 gray 
 Mysterious shadows of the dusk or 
 night. 
 
 eyes of tear-dimmed 
 
 9 
 
X/2 
 
 THE day is drear and misery is keen, 
 I live beneath the shadow of your 
 frown — 
 Harsh words were spoken no regrets 
 can drown, 
 And we are silent, with our pride be- 
 tween. 
 'Twas such a little word that made the 
 sting, 
 Yet with the stillness how it grows 
 
 apace, 
 Until it fills the room and all of 
 space, 
 Leering at us, like some misshapen 
 thing. 
 
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Ah, Sweet, I want your kisses on my 
 
 cheek 
 And brow. I come to ask you to 
 
 forgive — 
 Let's promise now that never while 
 
 we live 
 Shall we misunderstand again, nor 
 
 speak 
 Words that are better left unvoiced and 
 
 mute — 
 Ah, mother mine, no rift must mar our 
 
 lute. 
 
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 9 
 
 AND locked in hand, we came 
 upon a place 
 Where two roads branched from off 
 
 the one we walked ; 
 And Disappointment on the new 
 path stalked 
 Toward one of us, as we stood face to 
 
 face, 
 Each knowing well the way the heart 
 desired, 
 Each seeing what the choice must 
 
 needs demand, 
 Both vowing that we'd still go hand 
 in hand, 
 No matter how the heartless fates 
 conspired. 
 
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 We closed our eyes and struggled not 
 
 to see 
 The parting of the ways that lay 
 
 ahead — 
 Then your love rose unto the test, 
 
 and said, 
 Choosing at once for both yourself 
 
 and me — 
 "O child of mine, in spite of gods or 
 
 creeds, 
 My way lies only where your dear 
 
 heart leads!" 
 
F some old friend, to reminiscence 
 
 stirred, 
 Fingering the treasures of my mem'ry 
 
 room, 
 Should come upon a bier, all hung 
 with gloom, 
 And whisper softty, "Who lies here 
 
 interred?" 
 I'd lift that dead day from its resting 
 place — 
 It marked the hour I stepped from 
 
 Childhood's land, 
 And with the wet clay of my life in 
 hand 
 I gazed into the Future's veiled face, — 
 
 t 
 
VIII 
 
 IF then my friend should chance to 
 ask of me 
 What day was filled the fullest to 
 
 the brim 
 With joy, I should not need to 
 answer him 
 After long searching in my memory. 
 I'd cry it out so that your heart might 
 hear, 
 'Twas when you made me feel first, 
 
 one white morn, 
 I was not just your child, whom you 
 had borne, 
 Reared unto womanhood, and so held 
 dear, — 
 
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But quite apart from this, your mother- 
 hood, 
 You hailed me more than child, a 
 
 kindred soul, 
 Striving to march abreast toward 
 your high goal, 
 
 Twin to your spirit, one who under- 
 stood — 
 
 That day alone, which proved my right 
 to be, 
 
 I'd not exchange for immortality! 
 
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 IX 
 
 ISERY to-day unveiled her face 
 to me, 
 And in her arms she held a dream of 
 
 mine, 
 Long cherished at my inmost secret 
 shrine ; 
 And now, still-born, she held it me to 
 
 see. 
 I cried aloud in agonized surprise, 
 That I, exempt till now, must be 
 
 bereft, 
 And all despoiled and stripped should 
 thus be left 
 To read the mockery in Misery's eyes. 
 The world lies all in shadow, and it 
 seems 
 
 a 
 
No effort 's worth the making — 
 
 no design 
 Worth striving to complete, if I 
 resign 
 This, the best loved of all my youthful 
 
 dreams. 
 Ah, mother, let me lie upon your breast 
 And weep the bitterness away, and rest. 
 
X 
 
 ERHAPS there may be in the 
 Afterwhile 
 Some spirit-elf wrought all of joy 
 
 and light, 
 To touch eyes, dimmed with weep- 
 ing, to new sight — 
 To teach lips set in sadness how to 
 
 smile. 
 For some there be, ill-destined from 
 their birth 
 To march lock - step in Sorrow's 
 
 motley train, 
 While past them wind, a-singing 
 through the rain, 
 Those wassailers, the chosen few of 
 Mirth. 
 
And did a son of Joy, with rapid 
 
 strides, 
 O'ertake thee, little nun, in somber 
 
 gray, 
 And lead thee captive down the 
 
 primrose way 
 Where buxom Laughter holds her 
 
 shaking sides? 
 Yes, Love and Laughter locked hands 
 
 to beguile — 
 That's how my mother won her misty 
 
 smile ! 
 
XI 
 HE robin trills again his care-free 
 
 The sun shines, and the sky is 
 
 radiant blue; 
 The universe doth feel no loss of 
 you, 
 Nor mark my sighing that the day is 
 
 long! 
 I'd have the rain veil morn in scarfs of 
 
 gray, 
 I'd have her mute the robin's ecstasy, 
 I'd bid the wind sigh in a minor 
 
 key — 
 Does Earth not know that you have 
 
 gone away? 
 
Grim Nature, heedless, in her wonted 
 
 hue, 
 Marches unmoved by the spawn she 
 
 breeds, 
 Nor gives ear to our petty human 
 
 needs — 
 She little cares that home 's bereft of 
 
 you! 
 The silence speaks of you, and all the 
 
 place 
 Awaits the morning smile of your dear 
 
 face. 
 
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 XII 
 
 SUMMER — blue skies — and sunshine 
 everywhere, 
 The blessing of the mid-year's joyous 
 
 days, 
 And then the benediction Autumn 
 lays 
 On field and forest and on meadows 
 
 fair. 
 Thus have we watched the pageant 
 and the show— 
 With thirsty lips at Mother Nature's 
 
 cup 
 We've quaffed renewal, and with 
 ev'ry sup 
 Reluctance that these sweet calm days 
 must go. 
 
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 How ev'ry morn has dawned, bowed 
 
 with its load 
 Of love grown stronger, and new 
 
 love revealed, 
 As if some shy heart buds till now 
 
 concealed 
 Had come to blossom on this summer's 
 
 road. 
 With pomp, upon hill altars, and with 
 
 state, 
 A summer unto love we consecrate. 
 
 9 
 
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XIII 
 
 THIS would I, Muezzin-like, cry 
 from my tow'r — 
 Calling the world to hearken and to 
 
 pray 
 That men might learn this credo 
 day by day, — 
 The dignity of work, love, and its 
 
 pow'r. 
 If some Redeemer might cast out again 
 The money - changers, make the 
 
 temple clean, 
 Teach us that work well done is 
 never mean, 
 Make clear to us that hate brings only 
 pain, 
 
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 XIV 
 
 THING apart life seems among 
 the pines — 
 Our cares, like last year's thoughts, 
 
 are laid away; 
 Unto its peaceful end rounds out 
 each day, 
 And fades, like to a shadow that 
 
 declines. 
 Or is this life, in all its plenitude, 
 Within this temple which the pines 
 
 do shape, 
 Where trivial things dare not gri- 
 mace nor gape 
 Full in the face of Nature's magnitude? 
 Would we might cast out for all time 
 the wild 
 
Fierce sense of battle, chant a peace- 
 ful psalm, 
 Learn the first steps in Nature's 
 mighty calm, 
 And kneel within the forest's shrine — 
 
 a child. 
 What peace, refreshment, and what 
 
 clean ideals, 
 The forest to the seeing eye reveals ! 
 

 ID ever travellers in the golden 
 
 Seeking the shrines where some long- 
 dead saints rest, 
 Know half the ardor or the joy of 
 quest 
 With which we fared on our first 
 
 pilgrimage? 
 What ecstasies of planning, and what 
 days 
 Of dreaming of the pleasures held in 
 
 store, 
 And how like children we peeped 
 through the door 
 Which leads into Adventure's gay 
 highways! 
 
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 My Muse would shake with mirth did 
 
 I but sing 
 How merrily we set forth, how we 
 
 laughed, — 
 No Canterbury pilgrims ever chaffed 
 As we did on that famous journeying. 
 Your Chaucer-songs may even yet be 
 
 sung 
 Of those shrines which we sought, 
 
 where you were young! 
 
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 I WONDER if, in some dim world 
 beyond, 
 Whither our steps may lead us some 
 
 glad day, 
 There will be heart-speech, or some 
 simple way 
 That soul may call, companion soul 
 
 respond? 
 When all the silent heralds of the 
 dawn 
 Tiptoe across the hushed world's 
 
 eastern rim, 
 Or when upon the moor, windswept 
 and grim 
 Some revelation flashes, and is gone; 
 
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 XVII 
 
 SEE them sometimes upraised, as in 
 
 prayer, 
 Or loosely clasped, a-weary with 
 
 much toil; 
 I watch them as they deftly twist 
 
 and coil 
 The smooth bands of her silken soft 
 
 gray hair; 
 I mark them as they fold and stitch 
 
 and sew 
 What days and weeks, aye, years, 
 
 those hands have seamed, 
 Since first above her baby's clothes 
 
 she leaned, 
 And wove her mother-dreams so long 
 
I feel them smooth my childish woes 
 
 to rest; 
 They bind a laurel wreath to guerdon 
 
 youth ; 
 But always "bearing gifts" they 
 
 come, in truth, 
 Nor will they tire till crossed upon 
 
 her breast. 
 When I shall come where gentle Jesus 
 
 stands, 
 He'll welcome me with mother's giving 
 
 hands ! 
 
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 I 
 
 XVIII 
 
 HESE later years have bound upon 
 thy back 
 Fardels of suff 'ring which have bent 
 
 thee low, 
 Halted thy steps, and made thy 
 progress slow, 
 Though staff and helping hand thou 
 
 didst not lack. 
 The days, like hills, stretched off to 
 Heaven's gate, 
 Each peak a pinnacle of poignant 
 
 pain, 
 And at the base, run riot with night- 
 bane, 
 Lo, Death, grim Watcher, lurked and 
 lay in wait. 
 
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XIX 
 
 ACK from the very brink of the 
 Black Stream, 
 Turning from Charon's friendly out- 
 stretched hand, 
 You came back from the edge of No- 
 Man's Land, 
 As one who groped her way from out a 
 
 dream. 
 Up the steep side each traveller 
 descends, 
 Who seeks the river Lethe at the 
 
 base, 
 You resolutely turned your dear 
 white face, 
 And struggled back to life, to make 
 amends 
 
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 To us deserted when your strength 
 had flown. 
 And when I kissed your hands and 
 
 touched your hair, 
 Asking why you had come, since 
 peace lay there, 
 
 You spoke thus softly in your mother- 
 tone: 
 
 "Because, until I've held upon my 
 breast 
 
 Your little child, I would not go to 
 rest!" 
 
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 I 
 
 XX 
 
 WHEN the gray Summoner halts 
 somewhere near, 
 Next door, perchance, and raps with 
 
 fingers light, 
 And beckons, how we close our 
 casement tight, 
 To cower each within our House of 
 
 Fear! 
 We try to think of him in gentle guise, 
 As Christ returned again, God's only 
 
 Son, 
 Or Mary, beggared of her little one, 
 Seeking new babes to fondle, mother- 
 wise. 
 O Death, thou desecrator of each 
 shrine, 
 
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 XXI 
 
 THE red-tongued flame leaps round 
 our hearth-log fast, 
 The bark splits, and the tree's white 
 
 heart lies bare; 
 A stalwart Caesar of the peaks 
 sprawls there, 
 While all the legions of his years 
 
 march past. 
 The lawless wind that sweeps across 
 the world, 
 Hath scourged his branches with its 
 
 mighty flail — 
 Decades of storm assaulted with their 
 gale— 
 The taloned eagle round his crest hath 
 whirled. 
 
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XXII 
 WOULD not have my life blaze 
 
 like the sun, 
 To light the world and dazzle with 
 
 its glare; 
 I'd rather be the flow'r in Night's 
 dark hair — 
 The twilight star, that shines when 
 
 day is done. 
 I would not have my life a river, mired 
 With ships of many cargoes, and 
 
 much gold ; 
 I'd rather be the mountain brook— 
 the cold, 
 Clear waters of refreshment for the 
 tired. 
 
I would not have my life a hot high- 
 way, 
 Resounding with the tramp of human 
 
 feet, 
 The market-place where all the 
 passions meet, 
 
 And even children have no time to 
 play.— 
 
 Nay, I would be a path up to the crest, 
 
 A ribbon stretched across the Hills of 
 Rest. 
 
XXIII 
 
 IF you would seek the trail to that 
 domain 
 Where Joy and Laughter reign in 
 
 joint estate, 
 Where Care slips from your shoul- 
 ders as the late 
 Drought flees the tapping fingers of 
 
 the Rain — 
 Just strap your knapsack to your back, 
 and fare 
 Across the yellow desert sands that 
 
 lie 
 Beyond those temple-pillars of the 
 sky, 
 The Rockies — tow'ring through the 
 ages there — 
 
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 Until at last you come thus, gypsy- 
 wise, 
 Into a garden which the Lord hath 
 
 sown, 
 And smiled upon, and cherished for 
 His own,— 
 
 Lo, here that realm of Joy and Laugh- 
 ter lies ! 
 
 O Mirth, are you forever beck'ning 
 there, 
 
 Where Youth sits smiling 'neath her 
 tangled hair? 
 
I 
 
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 XXIV 
 
 HEARKEN, O Keeper of the Keys 
 of Heav'n, 
 To me, a beggar at the outer gate. 
 I crave not wealth, success, nor high 
 estate — 
 Grant me the patience of the Virgins 
 
 Seven ! 
 
 For life's great crises strength springs 
 
 up full-armed, — 
 
 Undaunted I can grapple the unseen ; 
 
 But, oh, the nagging army of routine 
 
 Which marches past my bulwarks, all 
 
 unharmed. 
 Oh, teach me how to fly the flag of 
 truce 
 
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 From my high tow'r, and not to 
 
 break my sword 
 In anger on that Briareus' horde ; 
 But let me make mine enemy of use ! 
 Mine be the strength to sing upon my 
 
 way, 
 And trim the little lamp of everyday! 
 
XXV 
 
 EAR HEART, whose love I have 
 been blessed with so, 
 Whose ev'ry dream has been for my 
 
 poor sake, — 
 If, in the end, each one of us might 
 take 
 His choicest treasure into Heav'n, I 
 
 know 
 How rich I'd be accounted, who could 
 bear 
 The white wand of your love to show 
 
 to God, 
 High o'er my head, like to the 
 bloss'ming rod 
 Of Aaron, lifted on the summer air. 
 
■13 !8 1311 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div, 
 
 MJG 17 ^*t 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 ■MR 
 
 018 604 907 R