Category: poetry

From Ailenroc’s Book, by Cornelia Alexander

Last night in dreams I wandered
By the river’s pebbly strand,
While a bonnie boy and winsome girl
Held me by either hand.

But in my dream they vanished,
Though I sought them far and wide
With prayers and tears of anguish
By the river’s rolling tide.

I awoke. Wet was my pillow
With my unavailing tears,
And I knew that my bonnie babes
Were gone on the tide of years.

From Ailenroc’s Book, by Cornelia Alexander

What is my life like? Some murky river
Swept by wild winds upon its way,
Where willows weep and shrinking aspens quiver
And poisonous vapors cloud the sunny day.

Upon the green banks lie in beauty sleeping
Full many a golden dream, too bright to last;
But, ah! the rapid river, onward sweeping,
Leaves them among the treasures of the past.

Sometimes the sky is blue and birds are singing,
And winds float laden with the breath of flowers,
While in the distance, clearly ringing,
Joy bells are telling out the happy hours.

Again dim clouds come rolling o’er me,
Casting their shadows on my weary soul,
While dim and darker grows the way before me,
Where vivid lightnings flash and thunders roll.

Then is my life most like a river, rushing
In fierce, impetuous haste its course along,
While the wild rain in bitter tears comes gushing,
Swelling its bosom with a sense of wrong—

Wrong, that so oft across the sky come sailing
Dark clouds to hide from me the genial sun;
Wrong, that the breeze should change to wailing;
Wrong, that my hopes should ne’er be won.

Yet in my darkest hours a voice comes stealing
From my soul’s chamber: “Let His will be done.”
Then sweet and low the Sabbath bells are pealing,
And shines again the glorious sun.

The end will come full soon. This restless river
Will some day reach the grand and mighty sea;
This heaving, troubled heart will rest forever
In the still waters of eternity.

From Ailenroc’s Book, by Cornelia Alexander

They drew around the festal board,
Where hearts beat high with mirth and joy,
And bubbles danced on beaker’s brim—
‘Twas fairyland to that fair boy.

Old age was there, and manhood’s prime,
And smiling beauty fresh and fair,
Who bowed to toasts of flashing eyes,
To smiling lips and flowing hair.

“What will you take?” the waiter asked,
And paused to hear the youth’s reply,
Who, all unused to such gay scenes,
Upon his father turns his eye;

And as the waiter smiling stands,
His sweet, young voice the silence breaks
In flutelike music on the air:
“I’ll take whatever father takes.”

A thrill ran through the father’s heart,
A thrill of pain, and yet of joy.
He saw a way to guide the feet
Of his bright, trusting boy.

A nobler look grew on his brow,
Even as the ruby wine went by.
“Waiter,” he said, “bring water pure
For this my boy and I.”

O, fathers, will you stop and think,
Lest some day your sad heart should break
Because a son has gone to ruin
From taking what he saw his father take?