The Little Old Woman
There's a Little Old Woman walks in the night,
Singing her love song like a falling keen;
The Little Old Woman is the heart's delight,
With the gold crown under her hood to tell her queen.
The Little Old Woman's coming up this way,
Playing on her harp-strings a magic air;
There's this one and that one, they may not stay,
Stealing out in the night after the player.
The Little Old Woman is at the door,
Though 'tis a queen she is, in rags she goes,
Open the door to her, long-waited for!
Oh, Love and Delight you are, the Dear Black Rose.
The Little Old Woman she is begging bread;
She shall never go hungry while the ages pass,
With the love of her lovers she shall be fed
And their hearts lie under her feet in the green grass.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Mother of Three
Oh, to have a little farm,
A little hearth so warm and bright,
And three little boys all safe from harm
In from the winter night!
A little house with white-washed wall,
And thatched like any golden rick,
And the little boys within my call,
And they running so quick.
A garden and an apple tree,
And me so busy all the day,
And the little boys at home with me,
Merry out at their play.
There was a woman I've heard tell,
Whose three fine sons were killed. For sure
'Tis good to have them little and well
And just beyond your door.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Riding Home
Who are these that go to the high peaks and the snow?
Side by side do they ride, their steady eyes aglow.
Gallant gentlemen, they go spurring o'er the plain;
Home from the war again.
As they pass without a sound, there is many a red wound.
Oh, pale they are and faint they are, these warriors renowned!
Yet smiling all together in the calm sweet weather,
As they ride home together.
Where the white bed is spread and the feast is set afar
And the welcome awaits and the door stands ajar,
Those who droop to the saddle-bow they shall have rest enow,
Quiet and rest enow.
Like leaves of a wood vast their numbers as they passed,
Like winds in the pines their horses speeding fast;
And spent with victory their haggard faces be,
As they ride fast and free.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Old Love
Out of my door I step into
The country, all her scent and dew,
Nor travel there by a hard road,
Dusty and far from my abode.
The country washes to my door
Green miles on miles in soft uproar,
The thunder of the woods, and then
The backwash of green surf again.
Beyond the feverfew and stocks,
The guelder-rose and hollyhocks;
Outside my trellised porch a tree
Of lilac frames a sky for me.
A stretch of primrose and pale green
To hold the tender Hesper in;
Hesper that by the moon makes pale
Her silver keel and silver sail.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Image
When a wild grace I see,
A turn o' the neck, a curl, sweet hands, clear eyes,
Gentleness, courtesy, dignity;
In all these gifts Thee I surmise, surprise.
All beauty and delight.
Skin like a rose, a beauteous shape, an air
Free and enchanting, give my weary sight
Glimpses of Thee, Thou Beauty past compare.
Strength, courage also are Thine.
And joy of youth and wings that cleave the blue,
Low singing and soft voices, I divine
In these Thy beauty ancient yet ever new.
Oh, when my startled eye
Perceives this beauty league-long, sea and isle
And eagle-crested mountains wild and high,
I catch Thy Maker's thought -- I see Thy smile.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Winter Sunset
Roses in the sky,
Roses in the sea
Bowers of scarlet sky-roses
Take my heart and me.
God was good to make,
This December weather,
All this sky a rose-garden,
Rose and fire together.
To the East are burning
Roses in a garden,
Roses in a rosy field,
Hesper for their warden.
Yonder to the West
Roses all afire,
Mirror now some rare splendid
Rose of their desire.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Lenton Communion
Rest in a friend's house, Dear, I pray:
The way is long to Good Friday,
And very chill and grey the way.
No crocus with its shining cup,
Nor the gold daffodil is up, --
Nothing is here save the snowdrop.
Sit down with me and taste good cheer:
Too soon, too soon, Thy Passion's here;
The wind is keen and the skies drear.
Sit by my fire and break my bread.
Yea, from Thy dish may I be fed,
And under Thy feet my hair spread!
Lord, in the quiet, chill and sweet,
Let me pour water for Thy feet,
While the crowd goes by in the Street.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Colonists
To men now of her blood and race
England's a little garden place,
Dear as a woman is, and she
The Queen of every loyalty.
To dwellers 'mid the ice and snows,
She is their secret garden rose
From which that bee, their heart, sucks off
For the cold Winter honey enough.
To toilers 'mid the sultry plains,
Sick for her tempered suns and rains,
She is the thought that wets their eyes
And hearts with dew of Paradise.
Most loved of those who never knew
Her green o' the silk and her soft blue,
Her mild inviolate fields that be
Hedged with the sweet-briar of the sea.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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They Who Return
To Mrs. Weigall
Into the stricken house who steals on quiet feet
And sudden brings the sunshine it used to wear?
Whose is the tender whisper that turns the bitter sweet?
Whose kiss is on your forehead, whose breath in your hair?
Who sits down beside you in the firelight glow?
Who leans on your shoulder like the boy of old?
Whose is the arm about you that you used to know,
Drawing the sting from your wound, your heart from cold?
Like the rustle of dead leaves in the autumn gloam
Running like little feet on a wind-swept road,
They are coming home so sweetly all the roads of home,
Very flesh of your flesh who belong to God.
The horse in the stable whinnies by the door,
The dog of a sudden is wild with delight.
Who is this he welcomes, long waited for?
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Vision: (Katia: Easter Sunday, 1916)
She had a vision in the dark
Ere the first lark from nest took flight;
She saw her own son from fierce strife
Win to new Life and new Delight.
The clouds were tattered round his head
As sore bested he fought his foe,
Where in the conflict he was ta'en
And slain -- she did not see it so.
She saw indeed his bitter case
In that sad place, parched, without shade,
And how her Christian Knight must fall
In Paynim thrall, should Heaven not aid.
But now what light burns in the cloud?
What voices loud against his ear?
St. Andrew and St. Patrick ride
Close by his side; St. George is near.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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