What Look Hath She
What look hath she,
What majestie,
That must so high approve her?
What graces move
That I so love,
That I so greatly love her?
No majestie
But Truth hath She;
Thoughts sweet and gracious move her;
That straight approve
My heart to love,
And all my life to love her!
poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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`What Look hath She?
What look hath she,
What majestie,
That must so high approve her?
What graces move
That I so love,
That I so greatly love her?
No majestie
But Truth hath She;
Thoughts sweet and gracious move her;
That straight approve
My heart to love,
And all my life to love her!
poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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Resurgam
(Autumn Song)
Chill breezes moaning are
Where leaves hang yellow:
O'er the grey hills afar
Flies the last swallow;
To come again, my love, to come again
Blithe with the summer.
But Ah! the long months ere we welcome then
That bright new comer.
Cold lie the flowers and dead
Where leaves are falling.
Meekly they bowed and sped
At Autumn's calling.
To come again, my love, to come again
Blithe with the swallow.
Ah! might I dreaming lie at rest till then,
Or rise and follow!
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poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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We go no more to the Forest
WE go no more to the forest,
The rimus are all cut down.
They are built into roof and sill and wall,
Into floors that thrill to the last foot-fall
In the dancing of the town.
We go no more to the forest,
The kauris are all cut down.
They are built into ships so stout and strong,
Bearing their cargoes safe along,
Sailing from town to town.
We go no more to the forest,
The ratas are all cut down.
There are cornfields, golden and green and wide,
For the tangled depths where a world might hide,
And our lawns lie smooth in town.
We go no more to the forest:
Young, wild things are all cut down.
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poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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The Blessing
THE MASTER He was hungry:
‘Shall we not dine,’ said He,
‘On the good fruit amongst the leaves
Of this delightful tree?’
But oh! the fig-tree bore no fruit.
‘Wither,’ He bade it, ‘to the root,
For thus deceiving me.’
The Master He was hungry.
He plucked the grains so red
Of wheat that grew beside the way,
And He was bravely fed.
‘For this,’ He said, ‘I guerdon thee,
Through all the years, a type to be
Of Christ, the Living Bread.’
The Master He was thirsty.
He raised His hand on high,
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poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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`Resurgam
(Autumn Song)
Chill breezes moaning are
Where leaves hang yellow:
O'er the grey hills afar
Flies the last swallow;
To come again, my love, to come again
Blithe with the summer.
But Ah! the long months ere we welcome then
That bright new comer.
Cold lie the flowers and dead
Where leaves are falling.
Meekly they bowed and sped
At Autumn's calling.
To come again, my love, to come again
Blithe with the swallow.
Ah! might I dreaming lie at rest till then,
Or rise and follow!
[...] Read more
poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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Empty Houses
I
THERE’S not a person in the street,
This merry-making summer day!
The houses stand in dull array;
No profit on their doors to beat,
For all their owners are away.
The gardens blossom white and red
All solitary in the sun,
Save where some timid creatures run;
Secure across the lawns to tread,
No human dangers here to shun,—
Since men have gone on holiday;
Have left the still, suburban street
For that wide park, where people meet
In pleasures till the eve is grey.
Oh, but the home-coming is sweet!
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poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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Distant Authors
"Aqui esta encerrada el alma licenciado Pedro Garcias."
Dear books! and each the living soul,
Our hearts aver, of men unseen,
Whose power to strengthen, charm, control,
Surmounts all earth's green miles between.
For us at least the artists show
Apart from fret of work-day jars:
We know them but as friends may know,
Or they are known beyond the stars.
Their mirth, their grief, their soul's desire,
When twilight murmuring of streams,
Or skies far touched by sunset fire,
Exalt them to pure worlds of dreams;
Their love of good; their rage at wrong;
Their hours when struggling thought makes way;
Their hours when fancy drifts to song
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poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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Song of the Trees
1
WE are the Trees.
Our dark and leafy glade
Bands the bright earth with softer mysteries.
Beneath us changed and tamed the seasons run:
In burning zones, we build against the sun
Long centuries of shade.
2
We are the Trees,
Who grow for man’s desire,
Heat in our faithful hearts, and fruits that please.
Dwelling beneath our tents, he lightly gains
The few sufficiencies his life attains—
Shelter, and food, and fire.
3
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poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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Saturday Night
Saturday night in the crowded town;
Pleasure and pain going up and down,
Murmuring low on the ear there beat
Echoes unceasing of voice and feet.
Withered age, with its load of care,
Come in this tumult of life to share,
Childhood glad in its radiance brief,
Happiest-hearted or bowed with grief,
Meet alike, as the stars look down
Week by week on the crowded town.
~And in a kingdom of mystery,
Rapt from this weariful world to see
Magic sights in the yellow glare,
Breathing delight in the gas-lit air,
Careless of sorrow, of grief or pain,
Two by two, again and again,
Strephon and Chloe together move,
Walking in Arcady, land of love.~
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poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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