Poetry

Fairies

Out of the dust of dreams,
Fairies weave their garments;
Out of the purple and rose of old memories,
They make rainbow wings.
No wonder we find them such marvellous things!

Winter Sweetness

The little house is sugar,
Its roof with snow is piled,
And from its tiny window,
Peeps a maple-sugar child.

Signs of Spring

Bright, jolly sunshine and clear blue skies,
Green trees and gardens and gay butterflies,
Soft little winds that balmy blow,
A golden moon with a love light glow,
And the music of bird songs, blithe and clear,
Are the things which tell us that Spring is here.

An April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head
With silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
With its pitty-pat.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep tune
On our roof at night,
And I love the rain.

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Aunt Sue’s Stories

Aunt Sue has a head full of stories.
Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stories.
Summer nights on the front porch
Aunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosom
And tells him stories.

Black slaves
Working in the hot sun,
And black slaves
Walking in the dewy night,
And black slaves
Singing sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty river
Mingle themselves softly
In the flow of old Aunt Sue’s voice,
Mingle themselves softly
In the dark shadows that cross and recross
Aunt Sue’s stories.

And the dark-faced child, listening,
Knows that Aunt Sue’s stories are real stories.
He knows that Aunt Sue
Never got her stories out of any book at all,
But that they came
Right out of her own life.

And the dark-faced child is quiet
Of a summer night
Listening to Aunt Sue’s stories.

The Lament of a Vanquished Beau

Willy is a silly boy,
Willy is a cad.
Willy is a foolish kid,
Sense he never had.
Yet all the girls like Willy—
Why I cannot see—
He even took my best girl
Right away from me.

I asked him did he want to fight,
But all he did was grin
And answer, “Don’t be guilty
Of such a brutal sin.”
Oh, Willy’s sure a silly boy,
He really is a cad,
Because he took the only girl
That I ’most ever had.

Her hair’s so long and pretty
And her eyes are very gay;
I guess that she likes Willy
’Cause he’s handsome, too, they say.
But for me, he’s not good looking;
And he sure has made me mad,
’Cause he went and took the only girl
That I ’most ever had.

Mister Sandman

The Sandman walks abroad tonight,
With his canvas sack o’ dreams filled tight.

Over the roofs of the little town,
The golden face of the moon looks down.

Each Mary and Willy and Cora and Ned
Is sound asleep in some cozy bed,

When the Sandman opens his magic sack
To select the dreams from his wonder pack.

“Ah,” says the Sandman, “To this little girl
I’ll send a dream like a precious pearl.”

So to Mary Jane, who’s been good all day,
A fairy comes in her sleep to play;

But for Corinne Ann, who teased the cat,
There’s a horrid dream of a horrid rat,

And the greedy boy, with his stomach too full,
Has a bad, bad dream of a raging bull;

While for tiny babes, a few days old,
Come misty dreams, all rose and gold.

And for every girl and every boy
The Sandman has dreams that can please or annoy.

When at pink-white dawn, with his night’s work done,
He takes the road toward the rising sun,

He goes straight on without a pause
To his house in the land of Santa Claus.

But at purple night-fall he’s back again
To distribute his dreams, be it moon light or rain;

And good little children get lovely sleep toys;
But woe to the bad little girls and boys!

For those who’d have dreams that are charming and sweet,
Must be good in the day and not stuff when they eat,

’Cause old Mister Sandman, abroad each night,
Has a dream in his sack to fit each child just right.