



Produced by Mardi Desjardins




POEMS

by

"Josiah Allen's Wife,"
(Marietta Holley)




DEDICATION.


When I wrote many of these verses I was much younger than I am now,
and the "sweetest eyes in the world" would brighten over them,
through the reader's love for me.  I dedicate them to her memory
--the memory of
MY MOTHER.



Contents

WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?
THE BROTHERS
A RICH MAN'S REVERIE
GLORIA THE TRUE
THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER
SONGS OF THE SWALLOW
THE COQUETTE
LITTLE NELL
THE FISHER'S WIFE
THE LAND OF LONG AGO
LEMOINE
SLEEP
THE LADY MAUD
THE HAUNTED CASTLE
THE STORY OF GLADYS
FAREWELL
THE KNIGHT OF NORMANDY
SOMETIME
MOTIVES
NIGHTFALL
HIS PLACE
A DREAM OF SPRING
WAITING
A SONG FOR TWILIGHT
THE FLIGHT
COMFORT
JENNY ALLEN
THE UNSEEN CITY
THE WAGES OF SIN
ISABELLE AND I
GOOD-BY
THE SEA-CAPTAIN'S WOOING
IONE
SUMMER DAYS
THE LADY CECILE
HOME
STEPS WE CLIMB
SQUIRE PERCY'S PRIDE
ROSES OF JUNE
MAGDALENA
MY ANGEL
GRIEF
WILD OATS
AUTUMN
THE FAIREST LAND
THE MESSENGER
SLEEP
THE SONG OF THE SIREN
EIGHTEEN SIXTY-TWO
AWEARY
TOO LOW
AT LAST
TWILIGHT
THE SEWING-GIRL
HARRY THE FIRST
THE CRIMINAL'S BETROTHED
GONE BEFORE
A WOMAN'S HEART
WARNING
GENIEVE TO HER LOVER
THE WILD ROSE
OUR BIRD
THE TIME THAT IS TO BE




PREFACE.


All through my busy years of prose writing I have occasionally
jotted down idle thoughts in rhyme.  Imagining ideal scenes,
ideal characters, and then, as is the way, I suppose, with more
ambitious poets, trying to put myself inside the personalities
I have invoked, trying to feel as they would be likely to, speak
the words I fancied they would say.

The many faults of my verses I can see only too well; their merits,
if they have any, I leave with the public--which has always been
so kind to me--to discover.

And half-hopefully, half-fearfully, I send out the little craft
on the wide sea strewn with so many wrecks.  But thinking it must
be safer from adverse winds because it carries so low a sail, and
will cruise along so close to the shore and not try to sail out
in the deep waters.

And so I bid the dear little wanderer (dear to me), God-speed, and
bon voyage.

Marietta Holley.

New York, June, 1887.






WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?


It is not the lark's clear tone
Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry,
Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sounds of summer;
But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly
And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight--
These help to make the summer.

Not roses redly blown,
Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads,
Nor proud imperial <DW29>s, nor queen-cups quaint and rare--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sights of summer
But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds
And slender grasses, springing up everywhere--
These help to make the summer.

One heaven bends above;
The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest;
O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low,
Is the same love, it is all God's summer;
Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best,
So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow,
You help to make the summer.



THE BROTHERS.


High on a rocky cliff did once a gray old castle stand,
From whence rough-bearded chieftains led their vassals--ruled
        the land.
For centuries had dwelt here sire and son, till it befell,
Last of their ancient line, two brothers here alone did dwell.

The eldest was stern-visaged, but the youngest smooth and fair
Of countenance; both zealous, men who bent the knee in prayer
To God alone; loved much, read much His holy word,
And prayed above all gifts desired, that they might see
        their Lord.

For this the elder brother carved a silent cell of stone,
And in its deep and dreary depths he entered, dwelt alone,
And strove with scourgings, vigils, fasts, to purify his gaze,
And sought amidst these shadows to behold the Master's face.

And from the love of God that smiles on us from bright
        lipped flowers,
And from the smile of God that