The Calendar and Other Verses Part 1

The Calendar and Other Verses.

by Irving Sidney Dix.

Foreword

About a year ago, having collected all those poems and verses which I considered of any value, I took a certain pride in the thought that I might soon bring under one roof these imaginary children of mine, so that they might be sheltered in time of storm, as it were, from the cold, and oftimes unfeeling world of commerce but where friends of poetry, who had met with some of my stray children of verse in public journals, might meet with them again, if they desired, with other friendly faces around one common fireside.

But I found that the expense incident to such a venture was so great that unless a large number of copies were sold I would be involved in a larger debt than I cared to contract. Then the plan of securing sufficient advance subscriptions to meet part of the expense of a first edition occurred to me, thereby following the method of Tennyson, Robert Burns and others, of whose example I needed not to be ashamed, but other work prevented me, and still prevents me, from carrying out this plan.

So lest those friends who have shown an interest in my verses should think that I have turned aside from the Path of Poetry, I herewith offer "The Calendar and Other Verses," as evidence of my love for and interest in the greatest of all the arts, hoping that the time may come when I shall be able to present a more worthy offering to the Muses and perhaps justify the kind words that have recently appeared in regards to the author of "The Quiet Life"--A Plain Poem of the Hills, which, in a revised form, appeared serially during the past summer in The Wayne Countean.

I. S. D.

Part 1

JANUARY

Come walk a mile with me--'Tis January; The knee-deep snow lies heavy on the ground And hark!--the icy winds--how swift they hurry Over the fields with melancholy sound; And save these winds or some forsaken raven, Winging its way along yon frozen hill, Nature is hush'd--her dormant image graven In marble masks on woodland, lake and rill.

And look!--the trees their naked trunks are swaying, As bitterly each blast goes howling by, And hark!--the music in the hemlocks playing, Like some lost spirit banished from the sky, And see the smoke from yonder chimney curling, Hugs the broad roofs, deep-burden'd with the snow, While clouds of snow are round the low eaves whirling.

How cold it is!--Come, let us homeward go There will we find the cheerful fire still burning, There ruddy warmth will make our faces glow, And there kind hearts will welcome our returning; Come!--let us hasten through the drifty snow.

FEBRUARY.

Come walk a mile with me--'Tis February; The sun is creeping slowly toward the North, And every breeze to-day seems blithe and merry, And prophets of the Spring are waking forth-- The hungry ground-hog casts a thin, gray shadow Beside his open villa, dark and cold, And the starv'd hare surveys the icy meadow, And chipmonks chatter in the leafless wold.

And hark!--the blue-jay's fife is sounding shrilly, And merry chickadees are piping loud, E'en though the bitter North-wind's breath is chilly, And the great trees are low before him bow'd; And see!--the Lady of the South is creeping Higher and higher--'Tis the hour of noon, And sad-eyed Winter by yon brook is weeping,-- Yon little brook that sings a pleasant tune.

Yet, as the sun is with the day declining, Swift, darkening clouds are gathering in the West, Where the snow-fairies are again designing Another robe for Nature's barren breast.

MARCH.

Come walk a mile with me--'Tis March and windy, And Winter's dying breath comes hard and fast, And hark!--the storm, like death-bells of a Sunday, Tolls the sad knell upon the icy blast; Louder and louder now the winds are wailing, Faster and faster wings the frozen snow, Darker and darker the cold clouds are sailing, As the March-storm goes hurrying to and fro.

But see!--the sun above the clouds is creeping, And look!--soft flakes are falling, one by one, And Winter, pale in death, lies gently sleeping, While Spring awakes e'er half the day is done.

And soon the sun, like some great hearth is burning, Melting the ghosts of Winter on the hills, And hark!--the robin from the South returning, Joins the glad music of the murmuring rills, And now the farmer-boy, whose heart is leaping, Gathers the sap that sings a merry song, While the blue-birds sweet melodies are keeping, And noisy squirrels leap the trees among.

APRIL.

Come walk a mile with me--'Tis April weather; A voice like Spring is calling: Let us go Where violets are blooming on the heather, And song-birds bend the branches to and fro; For everywhere the very ground is springing, And everywhere the gra.s.s is getting green-- How can I now--how can I keep from singing When all the world is like a fairy scene!

The buds in all the trees, are ripe for bursting, And fleecy catkins flutter everywhere, And every little flower seems a-thirsting For something sweet and beautiful and fair.

But look!--to Westward--see!--an April shower Sudden has gathered, darkening the sun, Yet wait!--beside me lifts a gentle flower, That lights my pathway, blossoming alone; And hark!--O hark, the meadow-lark is singing, Greeting the storm from yon tall maple tree, While, like a herald in its homeward winging, Wheels a lone flicker o'er the darkening lea.

MAY

Come walk a mile with me--'Tis merry May-time; The little lambs are gamboling on the green,-- Nature is glad--it is her hour of playtime, And now, or never, her true heart is seen; The b.u.t.terflies are floating down from heaven, And humming-birds again are on the wing,-- And the kind swallows, seventy times seven, Fill all the air with merry murmuring.

And see the lilacs by yon cottage blooming!-- How sweet the air is!--sweetness everywhere, For look!--rich apple-blossoms are perfuming This little lane that leads to woodlands fair,-- Here honeysuckle-bells are softly swinging, And pink azaleas perfume all the wood, And, in the trees, the vireos are singing Incessantly their songs of solitude, While round the hill, as slow our steps are wending, We hear a sweet Voice calling,--"Come, O come!"

For see!--the sun is in the West decending, And happy hearts are waiting us at home.

JUNE

Come walk a mile with me--'Tis June,--fair June-day, And Nature smiles--her magic hands are still, For not a ripple stirs yon lake at noon-day, And not a breeze disturbs this woody hill; But hark!--what idle dreamer there is drumming?

It is--it is a pheasant calling--"Come!"

And listen!--like a low voice sweetly humming Is heard the brook within its forest home.

But wait!--We cannot wait--'Twill soon be Summer, So let us now enjoy these days of June, For hear ye not that late, but welcome comer, Robert-of-Lincoln carroling his tune; And see ye not yon oriole high swinging His basket from that tall and leafy tree-- O Comrade, Comrade!--Time is swiftly winging,-- 'Twill not be always June with you and me; Spring-time is pa.s.sing--Summer is a-coming, And soon fair Autumn with her idle dreams, And then cold Winter, her White hands benumbing The icy lakes and silent, woodland streams!

O Comrade!--Comrade!--let us not be weary, But pick life's pretty blossoms while they bloom, Forgetting every prospect, sad or dreary, Avoiding every lane that leads to gloom!

For see!--each flower lifts a golden chalice Inviting us to drink--Shall we pa.s.s by, With faces sad, nor enter this fair palace That June has rear'd us 'neath a cloudless sky?

PART TWO.

JULY.

Come walk a mile with me--'Tis July weather; The western sun is burning round and bright, And not a breeze disturbs yon tiny feather From a young swallow loosen'd in its flight; But hark!--in yonder broad and sunlit meadow The sound of busy mowers fill the air, While from a tree that casts a pleasing shadow, Is heard the locust piping shrilly there.

And see, how strong men lift the scented gra.s.ses!

And how they pile the wagons with the hay!

How fast the rake, with rolling burden, pa.s.ses!

How regular the long, round winrows lay!

And see!--the sun--the great round sun is setting, Like a red rose upon the distant hill, Till all the earth seems tenderly forgetting Day's dying light on meadow, lake and rill; But come!--for darkness soon will gather round us, And we must pa.s.s through yonder woodlands there; And then white fields of buckwheat will surround us, And then--then--home we shall together share.

AUGUST

Come walk a mile with me--'Tis August. Listen!

The meadow-quail is whistling merrily, And see!--the dew-drops, like great diamonds, glisten On gra.s.s and shrub and bush and bending tree; And everywhere is peace and joy and plenty, For everywhere this morning we may go One seed of Spring has well returned its twenty, Till Autumn's face with goodness is aglow.

Yes, oaten fields are white and ripe for reaping, And green things paling in the garden there Tell us too well that Summer is a-sleeping, And harvest-time is on us unaware; The early apples even now are falling, The ta.s.sel'd corn, the fields of ripening rye, The purpling grape--all, all are sadly calling That Summer's glory, too, must fade and die.

But hark!--what sound is that!--it seems like thunder, And yet 'tis but the wind, within the trees,-- The far-off wind, fresh-filled with nameless wonder,-- A prophesy of Autumn's freshening breeze.

SEPTEMBER