Tear Stains

        Tear-marks stain from page to page
            This book my fathers left to me,--
        So dull that nothing but its age
            Were worth its freight across the sea.

        But tear stains!    When, by whom, and why?
            Thus takes my fancy to its wings;
        For grief is old, and one may cry
            About so many things!

John Charles McNeill

John Charles McNeill was a prominent American poet known for his works that vividly depicted the landscapes and spirit of North Carolina. Born on July 26, 1874, in Wagram, North Carolina, he won acclaim with his book 'Songs Merry and Sad,' which won the Patterson Cup in 1905. His poetry primarily reflects rural life and Southern traditions. Sadly, McNeill's promising career was cut short when he died on October 17, 1907, at the young age of 33.

John Charles McNeill

To Melvin Gardner: Suicide

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Protest

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Barefooted

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Attraction

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

English

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The Treasure Box.

    I asked Aunt Persis yester-eve, as twilight fell,
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    To bring them forth, and feast her eyes upon their worth,
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    She smiled that slow, warm smile of hers, and drew me down
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Jean Blewett

Then And Now

Beneath her window in the fragrant night
I half forget how truant years have flown
Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
When all is still, as if the very trees
Were listening for the coming of her feet
That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the breeze
Sings some forgotten song of those old years
Until my heart grows far too glad for tears.

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The Tear.

O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
    Felix! in imo qui scatentem
        Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. ^[1]

Gray, 'Alcaic Fragment'.



1.

When Friendship or Love
Our sympathies move;
When Truth, in a glance, should appear,
The lips may beguile,
With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a Tear.


2.

Too oft is a smile
But the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation, or fear;
Give me the soft sigh,
Whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear.


3.

Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,
Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is...

George Gordon Byron

It Is Not The Tear At This Moment Shed.[1]

It is not the tear at this moment shed,
    When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,
That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,
    Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept,
    'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;
'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,
    When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,
    Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
    When we think how we lived but to love them.
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume
    Where buried saints are lying,
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
    From the image he left there in dying!

Thomas Moore

Then And Now

                    Beneath her window in the fragrant night
                    I half forget how truant years have flown
                    Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
                    Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
                    Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
                    Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
                    And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
                    Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
                    Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
                    When all is still, as if the very trees
                    Were listening for the coming of her feet
                    That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the breeze
                    Sings some forgo...

John McCrae

A Boy's Virgil.

Dust on the page, from these forgetful years!
I brush it off, to see the fading date
Written in boyish hand; to find through tears
The lad's dear name, inscribed with all the state
Of the first day's possession; and to read
Along the tell-tale margin, scribbled thick.
Here is the note, 'twas writ with guilty speed
And here the sketch, with guilty pencil quick;
And here's a picture! Was she ever so?
Were these her curls and this her merry look
Who lieth in her old green grave as low
As he is lying? Ah, this faded book!
I think not of the bold and storied wrong
Done for a woman's fairness, nor of strong
And god-like heroes, nor of beauteous youth
In game and battle, but, with heart of ruth,
About this boy, who laughed and played and read
So carelessly! Ah, ...

Margaret Steele Anderson