To John Townsend Trowbridge

    Gay Summer sees the flowering
    Of buds that were the gift of Spring;
    And Winter counts the ripened sheaves
    That Autumn harvested. Who grieves
    When he at length has won the race,
    Or backward then his way would trace?

    Oh, honored Poet, Wit, and Sage,
    This birthday marks an open page,
    And here before its record's writ,
    These words we would inscribe on it.
    "Thou, upon whom thy years fourscore
    So lightly sit, thou hast a store
    Of memories such as they alone
    May have whose hearts all truth have known.
    Now may this year bring thee no less
    Than all the past of happiness!"

        (On his eightieth birthday.)

Helen Leah Reed

Helen Leah Reed (1860-1926) was an American author and poet, renowned for her contributions to children's literature and her historical novels. She was an influential literary figure of her time, often remembered for her stories that blended education with entertainment. Reed's works reflected her deep knowledge and interest in history, making her a notable figure in early 20th-century American literature.

Helen Leah Reed

Trimming

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

The Soarer

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

Song Of Spring

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

To Apollo. I-31 (From The Odes Of Horace)

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

English

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A Birthday Walk.

(WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY.)

"The days of our life are threescore years and ten."


A birthday: - and a day that rose
    With much of hope, with meaning rife -
A thoughtful day from dawn to close:
    The middle day of human life.

In sloping fields on narrow plains,
    The sheep were feeding on their knees
As we went through the winding lanes,
    Strewed with red buds of alder-trees.

So warm the day - its influence lent
    To flagging thought a stronger wing;
So utterly was winter spent,
    So sudden was the birth of spring.

Wild crocus flowers in copse and hedge -
    In sunlight, clustering thick below,
Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge,
    Where sparkled yet a line of snow.

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The Birthday

Sweetheart, where all the dancing joys compete
Take now your choice; the world is at your feet,
All turned into a gay and shining pleasance,
And every face has smiles to greet your presence.
    Treading on air,
    Yourself you look more fair;
And the dear Birthday-elves unseen conspire
To flush your cheeks and set your eyes on fire.

Mayhap they whisper what a birthday means
That sets you spinning through your pretty teens.
A slim-grown shape adorned with golden shimmers
Of tossing hair that streams and waves and glimmers,
    Lo, how you run
    In mere excess of fun,
Or change to silence as you stand and hear
Some kind old tale that moves you to a tear.

And, since this is your own bright day, my dear,
Of all the days that gem the sparkling ...

R. C. Lehmann

A Word To Two Young Ladies.

WHEN tender Rose-trees first receive
On half-expanded Leaves, the Shower;
Hope's gayest pictures we believe,
And anxious watch each coining flower.

Then, if beneath the genial Sun
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Two infant Stems the rest out-run,
Their buds the first to meet the day,

With joy their op'ning tints we view,
While morning's precious moments fly:
My pretty Maids, 'tis thus with you;
The fond admiring gazer, I.

Preserve, sweet Buds, where'er you be;
The richest gem that decks a Wife;
The charm of female modesty:
And let sweet Music give it life.

Still may the favouring Muse be found:
Still circumspect the paths ye tread:
Plant moral truths in Fancy's ground;
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The Old Shepherd

    'T is pleasant to bear recollections in mind
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    And compare them with frowns of to-day.
    'T was the constant delight of Old Robin, forsooth,
    On the past with clear vision to dwell--
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    "'T is now many years," like a child, he would say,
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    Since I tied up the flowers for the garland of May,
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To H.A.B. on My Forty-Seventh Birthday

When one is forty years and seven,
Is seven and forty sad years old,
He looks not onward for his Heaven,
The future is too blank and cold,
Its pale flowers smell of graveyard mould;
He looks back to his lifeful past;
If age is silver, youth is gold:-
Could youth but last, could youth but last!

He turns back toward his youthful past
A-throb with life and love and hope,
Whose long-dead joys in memory last,
Whose shining days had ample scope;
He turns and lingers on the slope
Whose dusk leads down to sightless death:-
The sun once crowned that darkening cope,
And song once thrilled this weary breath.

Ali, he plods wearily to death,
Adown the gloaming into night,
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To Hilda

ON HER SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY.


Now has rich time brought you a gift of gold -
A long sweet year which you can shape at will,
And deck with roses warm, or with the chill
And heartless lilies - GOD gives strength to mould
Our days, and lives, with fingers firm and bold,
And make them noble, straight and clean from ill,
Though few are willing, and their years they fill
With dross which they regret when they are old.

What splendid hours of your life are these
When youth and childhood wander hand in hand,
And give you freely all which best can please -
Laughter and friends and dreams of Fairyland!
Mourn not the seasons past with useless tears,
But greet the pleasure of the coming years!

FRANCE, 1917.

Paul Bewsher