To My Sister. On Her Birthday.

'T is said that each succeeding year
Another circlet weaves
Within each living, waving tree;
Yet not in buds or leaves,--
But far within the silent core,
The tiny shuttles ply,
At Nature's ever-working loom,
Unseen by human eye.

And thus, within my "heart of hearts,"
Doth this returning day,
Another golden zone complete,
Another circle lay;
And when unto the shadowy past
In retrospect I flee,
I numerate the fleeting years
By deepening love for thee.

Since last we met this sunny day
How bright the hours have flown!
Youth, Love, and Hope, with fadeless light,
Around our way have shone;
And if a shadow from the past
Has floated o'er the dream,
'T was softened, like a violet cloud
Reflected in a stream.

Yet if an hour of bitter grief,
Should e'er thy spirit claim,
May it the trying ordeal pass,
As gold the fiery flame;
And may the years that bind our hearts
In love that cannot die,
Still draw us hourly nearer God,
And nearer to the sky.

Mary Gardiner Horsford

Mary Gardiner Horsford was an American poet born in Albany, New York. She was known for her thoughtful and evocative poetry. Gardiner displayed a remarkable talent for literary expression from an early age and contributed to various literary magazines. However, her life was tragically cut short when she passed away at the young age of 31. Despite her brief life, her works left a lasting impression on American literature.

Mary Gardiner Horsford

The Phantom Bride. - Indian Legends.

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

The Child's Appeal.

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

Spring Lilies.

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

English

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To Anne On Her Birthday

Let mirth and joy a season reign
    And sorrow flee away
Sadness were perfect sin it is
    My Anne's natal day

And now a birthday rhyme for her
    This sister of my own
Accept the song then for my sake
    Sister and only one

So long we've lived together here
    Our hopes and fears the same
Like two of autumn's last grown leaves
    Last of our race and name

The past we know its grief and joy
    Its pleasure and its pain
But know not what may happen ere
    Your birthday comes again

Shall we be cradled in the deep
    Beneath the briny wave?
Or shall the white deer lightly bound
    Over my forest grave?

Or living yet divided far
    With lands and seas between
And sorrow reigning in the hearts

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To my Daughter on her Birthday.

Darling child, to thee I owe,
More than others here will know;
Thou hast cheered my weary days,
With thy coy and winsome ways.
When my heart has been most sad,
Smile of thine has made me glad;
In return, I wish for thee,
Health and sweet felicity.
May thy future days be blest,
With all things the world deems best.
If perchance the day should come,
Thou does leave thy childhood's home;
Bound by earth's most sacred ties,
With responsibilities,
In another's life to share,
Wedded joys and worldly care;
May thy partner worthy prove, -
Richest in thy constant love.
Strong in faith and honour, just, -
With brave heart on which to trust.
One, to whom when troubles come,
And the days grow burdensome,
Thou canst fly, with confidence
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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.

And crowded...

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To My Sister, On Her Twenty-First Birthday.

    I.

    Old fables are not all a lie
    That tell of wondrous birth,
    Of Titan children, father Sky,
    And mighty mother Earth.

    Yea, now are walking on the ground
    Sons of the mingled brood;
    Yea, now upon the earth are found
    Such daughters of the Good.

    Earth-born, my sister, thou art still
    A daughter of the sky;
    Oh, climb for ever up the hill
    Of thy divinity!

    To thee thy mother Earth is sweet,
    Her face to thee is fair;
    But thou, a goddess incomplete,
    Must climb the starry stair.


    II.

    Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend,
    Wouldst see the Father's face?
    To all his other children bend,
    And take the lowest place.

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To Annie On Her Birthday.

Sister, sweet sister, years have passed away,
    Since first, 'mid warm hearts, sunny, frank and true,
I commenced rhyming on thy natal day,
    On the green sod where Erin's shamrock grew.

'Twas in that age that ne'er returns again,
    Whose tears are but as dew on Summer flowers;
And young, warm hearts beat kindly round us then,
    And eyes beamed brightly, answering love to ours

And now an exile from my native land,
    Thinking of well remembered, loved Grace Hill,
To mine own sister verses I will send,
    Worthless, yet proving that I love her still

It is thy birthday, and I am alone,
    Thinking of that dear land that gave us birth,
The land of hearts that beat to truth alone,
    The brightest emerald gem of all the earth.

T...

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Verses Sent To A Lady On Her Birthday.

The joyous day illumes the sky
That bids each care and sorrow fly
To shades of endless night:
E'en frozen age, thawed in the fires
Of social mirth, feels young desires,
And tastes of fresh delight.

In thoughtful mood your parents dear,
Whilst joy smiles through the starting tear,
Give approbation due.
As each drinks deep in mirthful wine
Your rosy health, and looks benign
Are sent to heaven for you.

But let me whisper, lovely fair,
This joy may soon give place to care,
And sorrow cloud this day;
Full soon your eyes of sparkling blue,
And velvet lips of scarlet hue,
Discoloured, may decay.

As bloody drops on virgin snows,
So vies the lily with the rose
Full on your dimpled cheek;
But ah! the worm in lazy coil
May ...

Patrick Bronte