-Mildred Whitney Stillman

Pansies, pensées, little thoughts in flower,

Tender fancies sprung to life

In the twilight hour.

Hopes— too subtle for confession,

Dreams— too sweet to find expression—

Far too shy, for human ear,

Touched the ground, and blossomed there. 

I know that up in Cornwall now

The buds are on the apple bough,

And every valley farm is bright

With blooming pear tree's bridal white,

And golden throated warblers trill

Across the green and purple hill.

I know that by the upper brook,

Long stemmed blue violets rise and look

And in the fresh turned garden beds

Young peas and lettuce lift their heads

And all day long the horses plough

In Cornwall now.

But primrose pale and lilac spray

Are fair ambassadors of May,

And here where jangling carbells ring,

My room is radiant with spring.

For nestled in soft wrappings near

Blooms the best blossom of the year.

I am quite sure no rose-bud glows

As pink as Timmy's tiny toes.

I am quite sure no morning skies

Are bluer than my Timmy's eyes,

And no May violet rising slim

Could be so sweet as little Tim.

Here where we came so many times before,

We come again for one last cup of tea.

I push the toast to you, and while I pour

The cream in your green cup I only see

The empty tossing miles that you will cross.

O, it is only human to regret

Love is once more ambassador of  loss.

I count the hours that I shall not forget,

The pleasant hours or your companionship,

Knowing quite well that though the full years fly

It is not only for your wedding trip,

It is forever we must say good-bye.

Your bread and butter note will come again

Then nothing more. Well, do not miss your train.

You have not told me anything to-day

I did not know before. Though dignity

And thought are there, and utter honesty,

Your face holds less of marble than of clay.

Before we ever talked at all I saw

Voluptuousness in your sweet eyes and mouth,

The yielding of the drowsy-lidded South,

I knew that love would be your only law.

You always seemed to me to blossoms bees

Care most for — lilacs in full bloom

Or honey suckle taking all the room

Along the wall — or florid peonies.

To-day you only told me what I knew

I never asked for lavender of you.

Little white bird, with the soft flannel vest,

Cuddle down, cuddle down, into your nest,

Hands never idle, the merry day through,

Faithful rag dolly is waiting for you,

Press your hot cheek on her cool gingham breats,

Cuddle down, cuddle down, into your nest.

Soft in the nursery and loud in the hall,

Little shoes trotted from window to wall,

Now the limp stockinged feet, plead for their rest,

Cuddle down, cuddle down, in your warm nest.

Eyes wide with wonder, from morning till night,

Draw the fringed curtains now, in the dim light,

Smooth out protesting lips, mother knows best,

Cuddle down, cuddle down, into your nest.

The Old South spire is purple

On a heaven of flaming gold,

For the sun has sunk in the Fenway mist

And the river wind blows cold.

The paths of the common grow crowded,

With shoppers hurrying home;

And the shadow crawls

Up the old brick walls

Till it reaches the State House Dome.

Sleep, sleep, wayward sleep.

Will you come to me if I count your sheep?

One and two — one and two.

Throw open the gate and let them through.

Let them linger or let them leap,

What do I want with sleep?

Sleep, sleep, fickle sleep.

The house is hushed. The shadows heap

On bureau and chair. Both doors stand dark.

The fire has faded to one red spark.

Its ashes seep.

Sleep, sleep, wanton sleep.

The gutters drip and the hemlocks weep.

There is no wind in the naked trees

But a grape-vine taps in the stealthy breeze

And drifts are deep.

Sleep, sleep, vanished sleep.

The moon has set where the hills rise steep.

And if I look out there is nothing to see.

There is no one awake in the world but me.

But me and the owls and mice that creep,

Who have all day to sleep.

Gray dew upon the cob-webbed lawn,

That gently dips to the garden close,

Gray sheen alone the lupine stalks,

And silver on the grassy walks,

Between the sweet pea rows.

Gray haze across the heavens drawn,

With white light shining through.

Gray fog between dull sea and sky,

Where anchored sail boats sleeping lie,

Waiting for breezes blue.

Gray-robed, like the pearl morning mist

You — mid the garden flowers

Like some soft fog breath strayed away,

When all her sisters sought the bay,

In the damp early hours.

So shimmering the lifting haze

That softens and endears.

More gentle than the misty skies,

The tender brightness in your eyes,

The love — the tears.