Newspaper Poetry

Category: Grand Forks Daily Herald

  • Company K

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, April 8, 1915. By Gilbert Fletcher.

    He sang and hummed in his workshop,
        Whittled and carved all day,
    That the children of many nations
        Could have his toys for play.

    Rank after rank of soldiers,
        Wonderfully finished and done,
    Stood on the shelves above him,
        Armed with their wooden guns.

    Company I was finished.
        He was carving at Company K,
    Dreaming of children who’d love them
        In lands that were far away.

    Dreamed of a child commander,
        Of his wooden soldiers arow,
    Facing a Teddy bear peril,
        Bent on destroying the foe.

    Laughed and sang and was happy,
        As he thought of these men at war,
    When the bear charged in among them
        And scattered them over the floor.

    Company K is unfinished,
        Unpainted and covered with dust.
    Their helmets are tarnished and dingy
        And speckled with spots of rust.

    They have waited long in this armory shop
        For the swing of the workshop door,
    Trying to fathom and figure the time
        That he will be gone to war.

    So they can’t understand why this woman
        Cried in this shop today
    As she tenderly kissed the dusty men
        Who were to be Company K.

  • Her Gifts

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 19, 1915. By L. M. Montgomery.

    She gave not out of her golden store,
        For no golden store had she,
    And faithful love was her only wealth
        For a gracious ministry.
    But royal gifts to the world she gave
        With every quiet day,
    And many a heart was richer far
        Because she had passed that way.

    She gave of her truest sympathy
        To those who were worn and sad;
    She gave a song in a darksome place
        That made the listener glad.
    She gave a loving and tender word
        To a tired, discouraged soul,
    And lo, it rose in a newfound strength
        To win the wished for goal.

    She gave not out of her golden store,
        For no golden store had she.
    And never the voice of fame was heard
        To herald her ministry.
    But she gave the oil of joy for tears
        And sunshine to banish gloom,
    And beauty and sweetness beneath her steps
        Sprang rainbow-like to bloom.

  • Regret

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 16, 1915. By Henry Waldorf Francis.

    I am the brooding Ghost of words that should have been unspoken;
    I am the scourge of hearts that have the hearts of others broken;
    I am the lash of Conscience hurt by things past all undoing,
    Over the grave of other days bitter memories strewing!

    I am the biting aftermath of love and good neglected,
    I am the everlasting sting of better things rejected;
    I am the sharp, consuming grief unthought of in the breeding,
    Avenging wrath of all who give to Mercy’s voice no heeding!

    I am the Guest who comes unbid with voice forever chiding,
    Deep in the secret heart of man I am the long abiding;
    Would you avoid the pain of me, the mocking, cutting laughter,
    Pause ere you speak or act to ask if I may come thereafter!

  • My Ships

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 13, 1915. By Jack Carter.

    I am sitting alone in the gloaming
    With the firelight flickering low,
    And the sky so dark and lowering
    Is tinged by the sun’s red glow,
    And the many ships that I freighted,
    With hopes too bright to last
    How they haunt me, haunt me, haunt me,
    Those wrecks of the lone dead past.

    There’s the ship that I launched at twenty—
    It was laden with thoughts sublime.
    I would plan out the lives of nations,
    When my life reached its summer time.
    I would see that all strife and warfare,
    And oppressions be swept from the deck.
    Alas, for the dreary eventide,
    My ship came home a wreck.

    Then I sent out another vessel,
    And the cargo it carried was love.
    There was home and a wife and children,
    And the bliss was from heaven above.
    But the joys could not last forever
    And the storm clouds rose on her lea.
    She ran on the rocks, they crushed her,
    And she sank down into the sea.

    Once more I sent out a vessel,
    It was trim from stem to stern.
    It went for to bring me riches,
    And with orders to never return
    Till ’twas full of all precious substance,
    And its wake left a golden track.
    A crash, and t’was gone forever.
    Not even a plank came back.

    But there’s one came back from the shadows
    Out of all my ships just one—
    Shall I tell you the cargo it brought me?
    It was only the deeds I had done
    For the troubled, the suffering, the outcast;
    I’d forgotten them all long ago.
    The whisper from lips just passing,
    And the sad, sad tale of woe.

    A life to the one who had fallen,
    A striving to ease the pain.
    Just bread cast out on the waters,
    And it all came back again.
    And you never can buy this vessel.
    The wealth of the whole wide world
    Cannot pilot it out of the harbor
    For its sails and its flag are furled.

  • Auctioning Off the Baby

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 5, 1915. By Mary T. Holley.

    What am I offered for Baby?
        Dainty, dimpled and sweet
    From the curls above his forehead
        To the beautiful rosy feet,
    From tips of his wee pink fingers
        To the light of his clear blue eyes
    What am I offered for Baby?
        Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy?

    What am I offered for Baby?
        “A shop full of sweets?” Ah, no!
    That’s too much beneath his value
        Who is sweetest of all below!
    The naughty, beautiful darling!
        One kiss from his rosy mouth
    Is better than all the dainties
        Of East, or West, or South.

    What am I offered for Baby?
        “A pile of gold?” Ah dear,
    Your gold is too hard and heavy
        To purchase my brightness here.
    Would the treasures of all the mountains
        Far in the wonderful lands
    Be worth the clinging and clasping
        Of these dear little peach blow hands?

    So what am I offered for Baby?
        “A rope of diamonds?” Nay,
    If your brilliants were larger and brighter
        Than the stars of the milky way,
    Would they ever be half so precious
        As the light of those lustrous eyes
    Still full of the heavenly glory
        They brought from beyond the skies?

    Then what am I offered for Baby?
        “A heart full of love and a kiss.”
    Well if anything ever could tempt me
        ‘Twould be such an offer as this.
    But how can I know if your loving
        Is tender and true and divine
    Enough to repay what I’m giving
        In selling this sweetheart of mine?

    So we will not sell the Baby!
        Your gold and gems and stuff
    Were they ever so rare and precious
        Would never be half enough!
    For what would we care, my dearie,
        What glory the World put on
    If our beautiful darling was going,
        If our beautiful darling was gone?

  • Rain on the Roof

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 2, 1915. By Coates Kinney.

    When the humid shadows hover
        Over all the starry spheres,
    And the melancholy darkness
        Gently weeps in rainy tears,
    What a joy to press the pillow
        Of a cottage chamber bed,
    And to listen to the patter
        Of the soft rain overhead.

    Every tinkle on the shingles
        Has an echo in the heart,
    And a thousand dreamy fancies
        Into busy being start;
    And a thousand recollections
        Weave their air-threads into woof
    As I listen to the patter
        Of the rain upon the roof.

    Now in memory comes my mother
        As she used in years agone,
    To survey her darling dreamers
        Ere she left them till the dawn.
    Oh! I see her leaning o’er me
        As I list to this refrain
    Which is played upon the shingles
        By the patter of the rain.

    Then my little seraph sister,
        With her wings and waving hair,
    And her bright-eyed cherub brother—
        A serene, angelic pair—
    Glide around my wakeful pillow
        With their praise or mild reproof
    As I listen to the murmur
        Of the soft rain on the roof.

    And another comes to thrill me
        With her eyes’ delicious blue;
    And forgot I, gazing on her,
        That her heart was all untrue;
    I remember that I loved her
        As I ne’er may love again,
    And my heart’s quick pulses vibrate
        To the patter of the rain.

    There is naught in art’s bravuras
        That can work with such a spell
    In the spirit’s pure deep fountains
        Whence the holy passions swell
    As that melody of Nature,
        That subdued, subduing strain
    Which is played upon the shingles
        By the patter of the rain.

  • Something to Worry About

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 1, 1915. By J. W. Foley.

    They said it hurt morals, and maybe it harmed
    Good morals, but folks were not greatly alarmed;
    The few were concerned, but the many were prone
    To leave the whole matter severely alone.

    They said it hurt culture, and maybe it had
    A bearing on culture most certainly bad,
    But left to itself it would work itself out.
    There wasn’t a thing to be worried about.

    They said it hurt learning, and maybe it did,
    But learning’s a thing that expects to be hid.
    And while there was much, they agreed, to be learned,
    There wasn’t good cause to be gravely concerned.

    They said it hurt manhood, and maybe it meant
    Some injury to it, as far as it went;
    But this was no reason for clamor or fuss
    As long as it didn’t directly hurt us.

    But when it hurt Business, the folks over town
    Unitedly said that it must be put down
    Whatever it was, and they stamped the thing out—
    For then it was something to worry about!

  • The Good Night Kiss

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, February 25, 1915. By W. D. Humphrey.

    I am tired of tongues that are lying
        In their cunning schemes for gain—
    I am tired of worry and sighing
        That ravish the soul and brain—
    And I long for the peace of the wildwood
        Near the dear old home that I miss,
    And the happy trust of childhood,
        And mother’s good night kiss.

    I am tired of faces smiling
        In deceit to hide the frown—
    And life’s false joys beguiling
        The soul but to drag it down;
    And I long once more to listen
        To the sound of a step I miss—
    That I knew when the tears would glisten
        At my mother’s good night kiss.

    I am tired of all the idols
        That claim a right to my heart—
    I am tired of falsehoods’ bridles
        That are worn by all in the mart.
    And it’s ever the words that were spoken
        In truth and love that I miss—
    When each night I received their token
        In my mother’s good night kiss.

    I am tired of living and learning
        That the false exceeds the true—
    I am tired with years of yearning
        For a love like my childhood knew
    When life seemed not deceiving,
        And I dreamed it held but bliss—
    When I slept in peace believing
        In mother’s good night kiss.

  • Song of Life

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, February 20, 1915. By Charles Mackay.

    A traveler on a dusty road
        Strewed acorns on the lea;
    And one took root and sprouted up,
        And grew into a tree.
    Love sought its shade at even-time,
        To breathe its early vows;
    And Age was pleased, in heights of noon,
        To bask beneath its boughs.
    The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
        The birds sweet music bore—
    It stood a glory in its place,
        A blessing ever more.

    A little spring had lost its way
        Amid the grass and fern;
    A passing stranger scooped a well
        Where weary men might turn.
    He walled it in, and hung with care
        A ladle on the brink;
    He thought not of the deed he did,
        But judged that Toil might drink.
    He passed again, and lo! the well,
        By summer never dried,
    Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues,
        And saved a life beside.

    A nameless man, amid the crowd,
        That thronged the daily mart,
    Let fall a word of hope and love,
        Unstudied from the heart—
    A whisper on the tumult thrown,
        A transitory breath,
    It raised a brother from the dust,
        It saved a soul from death.
    O germ! O fount! O word of love!
        O thought at random cast!
    Ye were but little at the first,
        But mighty at the last.

  • Little Brown Hands

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, February 9, 1915.

    They drive home the cows from the pasture
    Up thro’ the long, shady lane,
    Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat field
    That is yellow with ripening grain.

    They find in the thick, waving grasses
    Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows;
    They gather the earliest snowdrops
    And the first crimson buds of the rose.

    They toss the hay in the meadow,
    They gather the elder-bloom white;
    They find where the dusky grapes purple
    In the soft-tinted October light.

    They know where the apples hang ripest
    And are sweeter than Italy’s wines;
    They know where the fruit hangs thickest
    On the long, thorny blackberry vines.

    They gather the delicate seaweeds,
    And build tiny castles of sand;
    They pick up the beautiful seashells,
    Fairy barks, that have drifted to land.

    They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops,
    Where the oriole’s hammock-nest swings;
    And at night time are folded in slumber
    By a song that a fond mother sings.

    Those who toil bravely are strongest,
    The humble and poor become great;
    And from those brown-handed children
    Shall grow mighty rulers of state.

    The pen of the author and statesman,
    The noble and wise of our land—
    The sword and the chisel and palette
    Shall be held in the little brown hand.