Newspaper Poetry

Category: Grand Forks Daily Herald

  • The Children

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, November 28, 1914. By Charles Dickens.

    When the lessons and tasks are all ended
        And the school for the day is dismissed,
    And the little ones gather around me
        To bid me “good night,” and be kissed;
    O, the little white arms that encircle
        My neck in a tender embrace;
    O, the smiles that are halos of Heaven,
        Shedding the sunshine of love on my face.

    And when they are gone I set dreaming
        Of my childhood, too lovely to last;
    Of love that my heart will remember
        When it wakes to the pulse of the past.
    Ere the world and its wickedness made me
        A partner of sorrow and sin,
    When the glory of God was about me
        And the glory of gladness within.

    O, my heart grows weak as a woman’s,
        And the fountains of feeling will flow,
    When I think of the paths, steep and stony
        Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
    Of the mountains of sin hanging o’er them,
        Of the tempests of fate blowing wild;
    O, there is nothing on earth half so holy
        As the innocent heart of a child.

    They are idols of hearts and of households,
        They are angels of God in disguise;
    His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
        His glory still gleams in their eyes.
    O, those truants from home and from Heaven,
        They have made me manly and mild
    And I know now how Jesus could liken
        The kingdom of God to a child.

    I ask not a life for the dear ones
        All radiant, as others have done.
    But that life may have just enough shadow
        To temper the glare of the sun.
    I would pray God to guard them from evil
        But my prayers would bound back to myself
    Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner,
        But a sinner must pray for himself.

    The twig is so easily bended,
        I have banished the rule and the rod;
    I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,
        They have taught me the wisdom of God.
    My heart is a dungeon of darkness,
        Where I shut them from breaking a rule.
    My frown is sufficient correction
        My love is the law of the school.

    I shall leave the old house in the Autumn
        To traverse its threshold no more.
    Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones
        That mustered each morn at the door!
    I shall miss the “good nights” and the kisses
        And the gush of their innocent glee,
    The group on the green and the flowers
        That are brought every morning to me.

    I shall miss them at morn and at eve,
        Their song in the school and the street;
    I shall miss the low hum of their voices
        And the tramp of their delicate feet.
    When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
        And Death says “the school is dismissed,”
    May the little ones gather around me,
        To bid me “good night” and be kissed.

  • Leaves

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, November 17, 1914. By Vina Sheard.

    Summer is past for the little leaves,
        So the wind by night and day
    Gathers them close, while he sighs and grieves,
        And carries them all away.

    Leaves that are yellow and beaten gold,
        Leaves of a passionate red,
    Leaves that are broken and brown and old,
        Leaves that are withered and dead.

    Some he will blow to the mad sea waves,
        And in the ebb and flow,
    They will reach the green forgotten graves
        Of the drowned that lie below.

    Some he will drift to the place of sleep,
        The great brown Mother of rest,
    And to Slumber, dreamless, sweet and deep,
        She will hush them on her breast.

    For the fleeting days of blue and gold
        They will fret no more or sigh—
    They will not know it grows dark and cold,
        Or stir when the rain sweeps by.

    And none shall unfold the mystery
        Of the things that come and go,
    Save only He who holdeth the sea,
        And maketh the winds to blow.

  • October Party

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 26, 1914.

    October gave a party;
        The leaves by hundreds came—
    The Ashes, Oaks and Maples
        And those of every name.
    The sunshine spread a carpet,
        And everything was grand.
    Miss Weather led the dancing,
        Professor Wind the band.

    The Chestnut came in yellow,
        The Oaks in crimson dressed;
    The lovely Misses Maple
        In scarlet looked the best,
    And balanced all their partners,
        And gayly fluttered by;
    The sight was like a rainbow
        New fallen from the sky.

    Then, in the rustic hollows
        At “hide-and-seek” they played.
    The party closed at sundown,
        And everybody stayed.
    Professor Wind played louder;
        They flew along the ground,
    And then the party ended
        In jolly “hands around.”

  • The Peace Pact

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 24, 1914. By Edith M. Thomas.

    They were foes as they fell in that frontier fight,
        They were friends as they lay with their wounds unbound,
    Waiting the dawn of their last morning light.
        It was silence all, save a shuddering sound
        From the souls of the dying that rose around;
    And the heart of the one to the other cried,
        As closer they drew, and their arms enwound,
    “There will be no war on the Other Side.”

    As the souls of the dying mounted high
        It seemed they could hear the long farewell!
    Then together they spake, and they questioned why—
        Since they hated not—why this evil befell
        And neither the Frank nor the German could tell
    Wherefore themselves and their countrymen died.
        But they said that hereafter in peace they should dwell—
    “There will be no war on the Other Side.”

    As they languished there on that field accursed,
        With their wounds unbound, in their mortal pain,
    Spake one to the other, “I faint from thirst!”
        And the other made answer, “What drops remain
        In my water flask thou shalt surely drain!”
    As he lifted the flask the other replied,
        “I pledge thee in this till we meet again—
    There will be no war on the Other Side!”

    And it came to pass as the night wore deep
        That fever through all their veins was fanned,
    So that visions were theirs (yet not from sleep)
        And each was flown to his own loved land.
        But rousing again, one murmured, “Thy hand!
    Thou art my brother—naught shall divide;
        Something went wrong, but understand,
    There will be no war on the Other Side.”

  • Out of Reach

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 13, 1914. By Kate W. Hamilton.

    The grapes on the trellis are purple and sweet,
    They tempt little fingers and clambering feet.
    We will pick them all, there are plenty for each,
    But it’s strange how the finest grow just out of reach.

    But grandfather says—he’s old and wise—
    That the difference is not in the grapes, but our eyes.
    That the things within reach never please us so much
    As the things we can’t have, that are just beyond touch.

    There are beautiful grapes that we crush with our feet
    While we eagerly climb for others more sweet;
    That fruit within reach is the fruit for the day,
    And to pluck as you go is the sensible way.

    Oh, grandfather’s wise, for grandfather is old;
    But no matter how often we all have been told,
    At the vines every morning, it seems to us each
    That the very best grapes are the grapes out of reach.

  • Artists

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, October 3, 1914. By J. A. Edgerton.

    The world contains many an artist,
        Who knows not the technique of art;
    Who knows not the tricks of the rhymer,
        And yet is a poet at heart;
    Who knows not the use of the chisel,
        Nor the deftness of eye or of hand,
    But whose spirit is filled with a longing
        He never can quite understand.

    There are painters who never touch canvas,
        Musicians who ever are still,
    Who have not the gift of expression,
        Lack adequate training and skill.
    There are men with the dreams of the masters
        Who never are known unto fame,
    Whose spirits are filled with a music
        And beauty they never can name.

    There are orators doomed to be silent,
        And singers who never are heard;
    There are actors untried and unnoted,
        Who with the grand passions are stirred;
    There are millions who struggle unconscious
        Of wonderful gifts they express,
    Whose spirits are ravished by glimpses
        Of thoughts they can never express.

    There are poems unsung and unspoken,
        Transcending the limits of art;
    There are visions unpainted that linger
        In the innermost realms of the heart;
    There are writers that never have written
        And sculptors who delve not in stone;
    There are spirits who thrill with a message
        Yet strive on in silence alone.

    Maybe there’s fruit and an answer
        Somewhere in the regions of bliss;
    At last they may find their lost visions,
        At last they may reach to the goal,
    The ones who fall short of expression
        And yet who are artists in soul.

  • A Vision

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 30, 1914. By Edmund Leavey.

    Was I waking, was I dreaming?
    In the moonlight’s silver gleaming,
        Was there something treading softly, in my room?
    Was it gazing, death-like blazing,
    At my eyes which fear was glazing?
        Was it human or a spectre from the tomb?
    In my bed I lay, and trembled,
    For ’twas nothing it resembled,
        Not a thing that I had ever seen before;
    And my heart-strings swiftly tightened,
    As I more and more grew frightened,
        For the window fast was locked, and barred the door.
    Close it came, and nearer, nearer,
    And I saw it plainer, clearer,
        Saw it take a hidden shape like all that’s fair;
    And it came and stood before me,
    Stood and stooping slightly o’er me,
        Gently whispered to me, cringing, crouching there.
    And as it murmured to me,
    All my fear and torment flew me,
        And my soul was filled with satan-spawned chagrin.
    For it told me, oh, it told me
    “Come behold me, come behold me,
        For you I am as once you might have been.”
    And I drank in all its beauty—
    What was I if true to duty;
        And I begged it answer me if I could win
    To the grace I had passed blindly,
    For it looked so sad and kindly,
        That I knew it would have pity for my sin.
    But its answer chilled and stilled me.
    “No, you’ve killed me, killed me, killed me.
        For it’s you you’ve slain, and I you ne’er can be.”
    Then it left me in the darkness,
    To my soul in all its starkness—
        My forgotten better self—my other me.

  • Gifts

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 24, 1914. By Emma Lazarus.

    “O World-God, give me Wealth!” the Egyptian cried.
    His prayer was granted. High as heaven, behold
    Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide
    Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.
    Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet,
    World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,
    His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined,
    Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.
    Seek Pharaoh’s race to-day and we shall find
    Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

    “O World-God, give me beauty!” cried the Greek.
    His prayer was granted. All the earth became
    Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak,
    Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,
    Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.
    The lyre was his, and his the breathing might
    Of the immortal marble, his the play
    Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue.
    Go seek the sunshine race. Ye find today
    A broken column and a lute unstrung.

    “O World-God, give me Power!” the Roman cried.
    His prayer was granted. The vast world was chained
    A captive to the chariot of his pride.
    The blood of myriad provinces was drained
    To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart—
    Invulnerably bulwarked every part
    With serried legions and with close-meshed Code,
    Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home:
    A roofless ruin stands where once abode
    The imperial race of everlasting Rome.

    “O Godhead, give me Truth!” the Hebrew cried.
    His prayer was granted. He became the slave
    Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,
    Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save.
    The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,
    His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld.
    Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.
    Seek him today, and find in every land.
    No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;
    Immortal through the lamp within his hand.

  • Off to School

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 21, 1914. By J. W. Foley.

    Father is patting his shoulder
        And lifting his grip;
    Proud of him as he grows older,
        (But biting his lip.)
    Aunty improving his going
        By giving advice.
    And mother her tears overflowing,
        And wiping her eyes.

    Father pretending to joke him
        While saying goodbye;
    Sister seems trying to choke him
        While fixing his tie;
    Uncle is chaffing and winking,
        Disguising his sighs,
    While mother is standing and thinking
        And wiping her eyes.

    Old chums are wishing successes
        And shaking his hand;
    Girls with pink bows and white dresses
        Are hoping he’ll land
    Top o’ the heap in his classes—
        He can if he tries—
    And mother’s white handkerchief passes
        While wiping her eyes.

    Towser’s tail wagging and shaking,
        He must understand;
    Little Tob—brother is taking
        Him fast by the hand;
    Standing on tip toes to kiss him
        And wiping goodbyes,
    And mother—who knows how she’ll miss him?—
        Just wiping her eyes.

    Father is counseling to him
        Of college and den.
    Boy, as we yesterday knew him,
        But never again.
    Mother once more may caress him,
        And then the goodbyes
    And murmur and whisper “God bless him!”
        While wiping her eyes.

  • School Days

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, September 14, 1914.

    It’s lonesome in the stable yard and where the chickens “peep.”
    It’s dull and stupid, ‘round the house, the kitten’s fast asleep;
    Old Towser, nosin’ everywhere and huntin’ ‘round the place,
    Comes back to whine and paw my knee and look up in my face;
    And mother, in the kitchen there, amongst the pans and things,
    Is busy, but I haven’t heard the song she always sings;
    There’s somethin’ missin’, somethin’ wrong that spoils the work and play—
    And don’t I know it? Well, I guess, he’s gone to school today.

    I try to work and not to think, but trying all I can,
    I stop and wonder why it’s still—no drummin’ on a pan,
    No rustlin’ in the apple trees, no splashin’ by the pump,
    And no one hid behind the post to “Boo” and make me jump,
    And in the house it’s all so prim—no tickin’ of the clock.
    I look at ma and she at me; no need for us to say
    What ails us both; we know too well—he’s gone to school today.

    He started out at half-past eight, all rigged up in his best,
    And with the slate beneath his arm, the books and all the rest;
    And mother fixed his tie once more, and did her best to smile.
    And I stood by and praised him up and laughed about his “style.”
    But when he marched off down the road and stopped to wave goodbye,
    ’Twas kind of choky in my throat and misty in my eye.
    Proud of him? Well, I rather guess, and happy too—but, say,
    It’s mighty lonesome round the place. He’s gone to school today.

    But ‘tisn’t just the lonesomeness that ails us, don’t you know?
    It isn’t jest because he’s gone till four o’clock or so;
    It’s like the little worsted socks that’s in the bureau there;
    It’s like the little dresses, too, that once he used to wear;
    The thought that something’s past and gone, outgrown and put away—
    That brings to mother’s heart and mine the bittersweet today.
    It’s jest another forward step, in Time’s unchanging rule—
    Our baby’s left us now for good; our boy has gone to school.