The silent strength of hills was his, the constant,
The necessary, changeless presence, grown
So usual in unobtrusive giving
Of strength, that we believed his strength our own.
And the enduring certitudes of earth
Were his, the richness time could not despoil.
Our lives were rooted in his deep assurance
As trees are rooted in essential soil.
Without him, though we trust that his eternal
Faith is fulfilled and his long task approved,
We bear within our hearts and desolation
Of mountains fallen and of earth removed.
–Saturday Evening Post, 1949
We who love little objects rendered dear
By long association, have this much
That we can keep with us through the severe
Sharp hurt of leaving our own place. The touch
Of a little Cutch girl pitcher that has held
Tulips of many springs and the smile upon
A tiny china gentleman’s face, that quelled
Quick tears, remain when larger things are gone.
If we must leave the sunny generous rooms,
The window with its wide familiar view,
And the garden’s sweet processional of blooms
And go where all is cramped and strangely new,
No change, as least, is great enough to sweep
Away small treasures—small enough to keep.
–From Because It’s Here (written in winter 1950)
God, be kind to crooked things
To wrenched old trees, misshapen and awry . . .
Let small birds nestle in their leaves, let rain
And sunlight, and blue mercies of the sky
Fall, in tender recompense for pain
Upon them softly. Let their gnarled boughs know
The bliss of blossoms sheltered in their shade . . .
And bless all tortured, lonely roads that go
Upon lost journeys, aimless and afraid;
Let shy flowers follow all their grieving maze
Of wandering . . . And bless, oh more than these,
And draws dark comfort from crooked trees.
Dear God, be very kind to crooker things.
–written in 1944?
Say no that any sorrow
Is past your strength to bear.
To learn the disavowal,
Implicit, of despair,
Rise in the earliest dawning
And see the sun take flight.
Whoever knows the morning
Need never fear the night.
–From Halfway Up the Sky (written in winter 1950)
It is not in gay banners
That flaunt a crimson sky,
Nor in a drum’s quick throbbing
Not bugle’s keen swift cry;
Nor in the pride of marching men
That war’s essentials lie;
But in the red fields where horror screams
And youth lies rotting with its dreams.
–written in November 1939, published first in ‘Window on Eternity’
My parents carried light with them, for they
Lived in days when people made their own
Or did without. The lantern’s frosty ray,
When Dad came late form milking, always shone
As it a star were coming home to us,
And if I called a midnight, goblin-harried,
The shadows fled and night grew luminous
Before the little lamp that Mother carried.
Folk have small need for lamps and lanterns now;
Even on farms the darkness will withdraw
By swift electric magic, but somewhat
I always shall be grateful that I saw
My parent’s coming make the darkness bright
And knew them as the carriers of light.
-from The Greatest of These
I was the one who never learned to walk
I was the one who had to be explained
Strangers inquired if I could even talk
I could, when they weren’t eying me with a pained
Commiserating glances. No one can
Hold conversation with a pitying look.
So while other children played and ran,
I was the one who hid behind a book.
And yet, I wondered why they pitied me.
My father’s arms were always strong and sure
Amy mother’s smile was always sweet to see,
And with them I was perfectly secure,
And it was many years before I know
I was the one who broke their hearts in two.
-pub unknown
I always owned the sky; the sky was mine
From the moment I first looked up at it, and felt
All the enormous tender brilliance shine
Into my wondering heart, where is has dwelt
Unceasingly. I own uncounted millions
Of starts, though using only two or three,
And as for clouds, of course, I’ve many trillions,
And the sun is my peculiar property.
My ownership of sky does not preclude
Other from enjoying it; I’m glad to share
My glad possession of infinitude,
But any who come between us must beware,
Since, whether lighting-lashed or rainbow-lit,
The sky belongs to me, and I to it.
-From Halfway Up the Sky
If hearts could break in April,
I think that mine would now;
But no hearts break in April,
When bloom is on the bough.
The whole world laughs in April,
And any heats that break,
May only break for loveliness’
And apple blossoms’ sake.
No hearts break for sorrow
When April’s on the hill.
Oh, sing for joy in April,
And breaking heart be still.
–New York Times, April 1948 (written in April 1939)
That hilltop spoiled me for a smaller view.
I measure with uncompromising eye
All later landscapes by the one I knew
Before I knew that landscapes could deny
The ampleness of meadowland and wood
Sweeping to distant mountains with rhythmic grace
So that within a single glance I could
Encompass all varieties of space.
Oh, I was greatly fortunate in living
There halfway up the sky, with large extent
Of mountain heights and valleys always giving
Enrichment to my eyes; but young days spent
Immediate neighbor of immensity
Make any other view look small to me.
-title poem from Halfway Up the Sky