SHORT FLIGHTS

BY
MEREDITH NICHOLSON

With a weak, uncertain wing

And a short flight, faltering

Like a heart afraid to sing.

INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO.
1891

Copyright 1890
BY
MEREDITH NICHOLSON

TO MY UNCLE
WILLIAM MORTON MEREDITH

CONTENTS

SHORT FLIGHTS

TO THE SEASONS.

SEASONS that pass me by in varied mood,

As on the impressionable land you leave a trace,

Molding sometime a delicate flower’s sweet face,

Touching again with green the somber wood,

Or drawing all beneath a snowy hood,—

Am I not worthy as they to have a place

In your remembrance? Am I made too base

To know what weed and thorn have understood?

Fair vernal time, I need your quickening

Even as the sleeping Earth! O summer heat

Make flower and fruit in me that I may bring

Full hands to Autumn when above me beat

The serious winds; and Winter, make me strong

Like the glad music of your battle song!

SAT EST VIXISSE.

I.

To have lived!

To have felt a quickened beat

Of the heart in spring;

To have known that something sweet

Moved the birds to sing;

To have seen dim waves of heat

O’er a field of green retreat!

II.

To have found the hiding-place

Of the wild wood rose;

To have held, a little space,

Any flower that grows;

To have known a moment’s grace

Looking in a loved one’s face

To have lived, to have lived!

III.

Still, doth it suffice alone

That the world is fair?

O’er what fields have these hands sown?

Are they gold or bare?

And though all the flowers are flown,

If to God my heart is known,

Then shall I in truth be shown

How to live, why to live!

SONG.

GLAD and sad make rhyme, my dear,

Glad and sad make rhyme.

Though the sun may not appear,

Though there be a time

When the hours are very long,

And there is no joy for you,

Weave this thought into a song:

Glad and sad make jingle true—

Happy jingle true!

They are joined together, dear,

Joined together they,

Like the dark sky and the clear

Of an April day.

Like the grief that dies in gladness

Turmoil into peace will grow,

Soon there is an end of sadness—

Glad and sad make rhyme, you know,

Perfect rhyme, you know.

They make perfect rhyme, my dear.

Perfect as can be;

Falling sweet upon the ear,

Telling you and me

That the thorn and rose are wed,

That night holds in store the dawn,

And till hope and trust are dead

Glad and sad will jingle on,

Jingle, jingle on!

’TIS NEVER NIGHT IN LOVE’S DOMAIN.

’TWAS morning when one found his way

Within the garden lands of love.

He lingered till he thought the day

Should surely unto night yield sway.

But morning’s sun still shone above

In skies unmarred by evening’s gray,

While on the air rang this refrain—

’Tis never night in love’s domain.

Love’s palace beauteous is, and tall,

And broad, and grand is his estate.

Gay courtiers throng each spacious hall

Where laughing echoes ceaseless fall

And mock the silent outcast, hate,

Who ever cowers by post and wall.

And scowls as rings the glad refrain—

’Tis never night in love’s domain.

And thence through groves with myrtle grown

He followed Venus’ dove-drawn car

By paths he ne’er before had known,

And yet, the morning had not flown,

And yet, fresh winds blew from afar

As came, in ne’er decreasing tone,

The song through which ran this refrain—

’Tis never night in love’s domain.

Ah, love of mine, how well we know

The glories of those garden lands

Through which Lethean waters flow!

Oft we have wandered to and fro

Down those bright halls, and seen the hands

Of tiny elves that beckoned so

They kept the time to this refrain—

’Tis never night in love’s domain.

ESTRANGED.

IT was but yesterday that thou

Wert with love-whispers eloquent,

Yet come and look upon her now

That life is spent.

How strangely white the face hath grown,

No longer prest by kisses fond;

Why turn’st, now that her soul hath flown

And rests beyond?

Why enter’st not the darkened room

To touch again those cold, white lips—

So cold and white, seen in the gloom

Of Death’s eclipse?

Thou wert so loving once, but now

Take that cold hand as lovers may,

Implant a kiss on that calm brow,

Nor turn away.

It was but yesterday that thou

Wert with love-whispers eloquent—

Thou wilt not look upon her now

That life is spent.

WHEN FRIENDS ARE PARTED.

TIME keeps no measure when true friends are parted,—

No record day by day;

The sands move not for those who, loyal-hearted,

Friendship’s firm laws obey.

It is not well to note with dull precision

The flight of days or years;

Memory depends not on a proof by vision,

And has no foolish fears.

The migrant birds when they are Southward flying

Have no regrets; they go

Full of the knowledge born of faith undying,

That they again shall know

The homes and nests which they have left behind them

Unmarred by change the while;

The Southern lands they seek will but remind them

Of the North’s summer smile.

And so I know that you will come to meet me

In the old, well-loved way;

That, though a year go by, you still will greet me

As kindly as to-day.

WHEREAWAY.

WHERE are you going my bright blue eyes,

My boy so happy-hearted?

You are very young and very wise,

And early you have started.

Where is the city you’re bound for, lad?

Come tell me of it truly;

Is it one that is fair, and one that is glad

And was it builded newly?

Oh, tell me whereaway my lad—

Whereaway?

The day is fair and the skies are blue,

Come rest awhile and listen:

By far too great is the world for you,

The spires in dreams that glisten

Are far away from this quiet place

With many a mile between,

So rest, blue eyes, for a little space

Here where the slopes are green—

Oh, tell me whereaway my lad—

Whereaway?

Oh, dim and vague is the early haze

That holds your world of seeming;

This day is fairer than other days

Only in boyish dreaming,—

So do not hasten but pause to tell

Why you make such a hurry—

Do you want to go, have you pondered well

About the cost and worry?

Oh, tell me whereaway my lad—

Whereaway?

Oh, dear blue eyes and brave young heart

Why must you turn to leave me?

Am I so old that we now must part,

Why will you go to grieve me?

But he turns away with a smile and nod

And will not tell me truly

About the place to which he will plod,

If old or builded newly;

He does not answer “Where, my lad?”

Whereaway?

A SECRET.

HE said, “No one shall ever learn

This secret that my heart must keep;

No matter how the wolds may burn,

No matter how my heart may leap,

No one shall know I love her so,

No one shall know, no one shall know!”

But though his lips were tightly sealed,

The very birds his secret guessed,

For in his eyes it was revealed,

And in his face it was confessed—

“I love her so, I love her so,

But none shall know, but none shall know?”

The wind soon found it and ran on

To tell it to the wondering flowers,

And bear it to the gates of dawn,

Where loiter all the coming hours,

That they might know he loved her so,

That they might know, that they might know!

Some time all secrets must unfold,

And soon did he a listener seek,

To whom his story might be told

Before the laughing world should speak

And tell her (if she did not know!)

He loved her so, he loved her so!

DISAPPOINTMENT.

THE broad-armed wave that reaches for the land

Sees not the towering rock that bars the way

Unto the longed-for play-ground of the strand,

Until, thrown back, it sees through tears of spray.

STRIVING.

IT is not much that I can do.

My hands are weak.

The lines they draw seem never true;

The works I speak

Are not the ones I long to say,—

I speak not prayers I long to pray.

It is no coward spirit, no—

I try to learn

How others bravely strive and go

Rewards to earn,

And yet success is never mine—

I labor on a false design.

They are not much, these little things

That form my task,

Yet constant seeking never brings

What I would ask,

And of what use is life to one

Who never knew a victory won?

But this one thing I know, that He

Who guides the stars

Will look in charity on me

And see the scars

Which show that I have tried to trace

A path that weeds could not efface.

AN IDOLATER.

I READ of pagan priests in idols hiding,

That with their own lips they might make reply

To prayers of worshippers in them confiding—

To vouchsafe or deny.

And all idolatry has not departed;

For yet I faith in one fair idol hold.

Unlike those of the heathen, hollow-hearted.

Voiceless, inert and cold;

But one who dwells, a queen, among the living.

Whose eyes light lip, my waiting eyes to greet

And speak, before the lips, sweet answer giving