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VIGNETTE FROM MEMORY, by                    
First Line: The late dusk settles heavy thro'
Last Line: "I come in?"
Subject(s): Memory


The late dusk settles heavy thro'
The hushed hot air,
Down thro' the tall, tall treetops to
The dark nook where
The ivy sobs across the night;
Nor lingers there,
But creeps along the grasses—white
The blossoms wear.

And heavy hang the odours in
The closing day,
As phlox and pale petunias win
The right of way
Across the flower-beds' tangled brim
And winning, stray
Along the path in broadening sweep
And circle by
The open door where thick vines sleep
And, sleeping, sigh
At wing of humming-bird or leap
Of dragon-fly.

Dark grey the walls have settled, of
Weathered pine;
And grey the low roof bends above,
But dipping fine
As need is, where, with frantic shove
The old chain swing
Gloats high—to die in sudden shrove's
Hushed whispering!

The shadows gather dark along
The yielding floor
Where Toil waits, heavy-eyed, among
The household store
For hush of pain-wracked silence wrung
From struggle sore.
But the fine faith clings thro' the changes rung:
The day is o'er—

The sapping noon, the fretted way,
And dusk's faint rim;
The blurring field, the girding stay,
And twilight dim;
The far clear call, the years' prepay,
Lo, the guerdon grim—
The spear's upthrust, the thorn's crowned play,
The chalice brim.
But the fine faith sings down the dusk's far way
Through the evening dim,
"Or the cup, or the call, or the thorn's crowned play,
Lead after Him."

The odours wander dreaming thro'
The hushed, hot air,
Across the greying grasses to
The doorstep where
The damp curls left to the upturned cup
Of the long, long day;
The troubled wonder looking up
The starlit way—
The hushing grey and the greying hush
Of long grey years;
The call of the night and the slow blind rush
Of hushed, hot tears;
The glimmering gleam of days that dream
And nights that sob;
The pride that prompts, the hopes that teem,
The hurts that throb.

The odours dream thro' the grim grey flush
Where the great white Death
Keeps watch within the shadows. Hushed
The sobbing breath
Of clinging, frightened dreamer crushed
To cheek fresh wet,
With the falling sleeve, slow swaying, brushed
By draped jaconet.

In the shadow's hush the calm pale brow
Its vigil keeps;
And, "Father's resting quiet, now,
And Baby sleeps.
The poor, poor feet are tired, too,
Are they clean, all clean?
Mother's waiting now for you—
Come, child, come in."
The night hangs close by the curtain's bars
To wait the dawn;
While, arched above, the waiting stars
Are shining on.

The years fade out in the winding greys
Of life's far rim,
With the upthrust's scar, the thorn's crowned play,
The chalice brim,
With the call of the fields, the years' prepay—
And Night sets in.

The odours dream by the curtained bars
For break of dawn;
In the arching hush the shining stars
Are waiting on.
The throbbing hurt of the silences
Its vigil keeps;

And, "Is my father resting? Does
The baby sleep?"
A grey roof bends by the starlit way—
"Oh, they're clean still, clean—
But Mother, O my Mother, may
I come in?"





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