Lizette Woodworth Reese

I am thy grass, O Lord! I grow up sweet and tall But for a day; beneath Thy sword To lie at evenfall. Yet have I not enough In that brief day of mine? The wind, the bees, the wholesome stuff The sun pours out like wine. Behold, this is my crown; Love will not let me be; Love holds me here; Love cuts me down; And it is well with me. Lord, Love, keep it but so; Thy purpose is full plain; I die that after I may grow As tall, as sweet again.

A Colonial Custom Bathsheba came out to the sun, Out to our wallèd cherry-trees; The tears adown her cheek did run, Bathsheba standing in the sun, Telling the bees. My mother had that moment died; Unknowing, sped I to the trees, And plucked Bathsheba’s hand aside; Then caught the name that there she cried Telling the bees. Her look I never can forget, I that held sobbing to her knees; The cherry-boughs above us met; I think I see Bathsheba yet Telling the bees.

Oh, Love, he went a-straying, A long time ago! I missed him in the Maying, When blossoms were of snow; So back I came by the old sweet way; And for I loved him so, wept that he came not with me, A long time ago! Wide open stood my chamber door, And one stepped forth to greet; Gray Grief, strange Grief, who turned me sore With words he spake so sweet. I gave him meat; I gave him drink; (And listened for Love’s feet.) How many years? I cannot think; In truth, I do not know— Ah, long time ago! Oh, love, he came not back again, Although I kept me fair; And each white May, in field and lane, I waited for him there! Yea, he forgot; but Grief stayed on, And in Love’s empty chair Doth sit and tell of days long gone— ’Tis more than I can bear!

It is too early for white boughs, too late For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall A few last flakes, ragged and delicate. Down the stripped roads the maples start their small, Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks A rich and deepening red. The willow tree Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks The lean bush crouching hints old royalty, Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows Soon ’twill leap up and show the world a rose. The days go out with shouting; nights are loud; Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold; The moon’s a sword of keen, barbaric gold, Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.