1895
If I were but her violin,
Pressed lovingly beneath her chin,
Ah, what ecstatic bliss!
To feel the throbbing of each vein
As from sweet music's tangled skein
Come sounds as soft as summer's rain
When storm clouds gently kiss!
If I were but her violin,
Her wooing, cooing violin!
If I were but her violin,
With envied place beneath her chin,
How sweet would be the note
I'd yield to her caressing hands—
The treasure which her skill demands,
Or servile be, as slave who stands
To kiss the hand which smote,
If I were but her violin,
Her heart subduing violin!
If I were but her violin,
To rest no more beneath her chin,
How sad would be the day
When music's daughter was brought low,
And when, with trembling hands and slow,
She'd lay me with the useless bow,
Forever from her touch away!
An old, neglected violin,
A silent, soundless violin!
— T. Hussey in Midland Monthly.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
The Old Trundle Bed
1895
Oh, the old trundle bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy!
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine;
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding place at night.
Oh, a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, dear little old trundle bed!
Oh, the old trundle bed where I wondering saw
The stars through the window and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robins so restlessly slept;
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.
Oh, the old trundle bed! Oh, the old trundle bed!
With its plump little pillow and old fashioned spread,
Its snowy white sheets and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy stories may memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head
Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle bed!
— James Whitcomb Riley in "Armazindy."
Oh, the old trundle bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy!
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine;
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding place at night.
Oh, a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, dear little old trundle bed!
Oh, the old trundle bed where I wondering saw
The stars through the window and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robins so restlessly slept;
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.
Oh, the old trundle bed! Oh, the old trundle bed!
With its plump little pillow and old fashioned spread,
Its snowy white sheets and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy stories may memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head
Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle bed!
— James Whitcomb Riley in "Armazindy."
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