Poem of the Day

I read O Pioneers last week and this poem is the frontspiece. I really like Willa Cather.

Prairie Spring
FROM O PIONEERS
By Willa Cather

Evening and the flat land,
Rich and sombre and always silent;
The miles of fresh-plowed soil,
Heavy and black, full of strength and harshness;
The growing wheat, the growing weeds,
The toiling horses, the tired men;
The long empty roads,
Sullen fires of sunset, fading,
The eternal, unresponsive sky.
Against all this, Youth,
Flaming like the wild roses,
Singing like the larks over the plowed fields,
Flashing like a star out of the twilight;
Youth with its insupportable sweetness,
Its fierce necessity,
Its sharp desire,
Singing and singing,
Out of the lips of silence,
Out of the earthy dusk.

One of my favorite books is My Antonia by Willa Cather, but I’d never read any of her poetry until I came across this poem. I think I will have to read more of her poetry.

Grandmither, Think Not I Forget
By Willa Cather

Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to town,
An’ wander the old ways again, an’ tread them up and down.
I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass,
Without I mind how good ye were unto a little lass.
I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through,
Without I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you.
And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme,
Mayhap ’tis that I’d change wi’ ye, and gie my bed for thine,
      Would like to sleep in thine.

I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow,
Without I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so.
Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a score,—
I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more.
Grandmither, gie me your still, white hands, that lie upon your breast,
For mine do beat the dark all night, and never find me rest;
They grope among the shadows, an’ they beat the cold black air,
They go seekin’ in the darkness, an’ they never find him there,
      They never find him there.

Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see
His own a-burnin’ full o’ love that must not shine for me.
Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow,
For mine be tremblin’ wi’ the wish that he must never know.
Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear
My lad a-singin’ in the night when I am sick wi’ fear;
A-singin’ when the moonlight over a’ the land is white—
Ah, God! I’ll up an’ go to him a-singin’ in the night,
      A-callin’ in the night.

Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart that has forgot to ache,
For mine be fire within my breast and yet it cannot break.
Wi’ every beat it’s callin’ for things that must not be,—
An’ can ye not let me creep in an’ rest awhile by ye?
A little lass afeard o’ dark slept by ye years agone—
Ah, she has found what night can hold ‘twixt sundown an’ the dawn!
So when I plant the rose an’ rue above your grave for ye,
Ye’ll know it’s under rue an’ rose that I would like to be,
      That I would like to be.

My Antonia by Willa Cather is one of my favorite books, but I’d never read any of her poetry. This is the first poem of hers I’ve come across, and I want to read more.

Spanish Johnny
By Willa Cather

The old West, the old time,
   The old wind singing through
The red, red grass a thousand miles—
   And Spanish Johnny, you!
He’d sit beside the water ditch
   When all his herd was in,
And never mind a child, but sing
   To his mandolin.

The big stars, the blue night,
   The moon-enchanted lane;
The olive man who never spoke,
   But sang the songs of Spain.
His speech with men was wicked talk—
   To hear it was a sin;
But those were golden things he said
   To his mandolin.

The gold songs, the gold stars,
   The world so golden then;
And the hand so tender to a child—
   Had killed so many men.
He died a hard death long ago
   Before the Road came in—
The night before he swung, he sang
   To his mandolin.