Winter to Spring
Irvin W. Underhill
Did not I remember that my hair is grey
With only a fringe of it left,
I’d follow your footsteps from wee break of day
Till night was of moon-light bereft.
Your eyes wondrous fountains of joy and of youth
Remind me of days long since flown,
My sweetheart, I led to the altar of truth,
But then the gay spring was my own.
Now winter has come with its snow and its wind
And made me as bare as its trees,
Oh, yes, I still love, but it’s only in mind,
For I’m fast growing weak at the knees
.
Your voice is as sweet as the song of a bird,
Your manners are those of the fawn,
I dream of you, darling,—oh, pardon, that word,
From twilight to breaking of dawn.
Your name in this missive you’ll search for in vain,
Nor mine at the finis, I’ll fling,
For winter must suffer the bliss and the pain
In secret for loving the spring.
Irvin W. Underhill was born in Port Clinton, Pennsylvania, on May 1, 1868.
He is the author of Daddy’s Love and Other Poems (A.M.E. Book Concern, 1916
The Woman at my side
The woman at my side. Where did you fly? The life of my day That I caught in the early morning breeze where dry and withered leaves moving In the rough stream, forcing in bubbling water, like my feelings, coming at the surface with the wind and a bouncing heart in flaming emotions. A poet I am, living in myself, where all magical creation starts all energy, all courage, invented by myself, all truth and all mistakes born on this way, where I tread in the trace of my heirs, long ago. No borders, no rules are a force, in my existence While freedom is the stability and my trust to grow and not to shrink after a total disruption while my heart still bouncing like a flame and my mind has the power to defend myself. This is the woman, standing beside me Honouring me, building me from the inside with her wit a presence of devotion, a place called home, but a short moment of nothing and a never-ending hunger. She is Looking at me, taking me in her arms March 2021. Copyright kc.
I am Thirsty
Sunday Afternoon Light
Without A Motive
Is it true what have been said? That faith creates the finest looks That beauty grows from winter trees From icy moors and stiffened seas. And is it true that the bare branches Have caught all life in the early buds And young days of shining smiles give pure mirth and spiritual light. Can I trust my sleeping mind? In these so early moments That tender, but flickering flames From my gloomy windows, move Like gracious but shivering signs. And in my options of accepted audit will I hereby leave for more a day? To give an unbroken substantial limit To find itself and in that, thyself to stay. Copyright 13th of March kc.
A little Wile a Little While
A Little While, A Little While A LITTLE while, a little while, The weary task is put away, And I can sing and I can smile, Alike, while I have holiday. Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart What thought, what scene invites thee now What spot, or near or far apart, Has rest for thee, my weary brow? There is a spot, 'mid barren hills, Where winter howls, and driving rain; But, if the dreary tempest chills, There is a light that warms again. The house is old, the trees are bare, Moonless above bends twilight's dome; But what on earth is half so dear-- So longed for--as the hearth of home? The mute bird sitting on the stone, The dank moss dripping from the wall, The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, I love them--how I love them all! Still, as I mused, the naked room, The alien firelight died away; And from the midst of cheerless gloom, I passed to bright, unclouded day. A little and a lone green lane That opened on a common wide; A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain Of mountains circling every side . A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air; And, deepening still the dream-like charm, Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere. That was the scene, I knew it well; I knew the turfy pathway's sweep, That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep. Could I have lingered but an hour, It well had paid a week of toil; But Truth has banished Fancy's power: Restraint and heavy task recoil. Even as I stood with raptured eye, Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear, My hour of rest had fleeted by, And back came labour, bondage, care. Emily Bronte
A Dream in St. Valentine
A Dream in St.Valentine.
When morning capture the strength of noble range
That beams over the red and blue coloured sky
My dream lies in my labouring chest
Now drowned by the mounted wind
Like a breath fringed with fire.
The maze of every bells from unrested motions
That never made you sad before
Now calling in my aching spirit
From ancient Gods in greyish beard
And long white dresses
Returning from thousand years of war.
My hope of unaccomplished years
Should keep you safe, but still so much remains
That never cried or emptied your bright eyes
Before time in riper buds will come
And you yourself as the rose of beauty
Stay high above all evil, and frosty leaves should die.
Now in this early motion of my new day
I paint a prisoner behind the wall of glass
That keep her longing for many years and days
When fresh repair enchants the broken trust
Back to summer thoughts and newly perfumed scent,
resembling the young fragrance of your smile.
Now for your starlit eyes so strongly alive,
What more can be said and what more can be praised
That beauty of your childish appearance glow.
And Then may I hide my shyness, and tell
That in the deep of those eyes, my love forever dwell.
February 2021 Copyright kc.
Winter Time
Winter Time
Inspired by the Snowy Queen that keep my company
During the night.
When all the treasure of our lusty days
Lies still in the prison of my mind
That captured the light, the night, and the day
Now buried under the frosty ground
Just waiting for The King of Winter to arrive.
I am no Queen myself, only a figure as a stony cliff
A mountain of the strongest nature
A hard and secure building in noble granite
I safely wear the head I was born with
Fetched with chains to the ground, but easily canter
Never missing my steps, my foreseen and labourers Hight.
And here, from now I must work,
From inside of the high mountain
Crossing the stones in the flames of the igneous rock
And from the deep of the planet’s mantel of crust.
Slowly rising my head towards the morning sun
I am falling apart but growing on the ground
As an image of the three goddesses, of Music
Poetry and Song.
Febraury 2021 kc
My most beautiful book
