Jean Blewett - The Cornflower, and Other Poems

It ended up in our saying good-bye for the rest of our days,
Both vowing we'd be happier going our different ways.
And I strode out in the garden where the trees were pink and white,
Where bobolinks scolded sparrows, and robins, wild with delight,
Chirped and called and fluttered in the blossoming trees above,
Where Nature was busy teaching her lessons of joy and love.
I made a bed of the soft, warm earth, stretched me out in the sun.
Vext and weary, I fell asleep, and slept till the day was done.
The voice of my brother waked me, crying, "Quickly arise and come;
Bear up like a man, Heaven help you! Death has suddenly entered your home!"

'Twas Mary, my own sweet Mary! The eyelashes slept on her cheek,
The lips had a half-smile on them, as though they were going to speak
Some of the old-time tender words, witty rejoinder or jest,
Or ask the question they'd asked so oft, "Jim, who do you love the best?"

But the small hands gave no pressure when I took them in my own,
And bending down to kiss her face, I found it cold as a stone.
And it came to me I could never – never, since Mary was dead —
Say, "Dear one, I didn't mean them, the bitter words that I said."
Never see the tears go from her sweet, dark eyes, and the brightness take their place,
Never watch the joy and gladness come back to my darling's face.
Not a fault could I remember – she'd been perfect all her days,
With her sweetness and her laughter, her tender womanly ways.
Dead – dead in her fresh young beauty – oh, I had an anguished heart
At thought of the quarrel ending in our agreeing to part!

When two people love each other, I'll tell you the wisest way,
'Tis to think before speaking harshly, for there surely will come a day
When one will sleep on so soundly that he or she will not wake,
The other sit in the stillness and cry with a great heart-break.
It is to ears all unheeding our tenderest words are said —
The love that the living long for we waste it upon the dead.
We say this life is so dreary, talk much of heaven, I know,
But if we were good to each other we'd have our heaven below.
"Mary," I whispered, "my Mary, no flowers to you I gave,
But I'll heap them on your coffin and plant them over your grave."
A bird sang sweetly and shrilly in the blossoms over-head,
And I awoke, awoke, awoke – I'd dreamed that Mary was dead!
I woke in the golden sunshine, the birds were singing aloud.
There was no still form beside me, nor any coffin or shroud,
But just a slip of a woman with her brown eyes full of tears —
Oh, that blessed, blessed waking I've remembered through all the years.
I told the story to Mary, who hasn't let me forget
That dream in the blossoming orchard – I hear of it often yet.
If I neglect to bring flowers, it's: "Oh, you're going to save
Your roses to heap on my coffin, your pansies to plant on my grave?"

And if I lose my temper – a common weakness of men —
The sweetest voice in the world says: "You'll have to get dreaming again."

In the farmhouse kitchen were Nan and John,
With only the sunflowers looking on.

A farmhouse kitchen is scarce the place
For knight or lady of courtly grace.

But this is just an everyday pair
That hold the kitchen this morning fair.

A saucy, persistent thorn-tree limb
Had sacrificed a part of the brim

Of the youth's straw hat. His face was brown,
And his well-shaped forehead wore a frown.

His boots were splashed with mud and clay
From marshland pasture over the way.

Where alderbushes and spicewood grew,
And frogs croaked noisily all night through.

'Neath muslin curtains, snowy and thin,
The homely sunflowers nodded in.

Nan was a picture. Her muslin gown
Had maybe a bit old-fashioned grown.

But fitted the slender shape so well.
In its low-cut neck the soft lace fell.

Sleeves, it had none from the elbows down;
In length – well, you see, the maid had grown.

A labor of love her homely task —
To share it none need hope nor ask,

For Nan was washing each trace of dirt
From fluted bodice and ruffled skirt.

Now, few that will, and fewer that can,
Bend over a tub like pretty Nan.

The frail soap bubbles sailed high in air
As she drew each piece from frothy lair,

And rubbed with cruel yet tender hand
As only a woman could, understand.

Then wrung with twist of the wrist so strong,
Examined with care, shook well and long,

Flung in clear water to lie in state —
Each dainty piece met the same hard fate.

"'Tis done!" with a look of conscious pride
At the rinsing bucket deep and wide.

Wiping the suds from each rounded arm,
She turned to John with a smile so warm:

"I've kept you waiting – excuse me, please,
The soapsuds ruin such goods as these."

"You're over fond of finery, Nan,
Dresses and furbelows," he began.

"Maybe I am, of a truth," she said.
Each sunflower nodded its yellow head.

"Ned Brown's growing rich" – John's words came slow —
"That he loves you well you doubtless know.

"My house and acres, I held them fast,
Was stubborn over them to the last,

"For when my father was carried forth,
And men were asking 'What was he worth?'

"I saw them look and nod and smile
As they whispered together all the while,

"'A fine old homestead, but mortgaged so,
A foolish thing for a man to do!'

"I said, 'My father's dead and gone,
But he's left behind a strong-armed son.'

"My heart was hot with a purpose set
To clear that mortgage, to pay that debt.

"I've worked, heaven knows, like any slave,
I've learned the lesson of scrimp and save,

"Kept a good horse, but dressed like a clown —
And I've not a dollar to call my own.

"I'm beaten – well beaten; yesterday
Everything went to Ned Brown from me.

"My woods, my meadows, my tasseled corn,
The orchard planted when I was born,

"The old rose garden my mother loved,
My chestnut mare – can't help feeling moved,

"For I'm a beggar, Nan, you see —
Don't think me begging for sympathy.

"The world is wide, I don't care – much.
Thank God, health's a thing the law can't touch.

"The happiest man I ever knew
Was born a beggar, and died one, too."

Each sunflower, nodding its yellow head,
Listened to every word that was said,

As Nan in her slow and easy way,
In the farmhouse kitchen that summer day,