Anna M. Johnson

Birds sing love-songs from apple trees, From boughs soft-swinging in the breeze, And carelessly in joyous glee Trill freely to their brides to be; But birds are oh, so fetterless! They warble not in bitternesss, And never words from lips compressed, Can rob them of loves truest test — A heart-song sung within a nest.

There was such tenderness, Such restful tenderness, In those last words you spoke to me, That soothed, this restlessness’ Gave way and ceased to be.

No matter where my soul shall rest, I must return to look upon your face; So long as love is openly confessed Upon your features where its signs I trace, I will come home to you.

But should these emblems wear away, Of that bright light I lived to see, And your dear features fail to signal me To feast upon your smile, by night by day, I will not come again.

We wander o’er the Earth, We walk a little here, and there, We write some nonsense, seek the mirth Of foolish friends who ever wear That same sweet camouflage—that play Of careless laughter on the air, That hides the heart in sad despair — We wander, friends, so far away!

My heart is like a toy horse Whose rider fired with fun, Whips up its sides for good or worse, And tries a race to run.

Some day that toy horse will fail To feel its rider’s joy; Its silver trapping soon will trail In dust of meaningless deploy, For after all ‘tis but a toy.

Do I weep for myself Or do I weep for the World? I am not a Christ crucified to death, Into a furnace hurled Of Earth’s woes, and with parting breath Commiserating Earth’s deficits in love, While trying immortality to prove— So I weep for myself; It may be light grieving, Selfish, in self-believing.

My little Black Bag packed full and tight With a robe, and a comb, and a prayer devout, And I was off to spend the night With the kiddies while Mother and Dad stepped out.

The little Black Bag, it lasted long. ’Twas a family asset, a family pride; A kind of a cradle song For the kiddies I gathered so near my side.

But the little Black Bag was worn and bent As a change in the family die was cast; Like the owner who came and went, It was dropped by the years into the past.

These are no idle tears That dance into my eyes As sudden raindrops do From out the darkened skies.

These tears have soaked through All my being in their flow Of cleansing power, And every sentient Earthly woe That would my soul devour, Is drowned by them and disappears.