Henrietta Clarke

No sea-gulls fly in the ice-bound bay. They feel that Spring is not yet here; And they follow the sea-craft far away, Longing daily for harbor and pier. Had I learned the wisdom of such a bird As I glimpsed the white expanse of your soul And not rushed on—your beauty lured, As I saw in the future the ultimate goal— Had I waited until the ice was away, This chilly mist would not rise each day.

In a luminous night a crystal moon Cast its rays on a silver sea, They shimmer there like a limpid wing And beauty entrances me.

But I remember a night of storm When the clouds rolled black on high; And the waters below were thick with foam While my answering voice was a sigh.

Yet the shriek of the storm was the song of my heart, For my spirit leaped to its call, As a blinding flame of lightning flashed I was unified with it all.

For youth rejoices in nature’s strife; In itself it’s akin to the beat Of her stirring passions, noise and stress. One who does not admit defeat.

On this quiet night I know the peace Of a calm, enchanting sea . . . And now I forget both storm and fire. Where is that other me?

Above the lights of the Navy quay I saw on a mast a small Christmas tree. With lights of blue and green and gold It shone at night o'er the waters cold. Like a fantasy rare its gay lights glowed And colored ribbon-reflections flowed; As it hung aloft with its charm and light, The star-sprinkled sky made a backdrop of night.

In the windows of homes I've seen many a tree And happy children who laughed with glee; But this one tree that the sailors hung Above the decks while the north wind stung Will mean that each Christmas night I shall see, In mem'ry, a small brave Christmas tree.

Often one sees an orchard blooming bright With blossoms clustering gaily on its boughs, Beneath the shade the spotted cattle browse, All tended well with work and proud delight.

Now on this farm the trees are gnarled and grey, Alone the ghostly chimney stern and tall Still stands, and unseen petals softly fall Where once the children joined to laugh and play.

How sad is this deserted spot. We wait And deeply think upon the vacant farms From virgin forests won by stalwart arms. Small spruce again grow over the estate.

Through endless days of fortitude and skill These pioneers had worked with faith and pride And trusting still in that same faith they died. The thoughts of gallant days inspire us still.

Up the high hill in ecstasy we race, Then turn around to gaze below its height, Where flowing brooks and pastures interlace, Pleasing and cool in early morning light.

Above the mist-enveloped glen We feel the influence of fairy wands; Damp smell of wood and odors of the fen, Bits of soft moss and tiny green curled fronds.

In little valleys snow still lingers on, And under prickly boughs of rugged spruce The King of Winter's marks are not yet gone; The Princess Spring is asking now for truce.

Beside an ancient rotting stump we find A dainty mystery rousing fresh delight, The small arbutus blossoms are entwined With clinging tendrils, hidden from the sight.

It does not even feel the chill of snows, And often blooms beside a rivulet Where Springtime's vibrant opalescence flows. With me its piquant odor lingers yet.

Small rivulets make crooked paths across streets Recently covered with soiled snow, The vapor arising from the sorrel ground Exudes a steam of musty odors. Across the way with heavy stooping figure A foreign woman digs deftly Into the tenacious loam, Seeking a few edible roots So mindful of the savory relish Of her Homeland.

Away in the Southland, Spring came early, And flowers blossomed overnight; This should have made my heart beat faster, As I gazed in awe at the magic sight. Then I thought of my home in the distant Northland, And somehow life didn’t seem just right. I curled my fingers to form a spyglass, And shield my eyes from the noontime glare, And through this opening I saw in wonder A fragment of drift-ice, floating there . . . A clamper of drift-ice, moving slowly . . . Strange how the memory of childhood clings, Sapphire colors of Spring in the Northland, Rainbow lights on a sea-gull’s wings.

Across the street the neighbor’s boy Is spading the half-frozen ground; He stops occasionally to pounce Upon a worm, wiggling and round; He holds it high exultantly, Then drops it in a small glass jar, And looking toward the soft blue hills, He sees the fishing brook afar.

As twilight comes and shadows fall Across the yard and vacant lot, The boy still digs with easy grace, And sees in his mind’s eye a spot Where early sunlight tipped with gold Flickers across a shaded stream; Feels not the weight of heavy sod, But one large trout bending his rod.