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Sad, Henrietta Clarke, in English Clear filters

SadHenrietta Clarke

Wild Roses

Beside the country lane wild roses grow; Each year it looks the same, how well I know, For I walk down this road when work is done, And often in the golden setting sun I see you stand beside the hedge again, And all the joy returns, and all the pain. The salt sea breeze mingles with hay and clover, Gulls whirl and cry; the summer’s almost over. Wild rose, with thorns your beauty can’t conceal, Waken afresh the anguish that I feel. The tide goes out, the barren rocks look grey, Sea-gulls fly by and only memories stay.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Time

I have come back, why did I dream That life could be the same? I walk the old familiar streets And someone calls my name. Around me others move about Like actors on the screen, While I, the audience, look on A too familiar scene. This is no way to blot out things A man should never see, With row on row of empty days In slow monotony. I have come back, you are too kind, Yes, much too kind to me, But only time can bring again The peace that used to be.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Lumber Shed

The chill wind blew across the jutting quay, And by the flickering lights hung overhead (Men turning night to day to earn their bread) One saw the outline of a lumber shed. Here workmen passed with heavy-footed step, Nor paused to think how long the shift might be. Some walked more slowly than the others, who Less late had known the hungry belly’s plea. Tightening his coat around him with a cord, For cruel winds cut like a tempered sword, A youth, too slim for the frayed suit he wore, Staggered and faltered with the load he bore. Upon the shed, as low-burned lanterns flared, The stark grim shadow of a cross appeared.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Soot

It was true, the plant was closed . . . Smoke belched no more from the tall straight stacks, It seemed impossible to get away from the sight Of their cold reminder of want. Relief—with always someone hungry till the soul As well as the body grew shriveled and hopeless. A man could not stay in the house. A woman, remembering her anger at smoke-smeared clothes, Now prayed for a smudge of soot.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Fragments

In her youth she must have been beautiful, This woman who works by the day; For even now after many years Her figure is graceful as she goes about her tasks; And her eyes, though dimmed, hold memories and dreams. Dreams . . . the dreams have been shattered, Redreamed and shattered again, But she still tries to piece the fragments together, Though life tells her this is useless.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Three Rocking Chairs

From a low branch of a willow tree A newly painted sign was hung. The old farmhouse back of the willows Looked on with troubled eyes at this outrage, With its gaudy printing, “Furniture and Antiques for Sale.” Out of doors on the stoop, Three empty rocking chairs Swayed lightly in the gentle breeze. How easily one could picture three women Rocking and chatting together. Now and then the chairs ceased rocking As though some bit of gossip Had been discussed. From an upstairs window in the ell Two unstarched curtains hung limp and pathetic.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Beauty Shoppe

All day she toiled Making beautiful the faces Of other women, Yet she herself was not beautiful. Women of society demanded her services, Knowing that with skilful fingers She would smooth from faces the lines Written there by trivial annoyances And too much pursuing of pleasure's gods. It was not a lasting beauty Yet it served for the time, And they could return to her again . . . Women being made beautiful, Day after day, By one who was beautiful Only in spirit.
SadHenrietta Clarke

A Square Peg

And she said once more, “You cannot go.” Then he turned his face away From beyond the rocks and the blue-green sea, Where a full-rigged vessel lay. At the farm the house was neat and trim With an orchard blooming near; But to-day the whole place seemed to him As if filled with drastic fear, With a fear no more to take his place At the wheel of outbound ships, Or to know the breeze with stinging tang As toward the lea she dips. When he dug the earth the clods were waves, In the sky, he saw a sail, And he thought the hoe that burned his hands Was a tiller through a gale.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Unseen Blossoms

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.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Premature

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.

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