Posts filed under ‘Virna Sheard’

OCTOBER GOES

by Virna Sheard

The Ballad of the Quest, Carry On!

October goes, and its colors all pass:
At dawn there’s a silver film on the grass,
And the reeds are shining as pipes of glass,
But yesterweek where the cloud waves rolled
Down a wind-swept sky that was grey, and cold,
Sailed the hunter’s moon,—a galleon of gold!
And now in the very depth of the night
It is just a little flame, blown and white,
Or a broken-winged moth on a weary flight.
But the steadfast trees at the forest rim,
And the pines in places scented and dim,
Still wait for one hunter, and watch for him.
And the wind in the branches whispers, “Why?”
And the yellow leaves that go rustling by,
Say only, “Remember,” and sigh,—and sigh.

October 1, 2016 at 3:02 pm Leave a comment

June

by Virna Sheard

The Ballad of the Quest

Now by every meadow-side the buttercups blow—
(O June, you are spendthrift of your gold!)
Green are the uplands where the little lambs go,
Green and glad the forests that are old.
Once again the summer weaves on her magic loom,
Cloth of clover,—fairy web of wheat;—
Only Mary’s alabaster box of perfume
Ever made the passing wind more sweet.
Even through the city where the dusty roads run,
Blue runs now the river to the sea.
Tender is the twilight when the long day is done,—
Infinite the stars’ tranquillity.
Not forever are the rains or the winter snows,
All these past—nor shall be overlong,—
And with every lovely June cometh the rose,
The sweet blue dusk,—a night-bird’s wonder-song!

June 1, 2016 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

April Again!

by Virna Sheard

The Ballad of the Quest

April again! the willow wands are yellow
Rose-red the brambles that the passing wind knows,
Comes a robin’s note like the note of a ‘cello,
And across the valley, the calling of the crows,—
“April again!”
April again! and the marsh birds swinging
Over the rushes that belong to yester-year;
Silver shines the river, and young lips are singing
Songs as old as Eden—as old and as dear;
“April again!”
April again! with a wet wind blowing,
And along the western sky a pathway of gold;
Sounds a call to follow the road we’re not knowing,
A new road—a wild road—o’er fairy lands unrolled,—
“April again!”
April again! with its wonder of gladness,
April with its haunting joy, and swift-stinging tears,—
Month of mist and music, and the old moon-madness,
Month of magic fluting, the spirit only hears,—
“April again!”

April 21, 2016 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

April

by Virna Sheard

April! April! April!
With a mist of green on the trees–
And a scent of the warm brown broken earth
On every wandering breeze;
What, though thou be changeful,
Though thy gold turns to grey again,
There’s a robin out yonder singing,
Singing in the rain.

April! April! April!
‘Tis the Northland hath longed for thee,
She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes
Full long and patiently.
Come now–tell us, sweeting,
Thou laggard so lovely and late,
Dost know there’s no joy like the joy that comes
When hearts have learned to wait?

April 20, 2016 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

When April Comes!

by Virna Sheard

When April comes with softly shining eyes,
And daffodils bound in her wind-blown hair,
Oh, she will coax all clouds from out the skies,
And every day will bring some sweet surprise,–
The swallows will come swinging through the air
When April comes!

When April comes with tender smile and tear,
Dear dandelions will gild the common ways,
And at the break of morning we will hear
The piping of the robins crystal clear–
While bobolinks will whistle through the days,
When April comes!

When April comes, the world so wise and old,
Will half forget that it is worn and grey;
Winter will seem but as a tale long told–
Its bitter winds with all its frost and cold
Will be the by-gone things of yesterday,
When April comes!

April 6, 2016 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

March

by Virna Sheard

The Ballad of the Quest

Windy March weather, with a lone crow flying,
A little ebony airship careening down the blue,
And high, high above him a wild goose crying,
The leading cry, the clarion cry, that guides his grey lines through!
Windy March weather, with the pine trees singing,
Silver-red the brambles show and silver-green the birch,
And silver-grey a squirrel on a top branch swinging,—
A friendly elf who nods to me from his far perilous perch.
Windy March weather, with the tawny brook that hurries
Eager for the outward rush of rivers to the sea;
A tiny brook sun-dappled, that frets and sings and worries,
A rough adventurous little brook that calls and calls to me!
Windy March weather, and the old spring madness
Tempting us to take the trail that wanders free and far,—
Whispering of magic roads that wind to lands of gladness,
Where vanished joys and lost delights and garnered treasures are!

March 18, 2016 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment


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