Ruby Archer

The laughing months have all tripped gaily by,
With flower entangled hair, lips thrilled with song;
But lingering behind the merry throng
Comes one with smile more sad than any sigh,
And 'round her moaningly the dead leaves fly.
With backward glance her eyes the way prolong—
Wide, wistful eyes, intense with yearning strong
For warm young life too early doomed to die,
While thoughts were golden hours with sunbeams sown.
Now like a blossom memory fadeth fast.
Her joy is vanished. Like a dream it passed,
Or Summer's leaves that 'round her now are blown.
She drops her flowers—a thistle falling last—
Then, sadly shivering, onward fares—alone.

A blade of grass is bending
    Above the moaning stream,
In sympathy is blending
    Where troubles only seem.

The waters have no sorrow,
    Real anguish ne'er can know;
And yet the grass will borrow
    And bear the waters' woe.

It quivers with compassion
    And quakes with foreign fears,
Then yields to loving passion,
    And weeps the torrent's tears.

Father and I were gypsies.―
    We tried to lose our way
Among the woodland mystery,
    When we'd a holiday.

My hand about his finger,
    We followed brook and dell.
No need to voice our ecstasy―
    The robins told it well.

His love I took for granted,
    Owned every dear caress,
Nor dreame'd of how a little girl
    Would feel when fatherless.

Now I, poor lonely gypsey,
    Roam wood and hill and blue;
But no one loves them all with me
    As Father used to do.

A world of snow, and winter yet,
    The weather-man decrees.
He listens to the bragging wind,
    I hearken roots of trees.
It thawed of late, and roots lay out
    Along the way I take;
I heard them deeply sigh, as does
    A dreamer soon to wake.
And lo—upon my windowsill
Opens a yellow daffodil.

Gold-armored herald of the spring,
    Come privately to tell
That snow is but the calyx warm,
    The bud begins to swell.
So weather-man, go prophesy,
    And credulous, go hear—
My herald gives your gloom the lie,
    I know that Spring is near!
For lo—upon my windowsill
Opens a yellow daffodil.

O little wave, you come from far,
    Over the sky-line yonder.
Why do you hurry across the bar
    And fight with the wind, I wonder?

Can you be weary of ocean play?
    Did the big monsters follow?
Were you afraid that a whale to-day
    Your little self would swallow?

There, little wave, come close to land.
    Careful! I knew you'd stumble.
There goes your curly head on the sand—
    Never you mind—don't grumble.

Here are some playthings I've brought for you,—
    Buttercups, daisies, clover.
Now you will stay? Lo—off to the blue!
    Gone is my little rover.