Debris by Madge Morris Wagner (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📕

doctors say they know the cause,
And they've gone to work with eager zest,
Probed and expounded with weighty straws,
And leeches attached to my troubled breast;
I fee them well, as attests my purse
But day after day I'm growing worse.

Though they have not yet touched the cause they knew,
And are wrangling over its direful flood,
They promise to build me better than new,
And stop the drain on my famished blood;
But lest they're careful while building the dam
They'll scoop out a grave for "Uncle Sam."


NAY, DO NOT ASK.

Nay, do not ask me, Sweet, if I have loved before,
Or if, mayhap, in other years to be,
A younger, fairer face than thine I know,
I'll love her more than thee.

What should it matter if I've loved before,
So that I love thee now, and love thee best?
What matters it that I should love again
If, first, the daisy-buds blow o'er thy breast?

Love has the waywardness of strange caprice,
One can not chain it to a recreant heart,
Nor, when around the soul its tendrils twine,
Can will the clinging, silken bonds to part.

It is enough, I hold thee prisoned in my arms,
And drink the dewy fragrance of thy breath;
And earth, and heaven, and hades, are forgot,
And love holds carnival, and laughs at death.

Then do not ask me, Sweet, if I have loved before,
Or if some day my heart might turn from thee;
In this brief hour, thou hast my soul of love,
And thou are _Is_, and _Was_, and _May be_--all to me.


A PICTURE.

A little maid, with sweet brown eyes,
Upraised to mine in sad surprise;
I held two tiny hands in mine,
I kissed the little maid farewell.
Her cheeks to deeper crimson flushed,
The sweet, shy glances downward fell;
From rosy lips came--ah! so low--
"I love you, do not go!"

I see it through the lapse of years--
This picture, ofttimes blurred with tears.
No tiny hands in mine are held,
No sweet brown eyes my pulses wake--
Only in memory a voice
E'er bids me stay for love's sweet sake.


* * * * *


HANG UP YOUR STOCKING.

Laugh, little bright-eyes, hang up your stocking;
Don't count the days any more;
Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking,
Knocking,
Knocking at the door.

Through the key-hole slyly peeping,
Down the chimney careful creeping,
When the little folks are sleeping,
Comes he with his pack of presents.
Such a grin! but then so pleasant
You would never think to fear him;
And you can not, _must_ not hear him.
He's so particular, you know,
He'd just pick up his traps and go
If but one little eye should peep
That he thought was fast asleep.
Searching broomstick, nails, and shelf,
Till he finds the little stocking--
Softly lest you hear his knocking--
Smiling, chuckling to himself,
He fills it from his Christmas store,
And out he slips to hunt for more.

Then laugh, little bright-eyes, and hang up your stocking;
Don't count the days any more;
Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking,
Knocking,
Knocking at the door.


OPENING THE GATE FOR PAPA.

Hurrying out to the gateway
Go two little pattering feet;
Eagerly out through the palings
Peer two eyes bright and sweet.

A footstep as eager is answering
The sweet eyes that patiently wait
And papa is kissing, and blessing
The baby that opens the gate.

And every day all the long Summer,
At noontime and evening late,
The little one's watching for papa--
Waiting to open the gate.

And now the bright Summer is ended,
And Autumn's gay mantle unrolled;
The maple leaves wooing the breezes
Are gorgeous in crimson and gold.

At noonday the face at the gateway
Is flushed with a feverish glow,
At night the bright head on the pillow
Is tossing in pain to and fro.

The father kneels down in his anguish,
And stifles the sobs with groan;
He knows that his idol is going--
Going out in the midnight alone.

He buries his face in the pillow,
Close, close, to the fast failing breath;
A little arm clasps his neck closely,
A voice growing husky in death

Says pleadingly, half in a whisper:
"Please, darling papa, don't cry;
I know Birdie's going to Heaven--
I heard doctor say he will die;

"But I'll ask God for one of the windows
The pretty star-eyes look out through,
And when you come up with the angels
I'll sure be the first to see you.

"And maybe I'll find my dear mamma;
And you'll come up, too, by-and-by,
And Birdie will watch for you, papa,
And open the gate of the sky."

The little hand falls from his shoulder
All nerveless, the blue eyes dilate,
A shuddering sigh, then the baby
Is waiting to open the gate.


WHITE HONEYSUCKLE.

White honeysuckle, "bond of love,"
Emblem born in Orient bowers,
Whence mythic Deities have wooed,
And told the soul's desire in flowers.
As sweet thy breath as Eden's balm,
As sweet and pure. Methinks that erst
Thy flower was of our earth a part,
Some angel hand the seed immersed
In fragrance of the lotus' heart,
And dropped it from the realm of calm.
And life of earth, and life above,
Thou bindest with they "bond of love."


* * * * *


ESTRANGEMENT.

Only a "something light as air,"
Which never words could tell,
Yet feel you that between your lives
A cloud has strangely fell;
Though never a change in look or tone,
A change your heart is grieving;
You sentient feel the friend you love
Has deemed you are deceiving.

A promise rashly given has bound
Your lips the truth to screen,
The nameless something gathers fast
As mist the hills between;
You wrap you in your cloak of pride,
The words are never spoken
That might have thrown the portal wide,
And friendship's tie is broken.


* * * * *


BRING FLOWERS.

Bring flowers, bring flowers, thou Queen of the Spring,
Sweet flowers to garland the earth,
Exotics to bloom in the mansions of wealth,
Wild flowers for the lowly hearth.
Bring flowers for the brave and strong-hearted,
Bring flowers for the merry and glad,
Bring flowers for the weak and despairing,
Bring flowers for the weary and sad.

Bring flowers, bring flowers, thou Queen of the Spring,
Sweet flowers, the dark hours to cheer.
Bring flowers for the little ones, flowers for the aged,
Bring flowers for the bridal and bier.
In this beautiful, sun-lighted Springtime,
Bring flowers their fragrance to shed,
To brighten the homes of the living,
To garnish the graves of the dead.


GOOD-BYE.

Good-bye! Good-bye!
Once pledged we fondly o'er and o'er
That nought should cloud our love's bright sky;
Once thought we that we could not stay
Apart and live. But oh! For us
Fate willed it not to linger thus.
To-day earth's wintry poles apart
Are further not that we in heart,
Nor colder than our sunless way.
Passion and pride can do no more,
And you and I can only say
Good-bye! Good-bye!

Good-bye! Good-bye!
So sad it seems the sound of tears,
So sad it seems life's parting sigh,
And yet, alas! It can but be.
Deserted ghostly wrecks of dreams
Once freighted with Hope's golden gleams,
Wrecks drifting on a sullen sea,
To mock the memory-haunted years,
Are all now left to you and me.
Good-bye! Good-bye!


IN THE TWILIGHT.

In the twilight gray and shadowy,
Deepening o'er the sunset's glow,
Softly through the mystic dimness
Flitting shadows come and go.

As my thoughts in listless wandering
With these phantom shadows fly,
Meseems they wear the forms of faces,
Faces loved in days gone by.

One by one I recognize them
As they silent gather near;
Some are loving, childish faces,
Knowing naught of grief or care.

Some are blooming, youthful faces,
Victory confident to win,
Some are from the contest shrinking,
Wearied with the strife and din.

Some are aged, wrinkled faces,
Time life's sands has nearly run;
Not a leaflet spared of Springtime,
Not a furrow left undone.

Other faces, sweet, sad faces,
Wafted o'er the Lethean sea,
Radiant smile in twilight shadows,
But they came not back to me.

In the twilight, dreamy twilight,
When the sultry day is gone,
Quietly o'er vale and hillside,
Tenderly as blush of dawn,

Come the timid evening breezes,
Sighing through the Summer leaves,
Transient as thought's pencil-paintings,
Sweet as weft that fancy weaves.

And as shadows in the twilight
Shapeful forms of faces wear,
So these dainty, light-winged zephyrs,
To my hearing, voices are.

Voices whose sad intonations
Seemingly, as flit they past,
Bring to memory hopes long shattered,
Blissful dreams too bright to last.

Voices, merry laughing voices,
Fondly loved in other years,
Mournfully are whispering to me
That their mirth was drowned in tears.

Telling of a fairer fortune
Far away 'neath tropic skies,
Telling of a broken circle,
Scattered friends and severed ties.

Other kindly, loving voices,
Winning in the long ago,
Tell me now, as then they told me,
"Thou canst live for weal or woe."

Are these weird and mystic voices
But creations of the brain?
Only in illusive fancy
Must I hear their tones again?

Would some magic power lend me
Aid to stay the witching