Menella Bute Smedley Poems

The wind bloweth wildly; she stands on the shore;
She shudders to hear it, and will evermore.
The rush of the waves, as they rose and they fell,
...

Down by the pier, when the sweet morn is blowing,
Slips from her moorings the fisher's light bark,
Sends up her ringing sails while she is going,
...

“Ah, Fanuel, my noble horse, and art thou, art thou slain?
Wilt thou never bear me to the chase or the battle-field again?
...

A wind came out of the Moon's clear heart,
Straight and soft in my face it blew;
It was not cold, but it made me start,
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Comfort me, O my God!
Mine only hope Thou art!
The strokes of Thine afflicting rod
Fall heavy on my heart.
...

The children crown'd themselves with roses,
And all the roses died!
Pale on the soft brown locks they lay,
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I'll tell you a tale of a knight, my boy,
The bravest that ever was known;
A lion he was in the fight, my boy,
A lamb when the battle was done.
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She is sleeping on the grass,
Where her daily footsteps pass;
All her errands left undone
At the bidding of the sun;
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Oh, listen, ye dames and ye lordlings all;
For never before or since
Was there known so stately a festival
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Two children sat in the twilight,
Murmuring soft and low;
Said one, “I'll be a sailor-lad,
With my boat ahoy! yo ho!
...