Poems by Mrs W R Conover

Poems by Mrs W R Conover

Spring

Grim old winter hath fallen asleep,
And a beautiful spring is born,
Up from her cradle, bright eyes peep,
To greet our world now tattered and torn.

Oh! who will be first to welcome her,
To this cheerless, chilly sphere of ours?
If left to me I’d answer thus—
’Tis the welcome sweet May flowers,
When sunshine mingles with showers.

So cheer our poor, famished land,
Each purple flag unfurls its purple robe,
Distills its perfume, mid its sheen,
Dispelling clouds, forgetting want,
Awakes our rambler, crimson queen.
Near by the brown coat flits on wings.

A dream of nectar aroused the bee,
To make a tour from flower to flower,
Trying his wings of gauze, now free,
To wander far from stone and brick,
To wind his way o’er mossy beds,
To rest them, as if strode alone;
Thanks to the Almighty, winter is gone. ?

With cooing, billing doves o’er head,
Overjoyed that once more to meet,
Ah! there’s the niche in which to build,
Our love nest for our nestling sweet.
Seems hard to turn a stricken town,
Leaving a paradise to sing: she was not hungry, nor cold,
Only in welcome of beautiful spring.

One’s Home

Satisfied with just a shelter from the elements above,
Just a straw bed and a pillow—what a bed for one to love!

In this corner pack your luggage when inclined to roam;
Snuff the candle, lock the door, and leave their cheerful home.

’Tis a shelter one can eat in if they be starving out,
Just a hen-coop for the kiddies when they long to romp about.

If one’s weary of his back porch, and there’s no garden walks to roam,
Then no doubt the thoughts are surging, cursing fate at such a home.

If your neighbors sniff and snub you simply let them all alone.
Don’t get jealous at their wisdom, go likewise and build a home.

In the sweet content of wedlock, with its joys that children bring
In your mansion not a shelter that will make the welkin ring.

A Search for Contentment

WEALTH
I craved the earth, her universal wealth,
The envied scepter, with its jeweled crown,
To feast upon the fat of every distant land,
And be the monarch, of the most renowned.

BEAUTY
I feared, my fickle clay might tumble into dust,
I chose the silent moon, in tints of borrowed gold,
This faithful queen of night, shed welcome rays,
Alas in early dawn, her pretty tale is told.

PLEASURE
Let’s not forget to become little twinkling stars,
That guard our slumbers thru the sable night,
These Angels will their mighty vigil keep,
Alas my shackles bind, while all my stars flight on.

LABOR
I spied a hoe, and spade, upon my garden wall,
So grasping these, my sluggish blood grew red,
I bid adieu to wealth, and beauty, pleasure all,
I found contentment, that I thought long dead.

The Way I View Things

I have read a lengthy poem from the Journal Suffrage News
Of how a true Kentuckian did womanhood abuse.
I cannot find it in my heart to think our men such brutes
To go prowling ’round in broad daylight insulting suffrage recruits.

Our men are born to chivalry, and full of courtesy, I’m sure,
And never slow at picking up the ’kerchief on the floor.
And yet he scorns to see frail girls a-hanging ’round the polls,
So this is why our Colonel persists in hauling o’er the coals.

’Tis a pity Mr. Barleycorn makes fools of all of us.
’Tis not the men alone who go get drunk, and tare and cuss,
For the growler finds a way to homes, and drank behind the door,
But women are to blame for this, the rich as well as poor.

Sir Barleycorn is grafting like others choose the bar.
Poor women can do little but their peace of mind to mar.
Until the preacher and the lawyer, the merchant and the chief
Join hands to rout the gentleman, he ne’er will come to grief.

If women scorned the voting and read the holy book
About the weaker vessels, and that modest, quiet look,
And attended household duties, always keeping a still tongue,
Surely God would help the women, but let suffrage alone.

Fear not the Colonel’s argument when he tries to steal a kiss,
Whether born in old Kentucky or any other place.
Just set him down a soft head, and show the gent the door;
He’ll not come hunting suffragists to flatter any more.

Just go and spread the table and keep the dinner warm.
You need not have one single fear from insults, grief nor harm.
Do not let ambition rise above this voting with the men.
Be prayerful and supplicate with God see how this will blend,
But keep away from precincts, where all the gang are wild,
Remembering gentle womanhood should not be thus defiled.

The Late Tornado

After a sunlit day, dark indigo o’erspread the west,
Fantastic shadows flashed a landscape then,
Encircling all the heaven’s purple-brused crest,
Around which zigzag liihtning bound a fringe.
An artist’s ege would pause to note such august hand
That wrought the elements to such a height,
After a summer’s day, so calmly quiet, brand,
While all of nature rested in the arms of peace.
While working man seemed fashioned but for naught,
An idle fancy, frail as children’s toys
For strongest structure fell ere battle had been fought
And laughed to scorn what seemeth strong to man.
Yet why is all this dread and even sad repining?
And do we thank for all past blessings we have shared?
No, no,; we soon forget the sun is brightly shining
Behind those inky clouds, a warning of God’s wrath.
Raindrops were flashing from some fountain’s bar,
Black from the threatening torrent in the rear,
Lashed by the wind drove headlong to the face
Of parched earth, but not as friendly tears,
With no restraining hand save that of wrath,
With wild tornado in its wake did havoc wreak,
Of all that was by chance or otherwise within its path
Spared none, and mother with the child found death.

November

I see the seared and yellow leaf
That once was green and fresh with dew,
And there’s the ugly brown-clad thorn
Upon the stems where roses grew.

The golden humming-bird flits by,
Seeking the nectar from each cup.
Poor little bee is wondering why
The honeyed drops are all dried up.

The clover blossoms, once so pink,
Are swiveled ’neath those slanting rays,
And with their beauty, fragrance gone
For they do pine for summer days.

The old year’s ball is almost wound,
All nature feels both sad and blue;
Grave winter’s breath is hovering near
To blight the fairest flower that grows.

The birds seek more congenial climes,
The dove deserts the clover dells;
The old year’s knell will soon ring out
To tell the tale it ever tells.

Still the wheel of time keeps turning on
Regardless of each other’s fate;
Its aim is not for beauty’s bloom
Ere autumn closes summer’s gate.

A Realization of Prophecy

O! mighty nations of the earth,
Dost realize what awful dearth
That thou’st sown upon our land,
That was so prosperous and grand?

Ah! see its soil steeed so red,
And o’er its scarlet sod the dead;
Let rocks cry out unto your shame,
For Jesus tells sin is to blame.

Our King, who shed His blood so free
On Calvary’s cross for you and me,
Set no examples like these kings,
For death is all their precept brings.

O! puny arm of sinful man,
That’s sowing discord o’er our land,
Boasts of ships that plow the deep
And scorns the eye that never sleeps.

The world has learned to love a lie,
And rather worship ships that fly
And strive to be like birds in air
To view the ruined country here.

Great kings are tottering on the throne
While shell and shot destroy the home;
Their fortresses bold defy our God,
For He too long has spared the rod.

But hark! the orphan cry for bread
Doth span the waters o’er their dead.
The wife, the mother and the child
Are piteous subjects, driven wild.

These nations, weary of their king,
Have ceased their honored love to bring,
But have returned to Jesus now,
Who said that every knee must bow.

To Him who was both God and man,
Of Him who owns both sea and land.
Retaliation is but shame—
It is the fear when monarchs reign.

The Kohineer hath breed to scorn
The King who wore a crown of thorns
While those who don the ermine gown
Have trodden roughshod helpless down.

Away with diadem and throne
And pomp that make a nation groan;
Then joy and peace will fill the land
If we are led by God’s own hand.

What the Curling Smoke from My Pipe Reveals

There’s a rose in your hair, sweet Alice,
And a smile in your soft blue eye;
Your face is haunting me ever,
No matter how time’s fleeting by.

As I sit alone here and ponder,
I fancy in pearl wreaths I see
A sweet girlish face of my boyhood
As she comes back in memory to me.

I forget my locks are as silver,
That my eyes have grown sadly dim,
But time has made her more lovely.
Curse Fate! Can this be a dream?

O pity me longing for Alice,
The maiden with rose in her hair.
She’s gone when the smoke has vanished,
Yes, I’ve dozed in my old armed chair.

Mother Mine

By Mrs. W. R. Conover

I loved each furrow in thy face,
And loved thy silvered hair,
Your age with grace and youth entwined,
And youth is not more fair.

Your Christian warfare now is o’er,
Your labor you resign,
Yet you are dearer now to me
Than ever, mother mine.

You cared for me in infant years,
I’m proud I was thy child;
You shared alike my griefs and joys,
Was patient, just and mild.

Whene’er in childish errors strayed,
Pain filled that heart of thine,
And still withal you loved me more,
Dear mother, mother mine.

The cord is broken, life is o’er.
And soon we now must part,
With no regrets for either one
To ponder in this heart.

I love thee now a hundredfold,
O cherished love divine;
God gave no sweeter friend to me,
Dear mother, mother mine.

Reminiscence

By Mrs. W. R. Conover

Pile on the logs, let’s have a good warm fire;
Old hickory crackles, best for us at night;
The cold raw wind is full of drifting snow;
I’ll snuff the candle for our only light.

Draw down the blinds an shut the storm-clouds out,
And let the furies scurry on, and on;
Let faithful Tray and Tabby use the rug
And dream they hear the “kittle’s” song.

The fitful shadows play “hide-an-go-seek,”
The clock upon the mantelpiece plods on,
It’s warning us how fast our moments fly,
Remembering thus the old days that are gone.

Two portraits hang upon the cabin wall,
Their frames are tarnished dim with Time’s decay;
Their dear old faces smile at us tonight—
They are with us still tho they have passed away.

We might forget but for a big arm chair
There in the shade where dear old mother sat,
And there upon the little table rests
Her good Book on her neatly braided mat.

How oft we’ve watched her fingers tear in strips
The shaded scraps an’ wind them ’round and ’round,
An’ as the ball grew large she smiling said,
“These bits are from my wedding gown.”

Then would her dark sad eyes rest on the wall,
The relic there told us the fine old story,
And she was proud that he was honored thus—
That he had bled, an’ died beneath Old Glory.

Their patriotic blood now thrills our veins;
This freshens memory ever at their will,
And from our hearts to cherished words like these:
“Oh, vanished hand—
Oh, voice forever still!”

List to Those Christmas Bells

Hark! ’Tis the chimes of those sweet bells,
List to the notes each chime can tell;
Of the tidings on silvery Christmas bells
As they break in the crispy morning air.

Ah, those strains are sweet vibrations,
Spreading joy o’er every nation;
Fills us, thrills our soul’s pulsations
And in the chorus millions swell.

Bethlehem was then unspoken
With its secret quite unbroken,
Still to us there came a token
Of this, the birthplace of His Son.

This it was a manger lowly,
In a niche this screened from glory,
Yet a spot so filled with holy,
As Angels led the virgin on.

The mild-eyed cattle bowed each head,
And all of nature seemed so dead;
Amazed as angels spread His bed,
On amber straw, and fragrant hay.

This was that hour that bells chimed sweetly,
Coming from God in time so meetly,
So cherished the maiden’s heart completely,
As giving birth to her dear son.

Over mountains rough and hoary,
Shaggy Shepherds sang in glory,
As Angels told their story
Of Jesus, blessed son of God.

List to Those Christmas Bells continued

Star led magis, gifts were bringing,
And to hope each soul was clinging
So joined in Anthem chorus singing,
In honor of His Immortal Name!

Crowned Him monarch of the Sages,
Scrolled His name in golden pages,
That would stand through endless ages
As Jesus! Such a matchless name.

Christ doth live today, victorious,
Dying Lamb! All meritorious;
King and Lord; forever glorious,
This is the story Gabriel tells.

Peace on earth! Good will is given,
Let’s shout His praises unto Heaven;
As we are saved, our ship not driven,
For Christ, our pilot, at the helm.

Now that the furious stormclouds riven,
Let’s get the love of Christmas giving;
And this will turn our earth to heaven
As we are gathering children in.

Bring the wreaths of holly berries,
Garland in like crimson cherries;
Hiding gifts for little fairies,
Strangers in this sun kissed land.

Christmas makes each heart grow fonder,
At this glance of home up yonder,
Old and young should stop and ponder,
Will Jesus pass His birthday thus.