Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Something I Remember from childhood

I have received some emails on my contribution to the Creative Therapy website on Catalyst #4 asking what the poems were, because they are not legible on the page. So for those who asked, here they are... Get the tissue box first.

I was sitting in my study,
Writing letters when I heard
"Please dear mama, Mary told me
Mama mustn't be disturbed.
"But I's tired of the kitty;
Want some ozzer fing to do.
Writing letters, is ou mama?
Tan't I wite a letter too?"
"Not now, darling, mama's busy;
Run and play with kitty, now."
"No, no mama, me wite letter;
Tan, if 'ou will show me how."
I would paint my darling's portrait
As his sweet eyes searched my face.
Hair of gold, eyes of azure,
Form of childish, witching grace.
But the eager face was clouded,
As I slowly shook my head,
Till I said: "I'll make a letter Of you,
darling boy, instead."
So I parted back the tresses
From his forehead high and white,
And a stamp in sport I pasted
'Mid its waves of golden light.
Then I said, "Now, little letter,
Go away and bear good news."
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clattered loud the little shoes.
No one saw the front door open
No one saw the golden hair
As it fluttered o’er his shoulder
In the crisp October air.
Down the street the baby hastened
Till he reached the office door.
"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman;
Is there room for any more?'
Cause dis' letter's doin to papa,
Papa lives with God, 'ou know,
Mama sent me for a letter,
Do 'ou fink at I tan go?"
But the clerk in wonder answered,
"Not today, my little man."
"Den I'll find anozzer office,
'Cause I must go if I tan."
Fain the clerk would have detained him,
but his pleading face was gone
and the little feet kept scurring
as the busy crowd swept on
Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left, to right,
As a pair of maddened horses
At the moment dashed in sight.
No one saw the baby figure-
No one saw the golden hair,
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
Rang out on the autumn air.
'Twas too late, a moment only
Stood the beauteous vision there,
Then the little form lay lifeless
Covered o'er with golden hair.
Rev'rently they raised my darling,
Brushed away the curls of gold,
Saw the stamp in sport I’d pasted
Growing now so icy cold.
Not a mark or face disfigured,
Showing where the hoof had trod;
But the little life had ended-
Papa's letter was with God.

The night was dark and stormy,
The wind was howling wild.
A patient mother watched beside
The deathbed of her child.
A little worn out creature,
His once bright eyes grown dim;
He was the collier's only child,
They called him Little Jim.
And, oh, to see those briny tears
Fast hurrying down her cheeks;
She offers up a prayer in thought
But was afraid to speak.
Lest she might wake the son She loves
far better than her life,
For there was all a mother's love
In that poor collier's wife.
Uplifted hands and so she kneels
Beside the sick child's bed.
She prayed, "O God, please spare my son
And take my life instead.
"She gets her answer from the boy,
Softly falls the words from him,
"Oh, Mother, the angels do so smile
And they beckon Little Jim."
"I have no pain, dear Mother now,
But oh, I am so dry,
Just give poor Jim another drink
And, Mother, please don't cry.
Tell Father when he comes from work
I said 'good night' to him
And now I think I'll go to sleep.
"'Twas the last from Little Jim.
The cottage door swung open,
The collier’s step was heard;
The father and mother met
But neither spoke a word.
He knew that all was over,
He knew his child was dead;
He took the candle in his hand
And walked toward the bed.
His trembling lips give token
Of grief he tries to conceal;
Now, see, his wife has gained him,
The stricken couple kneel.
With hearts bowed down in sadness,
They humbly ask of Him
In heaven, once more to meet
Their one and only Little Jim.

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