The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches. Riley James Whitcomb

      Light falls the rain-drop on the fallen leaf,

      And light o'er harvest-plain and garnered sheaf —

      But lightlier falls the touch of loving hands.

      Light falls the dusk of mild midsummer night,

      And light the first star's faltering lance of light

      On glimmering lawns, – but lightlier loving hands.

      And light the feathery flake of early snows,

      Or wisp of thistle-down that no wind blows,

      And light the dew, – but lightlier loving hands.

      Light-falling dusk, or dew, or summer rain,

      Or down of snow or thistle – all are vain, —

      Far lightlier falls the touch of loving hands.

      'Twas a test I designed, in a quiet conceit

      Of myself, and the thoroughly fixed and complete

      Satisfaction I felt in the utter control

      Of the guileless young heart of the girl of my soul.

      So – we parted. I said it were better we should —

      That she could forget me – I knew that she could;

      For I never was worthy so tender a heart,

      And so for her sake it were better to part.

      She averted her gaze, and she sighed and looked sad

      As I held out my hand – for the ring that she had —

      With the bitterer speech that I hoped she might be

      Resigned to look up and be happy with me.

      'Twas a test, as I said – but God pity your grief,

      At a moment like this when a smile of relief

      Shall leap to the lips of the woman you prize,

      And no mist of distress in her glorious eyes.

      Chant me a rhyme of Christmas —

      Sing me a jovial song, —

      And though it is filled with laughter,

      Let it be pure and strong.

      Let it be clear and ringing,

      And though it mirthful be,

      Let a low, sweet voice of pathos

      Run through the melody.

      Sing of the hearts brimmed over

      With the story of the day —

      Of the echo of childish voices

      That will not die away. —

      Of the blare of the tasselled bugle,

      And the timeless clatter and beat

      Of the drum that throbs to muster

      Squadrons of scampering feet. —

      Of the wide-eyed look of wonder,

      And the gurgle of baby-glee,

      As the infant hero wrestles

      From the smiling father's knee.

      Sing the delights unbounded

      Of the home unknown of care,

      Where wealth as a guest abideth,

      And want is a stranger there.

      But O let your voice fall fainter,

      Till, blent with a minor tone,

      You temper your song with the beauty

      Of the pity Christ hath shown:

      And sing one verse for the voiceless;

      And yet, ere the song be done,

      A verse for the ears that hear not,

      And a verse for the sightless one:

      And one for the outcast mother,

      And one for the sin-defiled

      And hopeless sick man dying,

      And one for his starving child.

      For though it be time for singing

      A merry Christmas glee,

      Let a low, sweet voice of pathos

      Run through the melody.

      All day the sun and rain have been as friends,

      Each vying with the other which shall be

      Most generous in dowering earth and sea

      With their glad wealth, till each, as it descends,

      Is mingled with the other, where it blends

      In one warm, glimmering mist that falls on me

      As once God's smile fell over Galilee.

      The lily-cup, filled with it, droops and bends

      Like some white saint beside a sylvan shrine

      In silent prayer; the roses at my feet,

      Baptized with it as with a crimson wine,

      Gleam radiant in grasses grown so sweet,

      The blossoms lift, with tenderness divine,

      Their wet eyes heavenward with these of mine.

      With her face between his hands!

      Was it any wonder she

      Stood atiptoe tremblingly?

      As his lips along the strands

      Of her hair went lavishing

      Tides of kisses, such as swing

      Love's arms to like iron bands. —

      With her face between his hands!

      And the hands – the hands that pressed

      The glad face – Ah! where are they?

      Folded limp, and laid away

      Idly over idle breast?

      He whose kisses drenched her hair,

      As he caught and held her there,

      In Love's alien, lost lands,

      With her face between his hands?

      Was it long and long ago,

      When her face was not as now,

      Dim with tears? nor wan her brow

      As a winter-night of snow?

      Nay, anointing still the strands

      Of her hair, his kisses flow

      Flood-wise, as she dreaming stands,

      With her face between his hands.

      Hush! hush! list, heart of mine, and hearken low!

      You do not guess how tender is the Night,

      And in what faintest murmurs of delight

      Her deep, dim-throated utterances flow

      Across the memories of long-ago!

      Hark! do your senses catch the exquisite

      Staccatos of a bird that dreams he sings?

      Nay,