Classic Poem

There were two pictures hung upon the wall,
One was called " Mercy at the Wicket Gate, "
The other, " Contemplation " ; and beneath this one
There ran the stately psalm: " When I remember
The heavens — the work of Thy fingers,
The sun, the moon and the stars,
Which Thou hast ordained,
What is man that Thou art mindful of him,
Or the Son of Man that Thou visitest him? "

There were three windows facing towards the West,
That sunned our house plants, sweet geraniums,
A calla, winter pinks, a Christmas rose,
Begonias, amaryllis, flowering musk
And purple fuchsias — all the homely flowers
That grew in sitting rooms long years ago.

I still can hear the clinking of the fire,
A neighbor woman bustling gently in.
" Land now, Mis' Putnam, how your flowers do grow.
I set the slips you cut for me last year,
But I'm no hand with flowers; they surely know
You love them. Now, I've brought my knitting work
So I could sit and knit and see your flowers.
I've always said I'd rather come and knit
Here in the sunshine in your sitting room
Than to go out to town. Is that rug new —
The braided one, I mean? You are so spry.
I've had rags cut for months to make a rug
And they lie in the woodshed-chamber yet.
I see you've pieced new cushions for the chairs.
That old Log Cabin pattern just suits me.
What do you do with all that pile of books?
Why, it's as much as ever I can do
To read the Almanac and Weekly News! "

My mother smiled — her slow, sweet, faded smile.
She liked the praise of her worn, homely room;
She loved the homage to her winter flowers;
But now her smile was tinged with raillery:
" We've always been great readers here, Mis' Brown.
And every night, when all the chores are done,
We sit and read till time for evening prayers. "

*****

Oh, I remember how we read till evening prayers!
The wood fire blazed within the high iron stove
And charred the maple slabs to ruddy coals.
Before the fire the watch dog dreamed at peace,
And father read beside the low oil lamp.
Those golden days are gone; the world sweeps on;
New faces come, and the old faces go.
And our old sitting room has gone the way
Of all forgotten, gentle, lovely things.

Yet somewhere, stable in unstable time,
The painted clock tick-tocks the quiet hours,
The gay rag carpet hides the knotty floors,
The lamplight wanders in among the flowers,
Toby lies dreaming of the hunt's hot chase
Before the fire, and hushed from revelry
We listen to the even rise and fall
Of father's voice lost in a mellow tale
Of noble wars and young blood's chivalry.
Over us " Mercy at the Wicket Gate "
And " Contemplation " look out to the stars
Beyond the mountains, and we are at peace
With God and man in our old sitting room.