Poetry.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume X, Issue 1109, 29 July 1882, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

BERTIE. BY EMMA ALICE BROWNE* Drop the blind, and draw the curtain Close about the lattice sill; How the Norther wails and clamors, And the night is black and shrill! There are ghosts abroad—the spectres Of the happy long ago : Wraiths that rise to haunt me ever When the dreary north winds blow, As in winters long ago. Hark I was that the wild rain falling In the dark, deserted street ? Of the fitful pit-a-patter Of a baby’s restless feet ? Was that cry a gusty murmur Of the wind without the door ? Or a childish voice that calls me From the distance evermore When the rain is at the door ? From the hollow darkness reaching, Tender arms my neck entwine, Baby ringlets brush my worn check, Baby lips are pressed to mine ! Nay, ’tis but a haunting memory Cheats my hungry heart’s despair ! Yonder stands his shrouded cradle, And his little empty chair Mocks my hungry heart’s despair! Yet he cometh to me ever When the night and darkness fall; When the wild winds shrill and clamor, And the rain is over all ! While I count my hoarded treasures — Precious trifles dear to me !— Sunny curl, or half-worn garment Rich with cunning broidery— All of him that’s left to me! Battered toys and baby’s picture, With “ Our darling” scrawled beneath. And his rosy coral, dotted With the prints of little teeth. Oh, the dainty, scarlet stocking I Oh, the tiny silken shoe— Worn threadbare, where I so often Kissed the pink toes peeping thro’— Baby's first, enchanting shoe I So with loving hands I take them From their secret hiding-place : Turn them o’er with lingering touches — Kiss the chubby pictured face; While the salt tears, slow and bitter, Wrung from motherhood’s despair, Fall upon hi« shrouded cradle : And bis little empty chair Mocks my hu;., mart’s despair ’