Selected Poems of Stella Muse Whitehead
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THE ROAD
There was a road we wandered
In the yesteryear . . .
But I never remember its turning
Or going . . . anywhere.
Are roads forever wandering
Lonely and forlorn ?
I wonder at miles of silence,
Now that you are gone.
VIEWPOINTS
Why is it thought a thing insane
To dance with the moon down a lonely lane?
It's quite an enchanting thing to do,
On a night of silver . . . a night of blue.
Perhaps my neighbor with lifted brow
Thinks me a trifle odd somehow,
But it doesn't matter much to me,
As long as the white moon dances with me.
My neighbor's concern is with Mistress Brown
And the things that happen about the town,
But the moon knows the place of fairy rings,
Of rainbow trails and butterfly wings,
And talks to me of love and faith,
And all those things that outlive death.
So why is it thought a thing insane,
To dance with the moon down a lonely lane?
EARTH-BOUND
When dark gray skies are swinging low,
Over the lonely land,
Though inland, I feel the spindrift blow,
And surf dash against the sand.
I seem to see a wind-rocked ship,
Waiting just for me,
On a sea of sand, where billows whip
The waters furiously.
I must steer away 'till the sky is dim,
And I see the land no more,
I must pass lone ships on the world's wide rim
'Till I reach a fairer shore.
With phantom sails swinging full to the skies,
I must reach a golden mart
Salty tears burn and blind my eyes,
But I still hear a song in my heart.
REGRESSION
Little house of childhood
your lighted candles gleam
like stars the shepherds followed
across the fields of dream
Little house of chilhood
your candles brightly burn
lead me back in memory
forgotten dreams return
Little house of childhood
your candles light the way
the child I was in other years
steals home once more to play
MAKE BELIEVE
Castles of crystal,
Castles of blue,
A white horse for me
And a white horse for you.
Let us go riding
Just you and I,
To the gate of dreams,
On the rim of the sky.
Life is a sad song,
Plaintive the tune,
Let's sing a dream song,
Under the moon.
SELF-PORTRAIT
If all the dreams I've dreamed
Should fade and leave but sorrow,
I would dream another dream
Tomorrow . . .
If all the songs I've sung
And loved, should drift away,
I would sing another song
Some other day.
DUSK: DEEP SOUTH
A little lost wind
Cries in the leaves,
A small, lonely bird
Complains in the eaves,
A thin silver moon
Quivers in the clear sky
where like moths
Pale stars appear:
Then against the silence
Grown overlong
Comes the poignant singing
Of a mocking bird's song.
SHADOWS OF DOUBT
Dark is the lattice,
Still is the door,
Quiescent symbols,
These . . . nothing more.
REALIZATION
The motion of a shadow in a field
is not a person,
Nor is the flash of a butterfly's wing
a smile
I reach out and out
And nothing is there . . .
None of these things are true,
All are dreams.
DO NOT GRIEVE
Oh do not grieve for lovely, vanished bird
(A streak of blue across the blossoming bough)
Under some perfect sky these buoyant wings
Are soaring into God's eternal Now.
And do not grieve the passing of the rose
Whose petals fall in sadness to the earth;
The eyes of God forever faithful watch
And trace the Beauty backwards past its birth.
WIND IN AUTUMN
Wind in autumn weather
Whimpering 'till dawn,
Searching for the roses
Now that they have gone.
Whirl your dusty questionings
Up into the eaves,
The only answer you will get
Is little crisping leaves.
Sweep with ghostly footsteps
Down the garden stair,
Never a rose will answer
Never a rose will hear.
Wind in autumn weather
Whimpering 'till dawn,
Never search for roses
Once they have gone.
GEORGIA PINES
I have loved pine trees...the balanced grace
of slender trunks, reaching starward...
the green lace in silhouette against the sky;
I have revelled in the fragrance
of pine needles burning in the sun
like incense on some lonely alter...
the quiet sound of leaves sighing in the wind
breaking the moonlight, and my heart,
in little pieces:
But to love the pines eternally
one must have lived long years
in the burning desert of city streets,
and one must move suddenly from the parched glare,
into the cool fragrance...the sea-green shadows of pines
where slender needles point starward in the night,
or burn like incense in the noonday sun.
TRANSCENDENCE
What is space?
It can only hide your face,
It cannot hide your spirit's grace.
With the bright spear of thought
I can, at will
Pierce the barrier wrought.
I possess the power to press
Violet word-grapes
Into the wine of a caress.
Tonight when South winds blow
With light insistence
Will you know,
That space is nought
When one possesses
The bright spear of thought.
SOUTHERN SINGER
If in her song a saddened note is heard,
The sound of tolling bells and elegies
Outpourings of the moon-mad mocking bird,
The ghostly silhouettes of dreaming trees;
Her song is of her country ... she was born
By shadowed shores that in the fragile arms
Of visions sleep ... far, magical, forlorn,
Mourned by the soft staccato grief of palms.
You do not hear her voice, you only hear
Moon-silvered twilight glittering through the pine,
The murmuring chant of marshes, grey and drear,
The golden bells of fragrant jassamine,
The grieving loneliness that lingers near
This lost terrain ... pale columns tall and white
Against the silence of unending night.
FOREVER SONG
Nothing is lost, for when the sweet song dies
The echo lingers still, far out in space . . . . .
It is within ourselves the error lies,
That we may no more follow it, nor trace
The singing sequence of bright notes of grace
That were your joy; the broken heart will say
Each song returns again to its own place,
In that vast symphony the Heavens play.
Nothing is lost . . . there'll come a radiant day,
When what has vanished will come back again
The violins will once more softly play
The melody of your best loved refrain;
I'll hear you whisper at the gates of spring,
"It is so wonderful to live and sing!"