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Abbie Farwell Brown

Luck

I sought a four-leaved clover,—
The grass was gemmed with dew,—
I searched the meadow over
To find a four-leaved clover;
I was a lucky rover,—
You sought the charm-grass, too,
And seeking luck and clover
I found it—finding you.

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 15, Issue 3 (1893)Report problemRelated quotes
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The Tryst

A TRYST had I with the bright sun to keep
Upon a little hill-top in the dew;
I promised him to wake mine eyes from sleep
And see him paint the dappled dawn anew,—
To meet him by the rose-bush in the brake,
Aye, e'en before the lark should be awake.
I gave my promise as the sun sank red,
And then I softly stole away to bed.

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 24, Issue 5 (1898)Report problemRelated quotes
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I Did Not Know

I did not know—
And it was but a few short days ago—
How near to spring, it was; the world lay still
In all the bitter cold of winter chill;
Yet even then the May-buds with the glow
Of burning lips pressed to the melting snow
Had kissed themselves a window, to the sky,—
And spring was nigh.

I did not know—
Ah, was it such a little while ago!—
Within my heart how near it was to spring;
I did not guess the blessed blossoming,
Until this gladsome morn I woke, and lo!
Sweet with new fragrance does the whole world grow
From that so fair and snow-sprung flower dear,—
And spring is here!

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 24, Issue 2 (1898)Report problemRelated quotes
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A New England Valentine

O, SWEET little maid of a Puritan line,
O, dear little maid of a Puritan town,
On the morn of that saint whom they name Valentine,
I am asking a boon,—and I pray do not frown;
For, coy little Puritan maid of to-day,
I ask but a quaint little Puritan "Yea."

Look around on the walls of your Puritan home,
Where your prim lady ancestors hang in a row,
In quaint little kerchiefs, in cap and in comb;
Take counsel by them, dear, for well do you know
You would not be here, little maiden, to-day
If they had not spoken that Purtian "Yea."

Your pride is in them, and your faith and your love;
Ah, is there not some overflowing for me?
They lived long ago, and they hang far above,
I am nearer and younger,—Ah, cannot it be?
Then send me an answer this Valentine's day,
But pray it be not that cold Puritan "Nay!"

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 21, Issue 6 (1897)Report problemRelated quotes
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Rosemary

THERE was a long path through the fern,—
O Rosemary, dost thou not know?
A silver maple at the turn,
A little gate below.
There was a youth, there was a maid,
She in the light, he in the shade,
When all the world was fair to see,—
O Rosemary, O Rosemary!

There was a briar by the wall,—
O Rosemary, hast thou forgot?
A slender, tender hand and small,
Stained with a crimson spot.
There was a little cry of pain,
Two heads bent low, then raised again;
And all the sun seemed poured on me,—
O Rosemary, O Rosemary!

There came a sail upon the bay,—
O Rosemary, didst thou foreknow?

[...] Read more

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 23, Issue 3 (1897)Report problemRelated quotes
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Indian Pipes

THE pipes of peace! Erect and white
In this dark, piney place where light
May enter seldom,—thus they grow
Up from the mold and mosses low,
Like ghostly shadows of the night.

This was the spot,—I know it well.
Here died the chief, so legends tell:
From out the shade a traitor dart
Sped to its mark in that brave heart;
I found an arrow where he fell.

And deep below the moss and mold
They say his bones lie stark and cold;
Yet never dared men seek him here,—
It is so still, so dark, so drear,
The pines so lone, his grave so old.

O pipes of peace, why do ye spring
From this red soil, from that dread Thing?

[...] Read more

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 22, Issue 6 (1897)Report problemRelated quotes
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The Haunted House

UPON a little rise it stands alone,
Dark and forbidding, where three cross-roads meet,—
Its dim, fierce windows frowning on the street,
The time-stained walls with moss and mould o'ergrown.

Pink hollyhocks group idly at the door,
And bend to pierce the oak with prying eyes,
Or shake their heads and whisper, gossip-wise,
The long-dead secrets of those days of yore.

The jealous door seems warning me away;
The grating hinges shudder as it swings;
Across my face dim shadows sweep their wings;
And round me heavy cobwebs swing and sway.

There is a window looking to the sea;
The small square panes are blurred as if with tears.
Here years ago a young bride felt those fears
Which even now thrill coldly over me.

[...] Read more

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 18, Issue 3 (1895)Report problemRelated quotes
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The Indian Springs

I KNOW a shady hollow 'neath the pines,
Rich floored with velvet moss and trailing vines,
Where grouping ferns grow lusty, tall, and green,
With sipping from the bowl o'er which they lean;
And crimson berries on the margin cling,
Like drops of blood about the Indian spring.

On this same spot these many years ago
A graceful figure knelt and, bending low,
Wrist-deep in moss, one hand curved to a cup,
The water to her scarlet lips dipped up.
A heron's wing drooped from her dusky hair,
Which draped her rich-hued cheeks and shoulders bare.

Swift, stealthy footsteps took her by surprise;
She started, flushed, and met his eager eyes,—
A noble figure, young and lithe and tall,
With one proud eagle feather crowning all.
A pause, a word, and lo! the heron's wing
Brushed with the eagle's there above the spring.

[...] Read more

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 22, Issue 4 (1897)Report problemRelated quotes
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The Cross-Current

THROUGH twelve stout generations
New England blood I boast;
The stubborn pastures bred them,
The grim, uncordial coast,

Sedate and proud old cities,—
Loved well enough by me,
Then how should I be yearning
To scour the earth and sea.

Each of my Yankee forbears
Wed a New England mate:
They dwelt and did and died here,
Nor glimpsed a rosier fate.

My clan endured their kindred;
But foreigners they loathed,
And wandering folk, and minstrels,
And gypsies motley-clothed.

[...] Read more

poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from Anthology of Massachusetts Poets (1922)Report problemRelated quotes
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