From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 23, 1913. By Robert Loveman. The wind has a mind of his own He’s a lover and rover free He mutters among the clouds He flutters above the sea; He ravages regions rare Where savages leap in glee He strips the forests bare In autumnal ecstasy. The wind is a child of earth Of ocean, air and sky, He joys at a young world’s birth He moans when the old ones die; He can woo a nodding rose to rest Or trample an empire down, He’s sceptered king of everything And the high stars are his crown.
Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald
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Song of the Wind
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Crossing the Bar
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 21, 1913. By Tennyson. Sunset and evening star And one clear call for me, And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea. But such a tide, as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark, And may there be no sadness or farewell When I embark. For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
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San Francisco
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 18, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. A pall hung over the broad blue bay; In smoking ruins the city lay— The splendid city so bravely planned— And Horror hastened from land to land And Sorrow’s sign was on every door For the far-famed city that was no more. And tearful men to their brethren said: “Its glory is gone and its greatness dead; Its marble halls and its stately homes Its towering walls and its lofty domes Its well-won pride and its careless glee Forever and ever have ceased to be!” But another city has risen there; They have made it great, they have made it fair; Its wharves have called to the wide world’s fleets And traffic roars through its crowded streets; Still glorified by the old romance It grieves no more o’er its sad mischance. They have left no trace on the flame-swept hills Of the twisted beams and the blackened sills, And over the haunts where vice was bred The glittering roofs of trade are spread; With matchless courage and splendid zeal They have made a marvel of stone and steel. They have planned with hope, they have wrought with pride And the spirit lives that men thought had died And they who were stricken so sorely dwell In a fairer city than that which fell And all that was lost in that day of despair They have bravely reclaimed and glorified there. The high hills gleam that were desolate And riches stream through the Golden Gate; A splendid city superbly planned Sends forth her greeting to every land, And fleets are sailing from every shore To the far-famed city that grieves no more.
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The Missing Flowers
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 15, 1913. By Samuel Minturn Peck. There was a little woman flower Sweeter far than all The violets and the daffodils That come at Springtime’s call. All the blossoms loved her, Even the happy birds; They piped their little hearts to her Because they had no words. ’Tis spring again. The skies are blue; Blossoms and birds I see But the little flower maiden— Oh tell me where is she! The sorrowing Wind low-answered: “Flower, and bird, and fern, And in the year, the autumn leaf— They only may return.” “’Tis true, tis true, O Wind,” I sighed, “Tis bitter, too, alack: In life what we love most and lose Can nevermore come back.”
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Sweet Sixteen
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 7, 1913. By Samuel Minturn Peck. Tho’ starlight through the lattice vine Fell slanting on her brow The roses white, with dew a-shine Swayed on the wind-rocked bough And waved a perfume quaint and fine Like incense round her mouth Where dwelt mid curve and hue divine The glamor of the South. Just sixteen years of joys and fears— Just sixteen years hath she But her eyes are blue And her heart is true And she’s all the world to me. The rose tree hid the stars from me But I could watch her eyes; They shone like stars upon the sea Soft mirrored from the skies. Her little hands upon her knee In folded stillness lay And in the dusk gloamed winsomely Like lily buds astray. Just sixteen years of joys and fears— Just sixteen years hath she But her faith is sure And her soul is pure And she’s all the world to me. A silence fell. It seemed a spell Had fallen on my Sweet. I saw her quivering bosom swell I heard my heart a-beat. I spoke!—but what? I cannot tell I hardly know the rest; But as the timid tear-drops fell I clasped her to my breast. Just sixteen years of smiles and tears— Just sixteen years hath she But the wedding chimes Will ring betimes For my little bride to be.
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The Face Immortal
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 3, 1913. By Frank L. Stanton. Time that has left me lonely still may the shadows chase It has not dimmed the beauty of one immortal face A sweet face of Life’s springtime—a face the violets know God knew, high in His heaven, why I loved it so! When Evening comes, to tell me: “Life’s friends have left you lone! There is no voice to answer the tremblings of your own,” I see dear lips of crimson—cheeks where the dimples race And Memory is with me, and in dreams I see her face. Is not Life all dreaming? Where scythes and sabers gleam The heroes of Life’s battles are the captains of a Dream! And so, when Darkness gives us the blessing of God’s grace I’m holding hands with Memory and dreaming of her face.
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Sad Case of Travers Green
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 29, 1913. When Travers Green was feeling gay He lightly sought some cabaret And when “Fleurette” began to dance He’d give a connoisseur’s glance, As if to all the world to say, “I know what’s what in a cabaret.” Anon he sipped the sparkling wine, Where countless lights were wont to shine; His dress was faultless to behold, His manners easy, yet not bold, And had you but observed hime there, You would have thought him free from care. Alas! Alack for Travers Green! No more in gilded haunts is seen; His dad who used his bills to pay For motors, clubs and cabaret, And costly clothes and chorus girls And many, many merry whirls Has cut poor Travers off without The wherewithal to roam about; And since this youth has never toiled, Nor felt his hands by labor soiled, What lies before I cannot say, But he dines no more in a cabaret.
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In a Rose Garden
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 26, 1913. By John Bennett. A hundred years from now, dear heart, We will not care at all. It will not matter then a whit, The honey or the gall. The summer days that we have known Will all forgotten be and flown; The garden will be overgrown Where now the roses fall. A hundred years from now, dear heart, We will not mind the pain. The throbbing, crimson tide of life Will not have left a stain. The song we sing together, dear, The dream we dream together here, Will mean no more than means a tear Amid the summer rain. A hundred years from now, dear heart, The grief will all be o’er; The sea of care will surge in vain Upon a careless shore. These glasses we turn down today, Here at the parting of the way, We shall be wineless then as they, And will not mind it more. A hundred years from now, dear heart, We’ll neither know nor care What came of all life’s bitterness, Or followed love’s despair. Then fill the glasses up again And kiss me through the rose leaf rain; We’ll build one castle more in Spain And dream one more dream there.
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The Boy That Never Was
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 25, 1913. He never wrote upon the walls, He never did a window break, Through him the cat ne’er lifted squalls So loud they might the dead awake. His little sister never felt A strand of hair pulled from her crown, Upon her cheek no blows were dealt, He ne’er was known to push her down. His mother’s days were free from care, His father never used the strap, I’m sure you’ll not find anywhere So well behaved a little chap. You ask me what his name could be And where this youngster doth reside? I can not answer that. You see, I have a secret to confide: Imagination fondly drew The type of boy these lines describe, Too free from faults to be quite true To life and all the boyhood tribe. And maybe it were better so, That none exists so wondrous good, For if he did, I almost know We’d scarcely love him as we should.
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The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 4, 1913. By Thomas Moore. The time I’ve lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman’s eyes Has been my heart’s undoing. Though wisdom oft has sought me I scorn’d the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman’s looks, And folly’s all they’ve taught me. Her smile when beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the sprite Whom maids by night Oft met in glen that’s haunted. Like him, too, beauty won me But while her eyes were on me If once their ray Was turned away Oh! Winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No—vain, alas! The endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor wisdom’s chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.