Tag: H. S. Haskins

From The Sun, January 29, 1915. By H. S. Haskins.

With travel stained feet
    Stands the lonesome youth
One hour long
    In the library booth.
Bending, homesick,
    All the while
Over a blessed
    Newspaper file.
Homely old paper,
    Looks to me;
Banal and trite,
    It seems to be,
But watch his eyes scan it
    Up and down,
Blessed old paper
    From the blessed home town.

Type is shabby
    And ink is poor.
Has a colored supplement
    For a lure;
Gives advice to girls
    And hints on dress,
Steers new married couples
    To happiness;
Yet in the trite sheet
    A vista lies
Of the Somewhere Else
    To those homesick eyes,
Of the Somewhere Else
    With its memories sweet
To the lonesome youth
    With the travel stained feet.

From The Sun, January 26, 1915. By H. S. Haskins.

Gone are the hearts that bore them,
    Gone with the dead and missed.
Lost are the hands which soothed them,
    Still are the lips that kissed.
Silenced the songs which lulled them,
    Sweet at the close of day,
Oh, for the angel mothers
    So far, so far away!

Who is to plan their future?
    Who is to teach them games?
Who is to answer questions?
    Who is to give them names?
Where winds the path tomorrow?
    Where runs the road next year?
Who is to guide their footsteps
    Up through the hills from here?

From The Sun, January 10, 1915. By H. S. Haskins.

And now, at last, you’ve got to go,
    I’ve come to say good-by.
Forgive an old man’s weakness and
    The tears which fill my eyes.
For five-and-twenty years I’ve played
    Upon your friendly keys,
Which, yellowed ‘neath their tuneful tasks
    Are rich in memories.
My little children, all of them,
    Have learned to play on you;
One key was cracked by Johnny’s tooth,
    One scratched by Baby Sue.
And one note never has regained
    Its old sonorous tone
Since Tom, to stop his “practice,” went
    And hit it with a stone.
I lift your lid, the rusty strings
    With ghostly echoes start
To quiver with the long farewell
    That’s bursting from my heart.
Your sounding board, melodic in
    The long, long yesterday,
Vibrates with Tosti’s sweet “Good Night”
    My wife so loved to play.
Like sad handshake a final chord
    Is lovingly caressed.
May your career now ended be,
    And this your last long rest!
I cannot bear the thought of you
    By fond use made divine,
Responding to the ruthless touch
    Of other hands than mine;
I cannot think of cheap dance hall,
    All smoke and heat and beer,
With drunken fingers banging at
    The keys I hold so dear;
But rather may you stand, forgot,
    So harmonies may fill
The twilight of your life, safe in
    A warehouse, cool and still.