Heredity

By Effie Smith, in Rosemary and Pansies, 1909

Our dead forefathers, mighty though they be,

For all their power still leave our spirits free;

Though on our paths their shadows far are thrown,

The life that each man liveth is his own.

Time stands like some schoolmaster old and stern,

And calls each human being in his turn

To write his task upon life's blackboard space;

Death's fingers then the finished work erase,

And the next pupil's letters take its place.

That he who wrote before thee labored well

Concerns thee not: thy work for thee must tell;

'Tis naught to thee if others' tasks were ill:

Though has thy chance and canst improve it still.

From all thy fathers' glory and their guilt

The board for thee is clean: write what thou wilt!

The Patchwork Quilt

By Effie Smith, in Rosemary and Pansies, 1909

In an ancient window seat,

Where the breeze of morning beat

'Gainst her face, demure and sweet,

Sat a girl of long ago,

With her sunny head bent low

Where her fingers flitted white

Through a maze of patchwork bright.

Wondrous hues the rare quilt bears!

All the clothes the household wears

By their fragments may be traced

In that bright mosaic placed:

Pieces given by friend and neighbor,

Blended by her curious labor

With the grandame's gown of gray,

And the silken bonnet gay

That the baby's head hath crowned,

In the quaint design are found.

Did she aught suspect or dream,

As she sewed each dainty seam,

That a haunted thing she wrought?

That each linsey scrap was fraught

With some tender memory,

Which, in distant years to be,

Would lost hopes and loves recall,

When her eyes should on it fall?

Years have passed, and with their grace

Gentler made her gentle face;

Brilliant still the fabrics shine

Of the quilt's antique design,

As she folds it, soft and warm,

Round a fair child's sleeping form.

Lustrous is her lifted gaze

As with half-voiced words she prays

That the bright head on that quilt

May not bow in shame or guilt,

And the little feet below

Darksome paths may never know.

Yet again the morning shines

On the patch-work's squares and lines;

Dull and dim its colors show,

But more dim the eyes that glow,

Wandering with a dreamy glance

O'er the ancient quilt's expanse;

Worn its textures are and frayed,

But the hands upon them laid,

Creased with toils of many a year,

Still more worn and old appear.

But what hands, long-loved and dead,

Do those faded fingers, spread

O'er those faded fabrics, meet

In reunion fond and sweet!

What past scenes of tenderness

And of joy that none may guess,

Called back by the patchwork old,

Do those darkening eyes behold!

Lo, the deathless past comes near!

From the silence whisper clear

Long-hushed tones, and, changing not,

Forms and faces unforgot

In their old-time grace and bloom

Shine from out the deepening gloom.