a song of quiet hearts by martha haskell clark

a song of quiet hearts by martha haskell clark

Out of the gray-spun shadow, and the taper-glow there steals
In the hush of the village twilight, the song of a hundred wheels.
And I see them turning and turning, 'neath pewter-bright plates a'row.
While shadowy hands at the casements fling busily to and fro.
Oh women of hearts unhaunted, oh women with quiet eyes,
I too would spin in the star-time by the light of my chimney-breast
Would shut my heart and its crying from the call of the spring-touched skies.
And still with a low-crooned hearthsong the stir of my wild unrest.

For oh, the whirr of my turning wheel sings never of home to me!
Tis the beating of wide gray sea-gulls' wings swept in from a crested sea;
Tis the sea-wind's buffeting brother-hail, the song of the shore-flung surf.
And the thud of the wild moor-ponies' hoofs that spurn at the spray-wet turf.

Over each low-thatched roof-tree of the wry. white-cobbled street.
There broods like a fragrant shadow the smell of the burning peat.
And I see the red of the embers, and the black of a reaching crane,
And the grave, sweet faces of women that pass at the latticed pane.
Oh women of hearts unhaunted, oh women of mute content.
I too, would bend by a hearth-side and waken the sleeping fire,
Would shut my heart and its longing from the lure of its smoke-sweet scent,
And dim to a fire-lit dreaming the tears of my mad desire.

For oh, the smell of the burning peat cries never of walls to me!
'Tis the far blue thread of a wayside fire, with the moor-wind blowing free,
'Tis the frail faint scent of the beachland mould, and the breath of a brackened
With never a trail to lead the feet ,to the gate of a huddled town.

Out of the dew-drenched twilight where a nesting linnet sings.
Shoulder the green-aisled hedges grown gnarled with a hundred springs.
And I see thru each close-clipped archway, the gleam of a kerchiefs snow
Where the women walk in the gardens while the light of the day burns low.
Oh women of hearts unhaunted, oh women with path-set feet,
I too, would walk in a garden, with the tasks of the daytime o'er;
Would lull my heart and its fevered dreams with the breath of the blossoms sweet
That grow as a gardener wills them by the side of a cottage door.

For oh, the scent of my garden dusk breathes never of peace to me!
Tis the sweet white stars a'blowing on a gipsying hawthorn-tree
Tis the sun on the hillside heather, the wind in the upland fern,
And the heart of a wild pink wander-rose that blossoms beyond the turn.