Autumn Leaves

Ardelia Maria Barton.

Ardelia M. Barton San Francisco 1908

Copyright, by Ardelia Maria Barton 1908

Press of Bruce Brough San Francisco

Preface

Autumn Leaves was in the hands of the Publisher (Bruce Brough) at the time of the Great Fire of April, 1906, and not a single page of the original manuscript was saved. I could only recall a few titles, and a line or two here and there, not knowing though where they belonged. I began to rewrite on the 12th of June, 1908, and on the 12th of September, 1908, it was ready for publication. It has given me new courage, and by searching, perhaps you may find one leaf among my Autumn Leaves that you will feel was painted expressly for you, and is worthy to be pressed upon the tablet of your heart.

Ardelia Maria Barton

Dedication

TO MY MOTHER

Who ever watched with loving care My childhood’s tender years. She ever soothed my little woes, And kissed away my tears.

She guided me o’er Life’s rough road, And pointed out the snares, And pitfalls that are e’er in life; And all the many tares,

And brambles that beset Life’s paths, And if I fell by way, She helped me up with loving hands, And tender words alway.

[Pg ix]

AUTUMN LEAVES.

The autumn leaves are like our lives, They serve their purpose for a day, They then return to mother Earth: They come but to decay. The trees are gaunt, gaunt sentinels, Deprived of their warm dress. They shiver in their nakedness, And moan in their distress. But, as with us, they live again, Again have garments fresh and new, And though they seem to die to earth, Again their lives renew. Again the joy of living comes, And brighter now is their new life; They had a season of sweet sleep, And rest from worldly strife.

[Pg 2]

WRITE.

Republished by special request.

Take thy pen and write, O man! Chronicle thy every thought; Hath thy life been full of joy? Hath this world all pleasure wrought? If, before thou cam’st to earth, Knowing what thou knowest now, Free to choose to be, or not, To life’s problems wouldst thou bow? Wouldst thou think thy life a boon? It with thankfulness accept, Or wouldst say O Lord, me spare! I must weep, for man hath wept. Dost thou think that life is sweet? Dost thou think its joys are more Than its griefs and misery? [Pg 3]Hath thy bark ne’er touched bleak shore. Stranded hath it never been? Thy sweet hopes forever lost, Wrecked thy bark on shoals by storm, On rough sea of life been tossed? Is the wind and tide with thee? And is life without a tear? Manned is bark with happiness? Hath thy sky been ever clear? Dost thou bless thy natal day? Long’st thou not for day of death? Art thou willing to live on Blessing God that thou hast breath? Then, to thee, is life a joy, Blessed heritage of peace Was bequeathed to thee by Love, God gave unto thee the lease. [Pg 4]

I will write in book of life, Trace my thoughts with fadeless ink, With a pen of gold will write; Into hearts my words may sink. Born to earth I wished it not, Earth conditions knew not I, E’en though filled with misery; I will never question why. I am here; will do my work, Even though life stranded be, E’en though storms beset my way, Wrecked my ship on life’s rough sea. Sunshine, aye, I look not for, Wind and tide are often wrong For my ship to leave its port; Sad, yea mournful, is life’s song. But I love, and I am loved, Hope is strong within my heart, Courage, too, I’ll stem life’s tide, [Pg 5]In the world do well my part. Tears are shed. Then why should I E’er from care and grief be free? I must live, though oft I weep, Do my work, what e’er it be. Born of Love—O blessed thought! Earth conditions I can bear; God is Love, in Him I live, Utter plaint I will not dare. I will sail my ship of life, Steer it over shoals and rocks, Bring it safely into port, It will bear all storms and shocks. When, at last, Life’s dream is o’er,

Time—true censor—takes his flight, Death, as Captain of my fleet, In his Log my life will write.

[Pg 6]

DREAMLAND.

In our dreamland we are soaring ’Mong the stars, above the clouds, Naught seems strange, our dress is moonlight; Not one grief our heart enshrouds. In this dreamland not one sorrow. All the world is filled with joy. There is naught but sweet contentment, All is peace with no alloy. ’Mong the clouds we e’er are soaring, All the heavens we control. Stars, and planets, are our footstools In the dreamland of the soul. Butterflies are our companions, Singing birds make love for aye. Chariots are drawn by fire-flies; [Pg 7]And ’tis sunshine every day. When we wake, our dreams all vanish. We are in the work-day world. We are simply common mortals; From the uplands we are hurled. Vanished now is shadowy dreamland; Most prosaic is the dawn. Chariots are common waggons, Not by fireflies are they drawn. There are clouds, and rain is falling. Trouble meets us everywhere. We must battle with conditions; Many griefs we now must bear. But we dream, e’en though not sleeping, Nothing ever us debars, Nothing seems to us unreal, Though we soar above the stars.

[Pg 8]

WHAT WILL THE HARVEST BE?

We are sowing, we are reaping, We are laughing, we are weeping For the seeds we sow. We are giving, we are hoarding, Are withholding or dispersing Broadcast o’er the land. Are they thorns, or are they roses? Are they weeds, or are they posies? That we cull from life? What confronts us at Life’s evening? What will greet us on awaking? Will it be Love’s flowers? O the joy of loving, living, If to others we are giving [Pg 9]Out of our heart’s store. Let us do what is before us, Not discouraged, not unhappy, If some good we’ve done. When we wake in the hereafter, Is it tears, or is it laughter, That will meet us there? We shall sometimes be confronted, And by phantoms shall be haunted— Phantoms of our past. Let no thought of dire deception In our hearts have e’er inception, Then not haunted we By the ghosts of indiscretion, By ill deeds and degradation.— Let us all beware Of temptations e’er surrounding, And of evil e’er abounding.— We must shun them all.

[Pg 10]

WE KNOW WHAT THE HARVEST WILL BE.

We plant a bright flower for the butterfly; We plant a sweet flower for the bee. We feed and we clothe the hungry and cold, “We know what the harvest will be.” We plant a good thought in some weary heart, The thought that we plant goes to seed; Increasing in strength full an hundred fold, The thought will become a good deed. A deed that will live in many a heart, Will travel forever, and on; Forgotten will never be words nor deeds; They live and will thrive when we’re gone. A well we may dig in a desert land, Some traveler stops on the road, And quenches his thirst in the living spring, [Pg 11]And lighter will now seem his load. We may plant a tree, and its cooling shade Will shelter some traveler worn, And never from memory will it fade, And never from heart can be torn. In all of this life, ’tis the little things That help and will cheer our lone way, A sip of cold water, a little word, Will many a sorrow allay. And if in our hearts no envy doth reign, From malice we ever are free, Have nothing but love for even a foe; “We know what the harvest will be.”

[Pg 12]

MERIDIAN.

’Tis twelve o’clock meridian.—. My work is not half done. Turn back the hands upon Life’s clock, For it must not strike one. ’Tis twelve o’clock meridian, Time faster, faster goes. All heedless he of my distress, Unheedful of my woes. ’Tis twelve o’clock meridian, My life is now half gone, ’Tis useless to begin anew; Anew life’s pages con. ’Tis twelve o’clock meridian, Ambition now is gone. I cannot take up stitches dropped; [Pg 13]My work cannot go on. I’m tired and weary, will now rest, Let time go on his way. Life’s race is almost over now, Time will not for me stay. For wasted time now dead, and gone, A requiem sad, time tolls. All squandered hours, all work undone, In winding-sheet he rolls.

[Pg 14]

THE INDIAN LOVER’S PLEA.

Winona! Winona! O list to my plea! O why wilt thou leave me, O canst thou not see How barren this world if deprived of thy love, ’Twas given to me by the Great Spirit above. Winona! Winona! Return unto me— From bonds of the white man O cut thyself free. Thy heart is still mine, but the glitter of gold Enticed thee away from thy lover of old. The white man will weary of thee in a day, Forsaken thou’lt be, dishonored for aye. Thy beauty will fade, alas! for thee then! Reviled, and dishonored, forsaken of men. Forsaken, degraded, and then cast aside; Dost think that the white man will make thee his bride? My camp-fire is out, and my wigwam is cold, [Pg 15]The white man has won thee by the promise of gold. I feel that I’ve loved thee in ages long gone, Have fought for thy smiles, have always them won, Winona dear heart, I will fight for them still, Though broken thy troth, unbroken my will. My arrows are broken, my bow is unstrung, My powder-horn empty, on high it is hung. Come back to the forest where we’ve wandered alone; Come back to my wigwam, and I will condone

The sin of thy leaving, for thou didst not know The wiles that the white man around thee couldst throw. The white man will tire of thy beauty so rare, His plaything thou’lt be, O Winona beware! Return to thy lover before ’tis too late— The love of an Indian is as strong as his hate. Winona! Winona! this is my last plea! Return unto me! O return unto me!

[Pg 16]