Poetry by Hermia Harris Fraser
Conversion
Conversion
Conversion
I did not understand before,
I never knew until you came
How blue were larkspur at my door,
How soft with dew the tulips were,
How Marigolds burst into flame.
No one had taught me how to guess
When rain would come, or time of frost,
To croon a song of tenderness
To bulbs -- to sigh with loneliness
When one small withering plant is lost.
Or when a p
I did not understand before,
I never knew until you came
How blue were larkspur at my door,
How soft with dew the tulips were,
How Marigolds burst into flame.
No one had taught me how to guess
When rain would come, or time of frost,
To croon a song of tenderness
To bulbs -- to sigh with loneliness
When one small withering plant is lost.
Or when a pirate bird is seen,
To tremble with a sickening fear.
Now, eyeing some neglected green.
I too think of what might have been.
And chant, "A garden could grow here".
Parting
Conversion
Conversion
That you should go from me before your form
Has shown one mark of time's relentless touch,
While all your limbs are strong and your eyes warm
With love of home, games you enjoy so much
Cycling and tennis swimming in cobalt deeps,
Climbing white hills, skating past frosted shores
Your arm in hers, laughing on sunny steeps
Or dancing slowly on the
That you should go from me before your form
Has shown one mark of time's relentless touch,
While all your limbs are strong and your eyes warm
With love of home, games you enjoy so much
Cycling and tennis swimming in cobalt deeps,
Climbing white hills, skating past frosted shores
Your arm in hers, laughing on sunny steeps
Or dancing slowly on the wax-smooth floors.
That you should go from me, no matter how,
Takes all my mother strength, my heart, my soul,
And yet I would not keep you even now
I know the ultimate of freedom's toll,
For with this fury, forged in perpetual desire,
You pass unharmed through an intenser fire.
*Written and published around 1946.
A Reckless Fairy
A Reckless Fairy
A Reckless Fairy
Honey with butter was my favorite delight;
I had it on a slice of fairy bread.
I ate it while I rode
From dawn to candlelight
On a firefly with headlights on its head.
My mamma, the queen, once told me
It was dangerous to ride
In daytime through a public forest street
A fairy ought to vanish,
Ought to quickly run and hide,
Especially if holding thi
Honey with butter was my favorite delight;
I had it on a slice of fairy bread.
I ate it while I rode
From dawn to candlelight
On a firefly with headlights on its head.
My mamma, the queen, once told me
It was dangerous to ride
In daytime through a public forest street
A fairy ought to vanish,
Ought to quickly run and hide,
Especially if holding things to eat.
But I was foolish, willful,
As a yellow butterfly;
I hadn't an idea in my head
Till I met a dreadful hornet
Who came buzzing madly by
With a bayonet all shining, horrid red.
Sadly wounded, in a thicket,
I sobbed out with all my might.
Then a little human found me,
And he made the sting all right
By putting wet mud on my arm.
He dried my tears away
And he said: "You ought to vanish."
Which I did without delay.
Wind Comfort
A Reckless Fairy
A Reckless Fairy
When I was little I asked of the wind,
"Wind, do you understand me?
Lonely north wind, with the snow in your hair,
Blown from the glacier's iciest lair,
Sweet, I am yours, pray command me."
Ah! But the wind from the north turned away;
I was too happy and gay.
Only this morning I met the north wind,
"Wind, do you understand me?
See, I am ready to f
When I was little I asked of the wind,
"Wind, do you understand me?
Lonely north wind, with the snow in your hair,
Blown from the glacier's iciest lair,
Sweet, I am yours, pray command me."
Ah! But the wind from the north turned away;
I was too happy and gay.
Only this morning I met the north wind,
"Wind, do you understand me?
See, I am ready to face your chill stare;
Love being cruel, and friendship too rare,
And life but to break and to brand me."
"So!" laughed the wind, "you're still ready to start;
But what care I for a broken heart?"
From: The Province, October 6, 1929
White Pipes
A Reckless Fairy
White Pipes
Have you, on an autumn eve,
Heard a strange cry through the trees,
Seen a fluttering of wings
Like the flight of homing bees?
Have you crept through crackling brush
To a narrow, moss-grown hollow
Leading to a chasm wide
Where no human foot dare follow?
Touched the Indian pipe's white wax,
Knew the underworld was near,
While uncanny whisperings
Fille
Have you, on an autumn eve,
Heard a strange cry through the trees,
Seen a fluttering of wings
Like the flight of homing bees?
Have you crept through crackling brush
To a narrow, moss-grown hollow
Leading to a chasm wide
Where no human foot dare follow?
Touched the Indian pipe's white wax,
Knew the underworld was near,
While uncanny whisperings
Filled your soul with secret fear?
Have you cut away the moss,
Carried home the pipes of gloom,
And at morning found them black
In the sunlight-blessed room?
Uplands in October
Uplands in October
Uplands in October
The leaves came running
Down the white lane;
I heard them moaning,
"October again!"
The yellowed ivy
Crept over the walls,
The chestnuts rustled
In polished red stalls.
A tender bit of
The far blue sea
Was framed in the arm
Of a gnarled oak tree.
The fields flared out
Like a bright-checked shawl,
And the swirling crows
Croaked out a harvest call.
The che
The leaves came running
Down the white lane;
I heard them moaning,
"October again!"
The yellowed ivy
Crept over the walls,
The chestnuts rustled
In polished red stalls.
A tender bit of
The far blue sea
Was framed in the arm
Of a gnarled oak tree.
The fields flared out
Like a bright-checked shawl,
And the swirling crows
Croaked out a harvest call.
The cheerful plowman
Started to sing,
But his voice, little brothers,
Was the voice of spring.
The Silver Vase
Uplands in October
Uplands in October
Today I thought, "I'll pour my loneliness
Into a silver vase;
I'll cover it carefully with flower petals,
And store it away until your return;
Then you will see
How much your dear presence means to me.
I'll prove to you that earth would not exist,
Nor sky be sky,
Nor summer sunset beautiful,
Without the occasional handclasp that you give me,
Wit
Today I thought, "I'll pour my loneliness
Into a silver vase;
I'll cover it carefully with flower petals,
And store it away until your return;
Then you will see
How much your dear presence means to me.
I'll prove to you that earth would not exist,
Nor sky be sky,
Nor summer sunset beautiful,
Without the occasional handclasp that you give me,
Without your casual kiss,
That only you can keep my poor life full.
But, ah! I fear the vase you'll lightly view,
And, flower metals fluttering in your hand,
You'll ask me curiously, 'Darling, what is this?'
Loneliness is the thing you can not understand."
Tinsel
Uplands in October
Tinsel
On the frosted pavements
Tinsel-tipped flowers;
Tinsel in the old news-vendor's hair;
Silver in child laughter
Interviewing Santa;
There's a tinseled spirit
Floating everywhere.
Shining little ornaments
Trim green boughs in the windows;
Sky tinsel gleams above the snowy wold.
Oh! Let us seek and find,
Unsheltered from the wind,
A hungry child;
Make tinsel turn to gold.
The Lost Shepherd Boy
The Lost Shepherd Boy
The Lost Shepherd Boy
Golden are my poplars with the sun at noon,
Early for the moon to rise by the old lagoon,
We hear from the far fields the rustle of spring;
The old mill sighing, the grouse trumpeting.
Hungry they who listen, waiting for the call,
That last call to luncheon--a rush for the hall--
Who is it missing from the happy throng?
Are you hiding, Boy of
Golden are my poplars with the sun at noon,
Early for the moon to rise by the old lagoon,
We hear from the far fields the rustle of spring;
The old mill sighing, the grouse trumpeting.
Hungry they who listen, waiting for the call,
That last call to luncheon--a rush for the hall--
Who is it missing from the happy throng?
Are you hiding, Boy of Mine? Will you be long?
Some say you went to war, some say you died,
But we know, my little lad, that they lied, they lied.
Half up the star-way tending cloudland sheep,
Spring has waked you, dearest, from your sleep.
The Laughter Gnome
The Lost Shepherd Boy
The Lost Shepherd Boy
What makes your laugh
Like Tinkling rain
That strikes the window pane,
Or like the wind along the sedge,
Or wee birds singing in the hedge.
This makes you laugh:
To this tale hark
There lived a slender lark,
Owned by a clever, kindly gnome
Who lived deep in a cavern home.
Alert to keep
His pet from straying
Near farmers busy haying,
The gnome contri
What makes your laugh
Like Tinkling rain
That strikes the window pane,
Or like the wind along the sedge,
Or wee birds singing in the hedge.
This makes you laugh:
To this tale hark
There lived a slender lark,
Owned by a clever, kindly gnome
Who lived deep in a cavern home.
Alert to keep
His pet from straying
Near farmers busy haying,
The gnome contrived a silver thread
And looped it round the skylark's head.
The birdling pined,
Struggling in vain,
It never sang again.
The silver thread took up the song
Absorbed it in its length along.
Saddened, the gnome
Did now regret
This treatment of his pet,
And signed and longed to hear once more
The voice he loved outside his door.
A notion came:
The thread that grew
He chained to each of you.
Now, dears, in all your childish throats
The gnome's thread carols larkish notes.
The Helpless Giant
The Lost Shepherd Boy
The Helpless Giant
He lies so weary there,
so desolate,
His mighty thighs can scarcely bear
The weight of blue curved spectral air.
Man climbs his sloping breast,
And in his shade
Remains eternally; Death ends that quest.
Upon him birds and mammals sink to rest.
But he, the monarch of the western range,
Frosted with pine,
Let earthquake crowd him, he can never change
Until a power moves him, rich and strange.
The First Flight
Ships Launched In The Morning
The First Flight
Who would go a-flying high above the world?
Who would learn the reason why the clouds are curled?
Past the smoke-tanged atmosphere,
Where the sky is blue,
I would go a-sailing, a-sailing far with you.
Who would climb the current stair towards the setting sun?
Who the cup of rapture sip, when the day's begun?
A silver helmet for my hair,
A pilot's
Who would go a-flying high above the world?
Who would learn the reason why the clouds are curled?
Past the smoke-tanged atmosphere,
Where the sky is blue,
I would go a-sailing, a-sailing far with you.
Who would climb the current stair towards the setting sun?
Who the cup of rapture sip, when the day's begun?
A silver helmet for my hair,
A pilot's suit for mine,
A flash of steel--the wind-whipped air that stirs
the blood like wine.
Who would slip from port to port, in all kinds of weather?
Who the drift of stars inhale, now the scent of heather?
Let us hurry, hurry, hurry,
For the plane will leave at six,
And I'm all dressed and waiting to be an aviatrix.
From: The Province, October 2, 1928
Silver Bugles
Ships Launched In The Morning
The First Flight
My thoughts were humdrum as could be,
of Tins and kitchen chemistry,
Of rolling-pins and slamming doors,
And puppies muddying waxed floors;
Of buttons that must be tacked on;
Of socks. I felt most put upon.
I slept and dreamed my humdrum thoughts,
Danced in the moonlight queer gavottes.
The rolling-pin bowed to a bowl,
The doughnut ate itself up w
My thoughts were humdrum as could be,
of Tins and kitchen chemistry,
Of rolling-pins and slamming doors,
And puppies muddying waxed floors;
Of buttons that must be tacked on;
Of socks. I felt most put upon.
I slept and dreamed my humdrum thoughts,
Danced in the moonlight queer gavottes.
The rolling-pin bowed to a bowl,
The doughnut ate itself up whole,
The buttons curtsied to the socks,
And puppies all wore elfin frocks.
Perhaps it was for my education
The moon designed this transformation.
My homely thoughts sang gay and bright,
Like silver bugles in the night.
Ships Launched In The Morning
Ships Launched In The Morning
Ships Launched In The Morning
You can take the crowded ways
But I dream of ships,
Red and white and brown strips
Of color in the early dawn,
Against grey skies.
You have for your share
The stir of city days,
But in the crisp air, without warning,
I shall steal aboard some morning,
I shall board my ship.
Slip the rollers under her heels, men
Steady at the winch,
Let the froth of s
You can take the crowded ways
But I dream of ships,
Red and white and brown strips
Of color in the early dawn,
Against grey skies.
You have for your share
The stir of city days,
But in the crisp air, without warning,
I shall steal aboard some morning,
I shall board my ship.
Slip the rollers under her heels, men
Steady at the winch,
Let the froth of steam curl over her sides;
Slowly moving we shall pass
straight to the sea.
Who is it flutters a white kerchief
Hoarsely shouting farewell?
Know you not that in each call at port,
Warm little hands clutch frantically,
And warm lips kiss farewell?
Retrospect
Quaint Silhouette
Quaint Silhouette
If it could be the same,
That I should adore you,
Let us not meet again,
My dear, I implore you.
If I must meet you in hate,
To grieve over trifles you told me
When you left me disconsolate--
If you must scold me.
Then we must never meet;
No word must be spoken;
Thus memories calm and sweet
Will rest unbroken!
Quaint Silhouette
Quaint Silhouette
Quaint Silhouette
Like a sharp finger the tall church spire
Pricks at a star and is drawn into fire.
Like tired old women stumbling home
The tenement houses are purple and chrome.
White gull from the harbor, proud-poised in the dark, And the last piercing note from a band in the park.
You--hauntingly caught in a blue shadow's net,
Are part of the nightfall, my
Like a sharp finger the tall church spire
Pricks at a star and is drawn into fire.
Like tired old women stumbling home
The tenement houses are purple and chrome.
White gull from the harbor, proud-poised in the dark, And the last piercing note from a band in the park.
You--hauntingly caught in a blue shadow's net,
Are part of the nightfall, my quaint silhouette.
From: "The Province", August 17, 1930, Page 6
Patterns
Quaint Silhouette
Patterns
I would take shining shears
And climb the stairway to remotest stars
And cut them for you into ornaments
To wear upon your dusky hair,
Your throat, your hands . . .
I would design a quilt
Of lonely years, hemstitched
With fleeting glimpses of your face.
How joyfully I'd slave
For your demands . . .
But oh, I can not, must not say,
Beloved, I have never loved until today.
Making Clothes For Dolly
Making Clothes For Dolly
Making Clothes For Dolly
I'm as tired as tired can be
Making clothes for my big dolly.
Yesterday I made a shirt,
But Cook tramped it in the dirt.
Then I made a petticoat,
But Brudder fed it to a goat.
I've sewed a lovely, lovely hat--
I wonder who will step on that?
Muvver gave me some more thread,
And she smiled at me and said:
"That's how I feel at a tear,
When your clothes should wear and wear."
Love's Immortality
Making Clothes For Dolly
Making Clothes For Dolly
I did not think that love could die
Though solid things like mountains pass,
And fires cool, and hair turns grey,
and old, so old, grow lad and lass.
They taught love's immortality
From the first hour we spent at books --
How limp your hand, and cold your words,
Compassionate your looks! --
Do you not think it strange and sad,
That, uttering no mo
I did not think that love could die
Though solid things like mountains pass,
And fires cool, and hair turns grey,
and old, so old, grow lad and lass.
They taught love's immortality
From the first hour we spent at books --
How limp your hand, and cold your words,
Compassionate your looks! --
Do you not think it strange and sad,
That, uttering no more your name,
I saw the spreading sunset glow
Without an answering flame?
Today I thought that love had fled,
But when a child ran to my side
He had your smile of long ago.
Love had not died.
Lost Channel
Making Clothes For Dolly
Lost Channel
Where the prospector's trails are faintly traced,
And the Yukon River is rapid-tossed,
Lies a channel of gold it is rumored was lost
In the ghostly bounds of that northern waste.
White and bleached are the bones that lie
White, where the miners so vainly sought.
Harsh and cruel is the prospector's lot,
Though the Milky Way gleam in the wintry sk
Where the prospector's trails are faintly traced,
And the Yukon River is rapid-tossed,
Lies a channel of gold it is rumored was lost
In the ghostly bounds of that northern waste.
White and bleached are the bones that lie
White, where the miners so vainly sought.
Harsh and cruel is the prospector's lot,
Though the Milky Way gleam in the wintry sky.
You and I hunted a channel of gold,
We walked together, took life's battle scars,
But our adventuring now that we're old
Led us to wander towards different stars.
Yet I hope as I twist 'round some lost channel bend
I shall find you waiting for me, my friend.
Let Her Be Remembered
Barbara Benne and Natalie Naug
Let Her Be Remembered
Let her be remembered
With the coming of the autumn,
With the flying of her bird friends to the south.
We still hear her footsteps
In leaf-trodden paths of maple,
And her sighing -- Wind has found her scarlet mouth.
Wind has caught her bright face,
Warmed his hands at her red tresses,
Wind has made her cold and sad and brown;
But let her be rememb
Let her be remembered
With the coming of the autumn,
With the flying of her bird friends to the south.
We still hear her footsteps
In leaf-trodden paths of maple,
And her sighing -- Wind has found her scarlet mouth.
Wind has caught her bright face,
Warmed his hands at her red tresses,
Wind has made her cold and sad and brown;
But let her be remembered
Racing through a grove of maple,
With the leaves of sorrow clinging to her gown,
With the rustling leaves of autumn
Falling, falling down.
It Happened Long Ago
Barbara Benne and Natalie Naug
Let Her Be Remembered
The lily in the lilypond was still;
Upon the moonlit hill
No flower stirred, no branches moved;
Beneath the white cold moon
The river flowed, grimly and proudly old.
And he, whose hand was warm
Where the hot fingers of the queen had pressed,
Whose eyes had seen the stars of love in hers
And, in her soul, the love reflected, guessed;
He stood upon
The lily in the lilypond was still;
Upon the moonlit hill
No flower stirred, no branches moved;
Beneath the white cold moon
The river flowed, grimly and proudly old.
And he, whose hand was warm
Where the hot fingers of the queen had pressed,
Whose eyes had seen the stars of love in hers
And, in her soul, the love reflected, guessed;
He stood upon a turret's highest tower
And watched the ship of death come drifting by;
While in his heart something neglected stirred
And to his lips the notion of a sigh,
Because for him on such a perfect night
The purest maid of Astalot died so.
Perhaps he wished then,
She had been his bride;
How can we tell, it was so long ago!
Barbara Benne and Natalie Naug
Barbara Benne and Natalie Naug
Barbara Benne and Natalie Naug
Barbara Benne
Was forgetful at ten,
Omitting to feed her little white hen,
And wondered at seven
Why it looked cross again.
Natalie Naug,
With her terrier dog,
Went all through a bog
With some crumbs for a frog,
Who thankfully dined on a slithery log.
Not Tinselled Now
Not Tinselled Now
Not Tinselled Now
Not tinselled now;
Once, shining with golden fruit,
The dark tree spread
Snow branches on the floor,
And he who loved it so
Came running down the stair,
To pause, ecstatic, at the wreath-hung door.
Not tinselled now,
But lovely still, and green,
The little pine holds
Lonely hands to light.
His letter, honored on the mantel shelf,
While someone whispe
Not tinselled now;
Once, shining with golden fruit,
The dark tree spread
Snow branches on the floor,
And he who loved it so
Came running down the stair,
To pause, ecstatic, at the wreath-hung door.
Not tinselled now,
But lovely still, and green,
The little pine holds
Lonely hands to light.
His letter, honored on the mantel shelf,
While someone whispers:
"When Christmas bells ring out the
heart's delight
He will be home - he must be home tonight!"
From: The Vancouver Sun,
December 24, 1943
Fireside Wish
Not Tinselled Now
Not Tinselled Now
I'm understudying for Cinderella,
Sitting in the ashes on the floor,
Afraid to look; it might be my step
mamma--
I hope it is a fairy at the door.
I'm giving up my time for Cinderella
Someone must tend her fire while
tonight
She dances in the prince's arms
Until the clock strikes twelve,
And she drops her pretty slipper, small
and bright.
I'm pleased
I'm understudying for Cinderella,
Sitting in the ashes on the floor,
Afraid to look; it might be my step
mamma--
I hope it is a fairy at the door.
I'm giving up my time for Cinderella
Someone must tend her fire while
tonight
She dances in the prince's arms
Until the clock strikes twelve,
And she drops her pretty slipper, small
and bright.
I'm pleased to take the place of
Cinderella
And I wouldn't be surprised a teeny
bit
If some soldiers marched inside,
Thought my foot was not too wide,
And the dinky little slipper was a fit.
Gold Pheasants
Not Tinselled Now
Gold Pheasants
The hill may be
A mine of gold
Where birds like nuggets run
Bright in the noonday sun.
Fire and earth were lightly mixed
To mould their wings.
Below the collars of snowy sheen,
In crimson suede the eyes encased,
Those eyes of green.
Our hill is still
As pheasants waiting dangerous motion
Across the flowing grassy ocean,
And lovely as the patient sky
Where fledglings dare to learn to fly.
Color Magic
Bells at Night
Bells at Night
When I would think of Jonathon,
A brown shade fills my gaze,
And Mary minds me of deep blues,
And Eleanor light greys.
A vivid red are Sue and Ruth,
While Joan's emerald green,
But Frances is as white as truth,
And turquoise is young Jean.
Thus all my friends are lovely hues
I love to think upon,
That tint the canvas of the mind
Even when they are gone.
Bells at Night
Bells at Night
Bells at Night
Wet lilac swings and scents the magic lane,
Wet lilac turned to purple tears by night.
Over a fence, a fountain and a pool
Outlined but dimly in the fading light.
An aged couple waiting on a porch--
Once quietly I saw him pat her hand--
Then bells pouring and swinging with delight,
Telling the old ones what they understand.
Then--quiet on the sha
Wet lilac swings and scents the magic lane,
Wet lilac turned to purple tears by night.
Over a fence, a fountain and a pool
Outlined but dimly in the fading light.
An aged couple waiting on a porch--
Once quietly I saw him pat her hand--
Then bells pouring and swinging with delight,
Telling the old ones what they understand.
Then--quiet on the shadowed roof and walls--
And beauty clinging as the darkness falls.
Roots
Bells at Night
Roots
The roots were thin, slung along underground,
Skipping the little affections, the hurdles and fences beside the tracks,
Where the train moved like an iron tiger in the jungle of coalyards and factories.
The roots were green, curling round suppliant maples,
Tenderly outlining brooks, embracing the throbbing mill,
Slipping unseen by the roadway
The roots were thin, slung along underground,
Skipping the little affections, the hurdles and fences beside the tracks,
Where the train moved like an iron tiger in the jungle of coalyards and factories.
The roots were green, curling round suppliant maples,
Tenderly outlining brooks, embracing the throbbing mill,
Slipping unseen by the roadway.
The roots were thick when they reached the wall
Where the grapes hung bursting with blueness, thick as they plunged in the welcoming earth --
There, in the centre -- there at last in home's heart, in the cool green of loving,
Rooted forever.
From: Canadian Poetry Magazine, July 1961.