Poet: Douglas Malloch
I slept last night as the wildwood's guest
In the shade of an ancient tree,
I sank to rest on the verdured crest
Of a hill beside the sea;
And the waves sang low to me:
Sleep by the waters of the ocean old,
Lulled by the song of the deep,
For maids give smiles and men give gold
But the good God gives you sleep.
Yes, the good God gives you sleep.
I slept last night in the woodland wild
In the shade of an ancient yew;
On the forest child the forest smiled
With the love the infant knew;
And it sang the long night through:
Sleep 'neath the branches of the forest tree
While the stars their watches keep ;
The rover's home and the captive free
When the good God gives them sleep,
When the good God gives them sleep.
Long is the way that my feet must tread.
Weary and long the way.
The way is red where the feet have bled
That have walked in a bygone day;
But I hear the woodland say:
Sleep at the end of the tangled path.
Where your soul no more shall weep;
You sow but woe and you reap but wrath -
But the good God gives you sleep.
Yes, the good God gives you sleep.
More Christian Poems
Poet: Douglas Malloch
Here's some of us has this world's goods,
An' some of us has none -
But all of us has got the woods.
An' all has got the sun.
So, settin' here upon the stoop.
This patch o' pine beside,
I never care a single whoop -
Fer I am satisfied.
Now, take the pine on yonder hill:
It don't belong to me;
The boss he owns the timber - still,
It's there fer me to see.
An', 'twixt the ownin' of the same
An' smellin' of its smell,
I've got the best of that there game.
An' so I'm feelin' well.
The boss in town unrolls a map
An' proudly says, "It's mine."
But he don't drink no maple sap
An' he don't smell no pine.
The boss in town he figgers lands
In quarter-sections red;
Lord! I just set with folded hands
An' breathe 'em in instead.
The boss his forest wealth kin read
In cent an' dollar sign;
His name is written in the deed -
But all his land is mine.
There's some of us has this world's goods,
An' some of us has none -
But all of us has got the woods.
An' all has got the sun!
More Funny Poems
Poet: Douglas Malloch
Man, thrust upon the world, awakes from sleep.
Knowing not whence he came nor how nor why.
His earliest impulse is an infant cry.
His final privilege is that to weep.
A combatant although he sought no strife,
A guest unwelcome come unwillingly,
Given his vision that he may not see,
He names this unnamed paradox his life.
He learns to walk the forest and to love
Its green and brown, its song and season's change,
Yet will not taste a berry that is strange
Or tread a pathway that he knows not of.
Skeptic and doubter of the flow'r and tree,
He questions this and that investigates -
Yet drinks the beaker offered by the fates
And leaves unsolved the greater mystery.
More Poems About Life
Poet: Douglas Malloch
I reckon the party who sets on a throne
Has a perfectly miser'ble time;
There always is someone a-pickin' a bone
With a king or a monarch sublime.
Some calculate maybe that bein' a king
Is a job that is gen'ally fun -
Well, well, it may be,
But the best thing, to me,
Is jest settin' right here in the sun.
I reckon the party who sets in the chair.
In the President's chair, an' all that,
Must tote on his person consider'ble care
An' a passel of woe in his hat.
Some calculate maybe it's fun to be boss
Or even for office to run -
Well, that may be so.
But the best thing I know
Is jest settin' right here in the sun.
I reckon the party who sets up on high
He may wish for a moment that's calm.
It's awful to set there an' find by-an'-by
That you've done gone an' set on a bomb.
I calculate, if they should blow up a king,
In spite of the good he has done,
Nary king he will be;
But me, as for me,
I'll be settin' right here in the sun.
More Sunshine Poems
Poet: Douglas Malloch
Some folks run to sunsets,
Some folks run to noon.
Some folks like the evenin' best,
With its stars an' moon.
Sunsets may be purty.
Noontime fair to see,
But the mornin' I like most -
Sunrise time fer me!
Some folks like at twilight
Jest to set an' dream
Of the day thet's dyin' there
In the sunset gleam.
What's the use of cryin'
Fer the day's mistakes? -
I'm jest lookin' fer the time
When the sunrise breaks!
An', if all the mornin's.
All the days an' years.
Bring me nothin' thet I ask,
Bring me only tears -
When this life is over.
When my soul awakes,
I'll be lookin' to the east
Where the sunrise breaks!
More Nature Poems
Poet: Douglas Malloch
Voice of the forest, tongue by which it speaks
The throbbing gladness of its vernal time,
No more, no more, your rising pinion seeks
The heights sublime.
Voice of the forest, once your gay wings beat
Against the mountain diademed with stars;
Now do men bid you sing a song as sweet
To prison bars.
Only a singer that they, passing, heard
And then desired, like book and pipe and bowl -
Knowing nor caring when they cage a bird
They cage a soul.
More Poems About Birds
Poet: Douglas Malloch
We build our fronded temples high,
With arching roof and bended beam,
We rear our artificial sky
Where painted constellations gleam;
We praise the marble majesty
Our earthly artisans create —
Yet walk abroad and do not see
The heavens that we imitate.
More Heaven Poems
Poet: Douglas Malloch
No flashing loom is hers; no shuttle flies
To do the bidding of her hands and eyes.
No needle glides to designated place,
As weave her sisters overseas the lace.
Hers is a simpler workshop in the leaves;
This is a simpler pattern that she weaves,
Her woof the splinter of the forest tree,
The ash so white, the elm and hickory.
Her dyes the blood of marish weeds and bark
With tints as ruddy as her features dark -
These are her simple implements of toil,
The ready products of the woodland soil.
Yet who shall say her skill is aught the less
Than that of her who weaves the princess' dress?
For generations women of her race
Have woven baskets in this quiet place,
And she who weaves beneath the ancient trees
Reveals the skill of toilsome centuries.
Into the basket weaves she more than wood -
For weaves she in the romance of her blood.
Yea, weaves she in the moonlight and the sun.
The westward's burning rays when day is done,
The verdant tints of winter's evergreen,
The lily's whiteness and the willow's sheen.
The regal purple of her honored chief.
The simple beauty of her God-belief.
So, through its time, the basket that she makes
Shall sing to me of brooks and sylvan lakes.
Shall sing the glory of the vanished Red,
Shall sing a requiem for peoples dead.
Shall sing of tree, of flower and of sod -
Shall sing of Nature and the place of God.
The Weaver Poem
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