HARNER, Clare


Immortality (very likely written by her)

Do not stand

By my grave, and weep,

I am not there,

I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints in snow,

I am the sunlight on ripened grain,

I am the gentle, autumn rain.

When you awaken with morning's hush

I am the swift upflinging rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the day transcending night.

Do not stand

at my grave and cry -

I am not there,

I did not die.

Cry from the Dust Bowl

This heat!

If only the sky could find a cloud;

If only rain would come to soften

The brittle glare of the sun.

This wind!

Even the leafless trees

Strain towards the north

As if they tugged at their stubborn roots

Seeking relief in pulling towards the north;

The wind has hammered the trees,

Has whipped them till they sag,

Ugly and grim.

This dust!

From the south, the wind

Lashes the dust in giant pinwheels

And swirls it in sudden fury

To shut out the hardness of the sun,

So that the sun now dully glows

In a jaundiced sky.

Broken twigs and branches

Tumble, end over end,

And race before the storm

Until they are caught beside a fence

And buried in the drift of dust.

Silent, the world is:

Only the beating of the wind

And the rattle of sand

On the window panes;

The beating of the wind

And the rattle of sand,

The rattle of sand ....

This Hell!

Why can't there be rain?

Kisses et the Turnstile Gate

I'll ride this way again, irresistibly drawn

To travel once more the lonely road from the sea

That you and I explored, glad just to be.

And I'll get off my horse to watch the dawn;

I'll sit on the log beneath a maple tree

And laugh at memories of you and me

Who sat there once and gave our hearts in pawn.

I'll listen to crickets, and hear the noisy trills

Of jays. I'll trace the changing carpet, inlaid

With leaves in rich mosaic, light and shade.

I'll watch the lizards hunt where the sunlight spills.

I'll watch the twisting, silver brook invade

The trees that rise beyond the farther glade,

And farther yet the distant blue of the hills.

I'll see all this again, and mock the past

Because my pride is stronger now than hate:

But when I pass the broken turnstile gate

I'll look the other way and ride by fast

For I might see a phantom lover wait.

My pride is strong—but I shan't hesitate

Lest I recall your kisses, which could not last.