POEMS BY LOUISE DAVIE BURNETT

 

 

When Joe, Jimmy and Carey Burnett found that their Mother, Louise Davie Burnett, of Clayton Alabama, had written much poetry during her lifetime, they decided to publish a book. Louise, the daughter of Harriet Jones Davie, was my Mom’s first cousin, so I decided to put a couple of her poems here for my friends to read. I hope you enjoy them.

 


MARCH WIND

March Wind's full of mischief,
But he's so jolly and fine
I laugh to see him frolic
With the washing on the line.

There's Mother's pretty gingham,
And daddy's woolen socks,
And Grandma's camric night gown,
And mine and Lucy's frocks.

Now Grandma's very solemn
But March wind doesn't care--
He starts her gown to dancing
Disgracefully in air;

While Daddy's socks get naughty
And kick at Lucy's dress.
My sleeves fly out to comfort
And help in this distress,

But Mother's soft blue gingham
Just does the minuet.
I'm glad to see that March wind
Respects my Mother yet.


WIND SONG

I saw you romping joyously,
wind, across the hill:
You hurried past my cottage door
and scattered things at will.

Of freedom sweet you hummed a song
“Till I did long to be
Myself, a racing, whirling wind,
Gay and glad and free.

I heard you wailing wildly,
wind, across the hill:
You beat against my cottage door
Last night when all was still.

You sobbed and mourned
and wrung your hands
"Til I did long to know
What tragedy within your heart
could make you sorrow so.

But when just now you touched me,
wind, with light caress;
I knew that you’d forgotten
Your night of bitterness.


THE BIRD

O tiny aerial craftsman,
you matchless aviator,
Your idea has been copied by man,
would-be creator.

But no soft-purring engine
can match your beating heart
Or wondrous wing-propellers,
of you a growing part.

And who hath yet constructed
a rudder like your tail—
So strong, so light, so pliant,
whose guidings never fail?

You soar, you dive, you loop the loop,
your hangers are the trees
Where, lo, you shame Caruso
with your wondrous melodies.


A REPRIMAND


The sonnet said,
"A word with you, I pray.
I shall not soon or easily forget
That travesty you wrote the other day

To five iambic feet of measure set.
"The point is this:
You call it by my name."
‘A sonnet I have written now,’ you said.

"I saw the ghost of Milton flinch for shame
That ‘fools rush in
where angels fear to tread’!
"Your mongrel of an octave did
appall, In neither English nor Italian mould.

Your sextet danced a fox-trot free-for-all,
and ended in a couplet loud and bold.
"When next you feel inspired to poetry,
Pray call it something else.
Don’t call it me."


CONCESSION

Mathematics said one day
To lovely Poetry,
"I know we’re strictly opposite,
But will you marry me?

I’m sure that I can make you glad
I’ve rich security;
My money’s lent at eight percent
Both here and or’er the sea."

"We’re not entirely different,"
Said Poetry with a smile,
"For, Mathematics, I’ve employed
Your methods all the while.

I scan my lines most carefully,
Divide them into feet,
Or else they’d never sing to you
In lilting measures sweet:

While through your song of ‘eight percent,’
Your pockets full of ‘dough,’
Full four and twenty blue birds
Of poetry sing, you know."

So they were wed and straightway
built Isaac Hall
A charming bungalow,
And now their little family
"Tis interesting to know.

Arithmetic and Trigonom’,
Twin boys, the father claimed,
While Villamelle and Rnduau both
Their mother’s girls were named.

But when it came to doggerel,
It nearly drove them wild
Till Poetry granted generously,
"Dear, you may have the child."

 

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