Betty Chabot Canadian Poet

In a sweet old-fashioned garden on a sunny kind of day
There once bloomed a tiny blossom, or so the folks do say;
Its little heart was golden, and its petals fairest blue;
It took them back along the trail to other days and you.
And just because ’twas memory within that wayside plot
They called that flower of heaven’s hue, a blue for-get-me-not.

– Circa 1935

Down roads of remembrance, our footsteps oft stray
Thru the dusk at the close of a long Autumn day;
To No-man’s or Flanders, where poppies flaunt red;
To the Garden of Courage, the graves of our dead.
Then up thru the air, it is only a prayer,
But a blessing has fallen on somebody’s head.

We have but remembrance to cherish and last,
But a wee thread of memory to cling to the past.
Does a cross mark his grave where silent he lies
‘Neath the brown of the earth, ‘neath the blue of the skies?
Night time is falling – it seems he is calling;
But the voice of the night wind is all that replies.

Dear loved one in Flanders, how often I long
For a touch of the hand that was steady and strong;
A word or a whisper; a moment to see,
Just one glimpse of those eyes and that smile brave and free.
I look up with joy: is it, is it my boy?
No, only the rustling of leaves answers me.

And on thru the hours when the midnight is deep,
Now I smile, now I stir, in the midst of my sleep.
In sorrow, in gladness, my memory takes wing
Unto yesterday’s pathways where red poppies spring;
Where crosses on row – and my soldier below -,
Ah dear Road of Remembrance what comfort you bring!

– Circa 1934

In Memory’s name I tread o’er trails
Where once the violets blue
Bedecked the green and shaded glades
That sheltered me and You.

The same old stream goes rippling by
Its banks o’er-clung with vine;
And the same old breeze is crooning
Its song amid the pines.

Across the old and purple hills
Sweet Echo laughs in glee;
Sends her call, the same old charm,
Again to you and me.

– Circa 1928

It’s little things that spur me onward;
Little things that bid me try;
It’s little hopes and little pleasures;
Little sunbeams in the sky.
Just tiny baby fingers twining
Round my neck, a soft caress;
I thank thee, God, that Thou hast given
Little things to love and bless.
– Circa 1931

Before the days of ‘lectric lights
Porcelain baths, steam heat,
We used to own a little house:
‘Twas called Lilac Retreat.
‘Twas painted white and scrubbed so clean
And grass grew round the door;
Oftimes a tiny tuft of green
Would push up thru’ the floor.
Two lilac bushes grew beside
This little house so white.
Their voices blended into one
Soft murmur in the night.
To-day we find no little paths
Pressed down by many feet
For none can boast their garden holds
A white lilac retreat.

– Circa 1950

It seemed a little thing to do
To laugh at love and go my way;
To sip the cup of life with you
And then forget that yesterday.
To follow whims and fancies free
For whims were but a part of me.

I laughed at love, but why? ah me,
I never gave it thought or care.
I took it; then at fancy free
I tossed it from me in the air.
By nature moodish, laughing, wild,
Impulses stirred me, as a child.

It seemed a little thing to me
To flaunt and laugh at love that day,
Until you turned and left me free
To laugh, and love, and go my way.
I let you go. Why? From the start
I loved you, yet I played the part.
And now I laugh to hide the pain
That lingers still within my heart.

– Circa 1928