Betty Chabot Canadian Poet

A feather fell low from a winging bird;
It fell till it dropped at my feet.
But a song held my heart imprisoned fast
Mid the din of a city street.
And I dared to think if the song were free
Would it sound but half so sweet.

I heard a song rise in an open field;
As it rose from the clean damp earth;
It was pure, it was sweet – untouched by man
As the heart that gave it birth.
A song that was full of the love of life;
A song that was full of mirth.

I tuned that song, and the feather that dropped
With a voice in a city slum,
Where a heart cried out for life to live
Far away from the dirt and scum.
I found that the voice with heart-aches and tears
All the sweeter had become.

– Circa 1931

From a sordid realm to a world apart,
The sun retreats to a fresh new start
O life, on the other side.
It slowly recedes till the shadows dim
Are left outside on the sunset’s rim:
Escape! at the turn of the tide.

The tinkle and fall and lilting sweet
Of a hurdy-gurdy in the street:
Heaven once lingered there;
The sad faced monkey so cunningly dressed,
The Italian whose clothes seemed afraid to be pressed
Have escaped, from a world of care.

The long, long day with its laughter and cries -,
Joys, heartaches, longings in different eyes -,
O! for a moment’s rest:
But the end has come for a day that was full;
Arms that are weary have ceased to pull:
They’ve escaped at the night’s behest.

From a sordid realm to a world apart
I must escape from a burtsting heart!
I must….I must……I must!
There is peace and rest and a child-like faith
Close by where Death like a biding wraith
I know will remove Life’s rust.
I will gladly go when He comes for me;
Earth’s day is more than Eternity;
My soul will live, though my body be dust.

– Circa 1929

I held you close – O breathless moment
When your lips touched mine.
I heard the quick, soft intake of your breath;
The door unto your heart was opened,
But a moment;
Then closed to me, to-day, to-morrow, and forever.

– Circa 1927

God gave me gifts to envision anew
Mid fancies region of mind;
Things that appeal to my innermost soul,
Thoughts of humanity kind.
I sit near my window as life unfolds;
I muse what sorrow and care
Imprisoned its kindness within those hands
And silvered those locks of hair.
Yet I dare to dream of the countless times.
Over and over again
Those hands have stilled into a restless sleep
A patient, whose lot was pain.
Long years of practice and long years of toil
Have made him a man who knows;
There’s the need of a gentle voice and smile
Whenever he comes and goes.
There are doctors who thrive in life’s maelstrom
Abrupt and hurried their way;
Their patient merely a broken machine
That must be mended to-day.
Too few we have who will stop with a smile,
Too few we have who will stay
To offer a word of encouragement,
As we journey on life’s way.
You can unburden your heart-aches to him,
He’s patient, loving, and kind.
Just the sort of a man God must have meant
To doctor body and mind.
Let the dark of night be heavy with mist –
The mist fathom mile on mile,
So long as the Doctor still is a man
Who knows the worth of a smile.

– Circa 1932

Farewell, O lovely summer day,
Farewell to thee!
June roses, lilies, musk-filled way –
Farewell to thee!
We fold away the dusky hours;
We press the book of summer flowers;
We store the dreams that once were ours:
Farewell to thee!

We wave adieus to morning’s gold,
Farewell to thee!
Each dream, each memory we hold,
Farewell to thee!
Music and laughter, mornings bright;
The spell of August moons; to-night,
O Summer, thou art hid from sight;
Farewell to thee!

– Circa 1926

Little “Catch-me-as-you-can” darting hither, here and yon,
Little “Fleet-foot-down-the-way” whither are you gone?
Now I slowly reach my arm, just to clasp you in my hand
But you vanish in the air or you dart across the land.
Little “Catch-me-as-you-can”, Little sunbeam brightly shine
For your childish pranks of fleeting bewitch this weary heart of mine.

– Circa 1925

I am riding o’er the prairies
When the dark is drawing night;
O’er the dusk enfolded prairies
Neath a mystic night blue sky.
And I check my horse to listen
As I hear a coyote’s cry.

Father rode a night black charger
Long ago when he was young.
I have heard of mid-night races
On the prairies grasslands sung.
From that stack of able riders,
I, a rider too, have sprung.

I was born upon the prairies
Where the herded cattle roam.
I was bred amid the riders
And the saddle is my home.
And I’m racing o’er the prairies
When dark dims the azure dome.

– Circa 1927

August is laughing when breezes blow,
And playing her music high and low.
Sweet Echo catches her laugh of glee;
She sends out a call to you and me:
“O come to the woods, for bright is the day;
For skies are blue and the clouds roll away.
Come, for the world is merry and gay;
Come and be happy, too!”

August is laughing; now can’t you hear
Her care-free laugh on the sunny air;
In flowering thickets, in shallows cool,
Where swallows are skimming a mountain pool?
“O come to the woods, where her breath is sweet,
As the blossoms bloom neath her dancing feet;
Where earth and sky in a glad joy meet,
Come and be happy, too!”

– Circa 1929

I slip away on rainy days
And climb the attic stair;
Each creaking step I tread alone
Takes me much nearer there.
‘Tis well I know that once inside
The dim and dusty wall
I’ll sit and dream of olden times
And hear? No, not one call.
Ah! There a spider spins its web;
The sun steals in to peep.
It thought that in that olden room
All things were fast asleep.
A spinning wheel one corner fills;
And here a rocking chair;
A cradle near, Ah! someone’s hand
Has rocked it sitting there.
I need not open that worn brown trunk
Within I know are those
White frilly gloves, and pointed shoes
A wedding dress, a rose;
And then some letters ribbon tied
That once were white as snow.
That tarnished trunk keeps precious still
Its dream of long ago.
Dusk finds the attic stairway now,
And slowly creeps along,
To where are left those treasures dear:
The fragments of Life’s song.
But I must hasten down the way
The shades of dark still tread
And leave behind those priceless things:
Those memories of the dead.

– Circa 1945