Betty Chabot Canadian Poet

First Verse

I am only a dreamer trying to catch
A sunbeam that hides from me;
I am only a weaver trying to match
Threads that don’t want to be.
But it’s all in the way
I start at each day
That means whether I’m glad or blue,
Somehow the mending is all depending
On nobody else but you.

Chorus

I am dreaming, I am scheming,
I am planning every day,
Trying to make skies of blue
Out of clouds of grey.
Someday all the clouds will hide
‘Neath the sunbeams stretching wide;
Then my scheming, then my dreaming,
Will come true for you.

Second Verse

I am only a schemer trying to make
A pathway of gold for you,
I am only a gleaner trying to take
Roads that are always blue.
I am scheming each day
To find a new way
To brighten the roadway of love,
From a dusky dawn till the clouds are gone,
And the blue sky smiles above.

Third Verse

I am only another plodding along
And trying to make ends meet,
I am only another one of the throng
Tasting life’s bitter-sweet.
But so long as I know
Wherever I go,
Somebody is waiting for me,
The sunbeams I’ll catch, the threads I will match,
Till they’re as you want them to be.

– Circa 1937

Apple blossoms swaying
In the wonder month of May;
Mating birds are warbling songs of love.
Tiny sunbeams spraying
All along the wooded way,
Little showers of sunshine from above.

Frisky breezes blowing
Spring’s own lullaby to me;
Happy ’cause the days are bright and fair.
Tiny blossoms snowing
From a shedding apple tree,
Little scented snow-drops in the air.

Breezes now are tripping,
Tripping o’er the blades of grass;
Gliding thru the treetops in a rhyme;
Shallow streams are slipping,
Slipping o’er each pebbled pass:
Everything is singing “Blossom-time.”

– Circa 1934

April in the morning, and the sky a mist of rose;
Pussy willows swaying where the willow buds unclose;
The dawning light, and breezes that blow from fields new-shorn
Bring me the scent of springtime, on an April morn.
April in the valley, and a noontide sun swung low;
April in the treetops where the blue sky seems to blow;
Elfin echoes ringing through the miles of setting sun;
A hymn of praise ascending when April’s day is done.
April’s resurrection tells to me a truth that’s dear:
The world was only sleeping when winter-time was here.

– Circa 1928

A path along a mountain trail,
With biting winds and gusty gale;
A path that hath its roses sweet
To ease the tired and aching feet.
A path that everyone may tread,
For straight and narrow is its bed
See! At the end there gleams a star.
Without the golden gates ajar.
Within the gates – Eternal Day;
A path that leads to God alway.