Top 20 Greatest Poems of Hattie Howard

These are the top twenty (20) greatest poems of Hattie Howard.

From A Bit of Gladness. to Blossom-time.

If you want to know Hattie Howard’s greatest poems of all time, then this poetry collection is for you.

Keep reading!.

A Bit of Gladness.

As I near my lonely cottage,
At the close of weary day,
There’s a little bit of gladness
Comes to meet me on the way:
Dimpled, tanned, and petticoated,
Innocent as angels are,
Like a smiling, straying sunbeam
Is my Stella – like a star.

Soon a hand of tissue-softness
Slips confidingly in mine,
And with tender look appealing
Eyes of beauty sweetly shine;
Like a gentle shepherd guiding
Some lost lamb unto the fold,
So she leads me homeward, prattling
Till her stories are all told.

“Papa, I’m so glad to see you –
Cousin Mabel came today –
And the gas-man brought a letter
That he said you’d better pay –
Yes, and awful things is happened:
My poor kitty’s drowned to death –
Mamma’s got the ‘Pigs in Clover’ – “
Here she stops for want of breath.

I am like the bold knight-errant,
From his castle who would roam,
Trusting her, my faithful steward,
For a strict account of home;
And each day I toil, and hazard
All that any man may dare,
For a resting-place at even,
And the love that waits me there.

And sometimes I look with pity
On my neighbor’s mansion tall:
There are chambers full of pictures,
There are marbles in the hall,
Yet with all the signs of splendor
That may gild a pile of stone,
Not a living thing about it
But the owner, grim and lone.

I believe that all his millions
He would give without repine
For a little bit of gladness
In his life, like that in mine;
This it is that makes my pathway
Beautiful, wherever trod,
Keeps my soul from wreck and ruin,
Keeps me nearer to my God.

Hattie Howard

A Rainy Day.

Oh, what a blessed interval
A rainy day may be!
No lightning flash nor tempest roar,
But one incessant, steady pour
Of dripping melody;
When from their sheltering retreat
Go not with voluntary feet
The storm-beleaguered family,
Nor bird nor animal.

When business takes a little lull,
And gives the merchantman
A chance to seek domestic scenes,
To interview the magazines,
Convoke his growing clan,
The boys and girls almost unknown,
And get acquainted with his own;
As well the household budget scan,
Or write a canticle.

When farmer John ransacks the barn,
Hunts up the harness old –
Nigh twenty years since it was new –
Puts in an extra thong or two,
And hopes the thing will hold
Without that missing martingale
That bothered Dobbin, head and tail,
He, gentle equine, safe controlled
But by a twist of yarn.

When busy fingers may provide
A savory repast
To whet the languid appetite,
And give to eating a delight
Unknown since seasons past;
Avaunt, ill-cookery! whose ranks
Develop dull dyspeptic cranks
Who, forced to diet or to fast,
Ergo, have dined and died.

It is a day of rummaging,
The closets to explore;
To take down from the dusty shelves
The books – that never read themselves –
And turning pages o’er
Discover therein safely laid
The bills forgot and never paid –
Somehow that of the corner store
Such dunning memories bring.

It gives a chance to liquidate
Epistolary debts;
To write in humble penitence
Acknowledging the negligence,
The sin that so besets,
And cheer the hearts that hold us dear,
Who’ve known and loved us many a year –
Back to the days of pantalets
And swinging on the gate.

It gives occasion to repair
Unlucky circumstance;
To intercept the ragged ends,
And for arrears to make amends
By mending hose and pants;
The romping young ones to re-dress
Without those signs of hole-y-ness
That so bespeak the mendicants
By every rip and tear.

It is a time to gather round
The old piano grand,
Its dulcet harmonies unstirred
Since Lucy sang so like a bird,
And played with graceful hand;
Like Lucy’s voice in pathos sweet
Repeating softly “Shall we meet?”
Is only in the heavenly land
Such clear soprano sound.

It is a time for happy chat
En cercle tête-à-tête;
Discuss the doings of the day,
The club, the sermon, or the play,
Affairs of church and state;
Fond reminiscence to explore
The pleasant episodes of yore,
And so till raindrops all abate
As erst on Ararat.

Ah, yes, a rainy day may be
A blessed interval!
A little halt for introspect,
A little moment to reflect
On life’s discrepancy –
Our puny stint so poorly done,
The larger duties scarce begun –
And so may conscience culpable
Suggest a remedy.

Hattie Howard

Christmas at Church.

‘Twas drawing near the holiday,
When piety and pity met
In whisp’ring council, and agreed
That Christmas time, in homes of need,
Should be remembered in a way
They never could forget.

Then noble generosity
Took youth and goodness by the hand,
And planned a thousand charming ways
To celebrate this best of days,
While hearts were held in sympathy
By love’s encircling band.

So multitudes together came,
Like wandering magi from the East
With precious gifts unto the King,
With every good and perfect thing
To satisfy a shivering frame
Or amplify a feast.

The angels had looked long and far
The happy scene to parallel,
When through the sanctuary door
Were carried gifts from shop and store,
The treasures of the rich bazaar,
To give – but not to sell.

As once the apostolic twelve
Of goods allotment made,
So equity dealt out with care
The widow’s and the orphan’s share,
And of the aged forced to delve
At drudging task or trade.

Oh, could the joy which tears express
That out of gladness come
Be mirrored in its tender glow,
Before the beautiful tableau
Ingratitude and selfishness
Would shrink abashed and dumb!

If every year and everywhere
Could kindness thus expand
In bounteous gratuity,
To all her children earth would be
A flowery vale like Eden fair,
A milk-and-honey land.

Hattie Howard


Of specious weight like tissue freight
The snowflakes are – in sparkle pure
As the rich parure
A lovely queen were proud to wear;
As volatile, as fine and rare
As thistle-down dispersed in air,
Or bits of filmy lace;
Like nature’s tear-drops strewn around
That beautify and warm the ground,
But melt upon my face.

A ton or more against my door
They lie, and look, in form and tint,
Like piles of lint,
When war’s alarum roused the land,
Wrought out by woman’s loyal hand
From linen rag, and robe, and band –
From garments cast aside –
In hospital, on battle-field
The shattered limb that bound and healed,
Or stanched life’s ebbing tide.

I see the gleam of lake and stream,
The silver glint in frost portrayed
Of the bright cascade;
They bear the moisture of marshes dank,
The dew of the lawn, or river bank,
The river itself by sunlight drank;
All these in frigid air,
That strange alembic, crystallize
In odd, fantastic shape and size
Like gems of dazzling glare.

Oh, of the snow such fancies grow,
‘Till thought is lost in wandering,
And wondering
If portions of their drapery
The angel beings, sad to see
So much of earth’s impurity,
Have dropped from clearer skies
As snowflakes, hiding stain and blot
To make this world a fairer spot,
And more like Paradise.

Hattie Howard

A Song.

Oh, sing me a merry song!
My heart is sad tonight;
The day has been so drear and long,
The world has gone awry and wrong,
Discouragements around me throng,
And gloom surpassing night.

Oh, sing again the song for me
My mother used to sing
When I, a child beside her knee,
Looked up for her sweet sympathy,
Nor ever thought how I might be
Her little hindering thing.

Oh, sing, as eventide draws near,
The old-time lullabys
Grandmother sang – forever dear,
Though in her grave this many a year
She lies who “read her title clear
To mansions in the skies.”

Oh, sing till all perplexing care
Has vanished with the day!
And angels ever bright and fair
Come down the melody to share,
And on their pinions lightly bear
My happy soul away.

Hattie Howard

The Apple Tree.

Has ever a tree from the earth upsprung
Around whose body have children clung,
Whose bounteous branches the birds among
Have pecked the fruit, and chirped and sung –
Was ever a tree, or shall there be,
So hardy, so sturdy, so good to see,
So welcome a boon to the family,
Like the pride of the farmer, the apple tree?

How he loves to be digging about its root,
Or grafting the bud in the tender shoot,
The daintiest palate that he may suit
With the fairest and finest selected fruit.
How he boasts of his Sweetings, so big for size;
His delicate Greenings – made for pies;
His Golden Pippins that take the prize,
The Astrachans tempting, that tell no lies.

How he learns of the squirrel a thing or two
That the wise little rodents always knew,
And never forget or fail to do,
Of laying up store for the winter through;
So he hollows a space in the mellow ground
Where leaves for lining and straw abound,
And well remembers his apple mound
When a day of scarcity comes around.

By many a token may we suppose
That the knowledge apple no longer grows,
That broke up Adam and Eve’s repose
And set the fashion of fig-leaf clothes;
The story’s simple and terse and crude,
But still with a morsel of truth imbued:
For of trees and trees by the multitude
Are some that are evil, and some that are good.

The more I muse on those stories old
The more philosophy they unfold
Of husbands docile and women bold,
And Satan’s purposes manifold;
Ah, many a couple halve their fare
With that mistaken and misfit air
That the world and all are ready to swear
To a mighty unapple-y mated pair.

The apple’s an old-fashioned tree I know,
All gnarled and bored by the curculio,
And loves to stand in a zigzag row;
And doesn’t make half so much of a show
As the lovely almond that blooms like a ball,
And spreads out wide like a pink parasol
Set on its stem by the garden-wall;
But I love the apple tree, after all.

“A little more cider” – sings the bard;
And who this juiciness would discard,
Though holding the apple in high regard,
Must be like the cider itself – very hard;
For the spirit within it, as all must know,
Is utterly harmless – unless we go
Like the fool in his folly, and overflow
By drinking a couple of barrels or so.

What of that apple beyond the seas,
Fruit of the famed Hesperides?
But dust and ashes compared to these
That grow on Columbia’s apple trees;
And I sigh for the apples of years agone:
For Rambos streaked like the morning dawn,
For Russets brown with their jackets on,
And aromatic as cinnamon.

Oh, the peach and cherry may have their place,
And the pear is fine in its stately grace;
The plum belongs to a puckery race
And maketh awry the mouth and face;
But I long to roam in the orchard free,
The dear old orchard that used to be,
And gather the beauties that dropped for me
From the bending boughs of the apple tree.

Hattie Howard

Christmas Bells.

Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime!
Again we hail the Christmas time;
In melting, mellow atmosphere,
The crown and glory of the year.

When bitterness, distrust, and awe
Dissolve, like ice in winter’s thaw,
Beneath the genial touches of
Amenity, good will, and love.

When flowers of affection grow,
Like edelweiss mid alpine snow,
In lives severe and beautiless,
Unused to warmth or tenderness.

Let goodness, grace, and gratitude
Revive in music’s interlude,
And paean notes, till time shall cease,
Proclaim the blessed reign of peace.

Ring, Christmas bells! for at the sound
Sweet memories of Him abound
Who laid aside a diadem
To be the babe of Bethlehem.

Hattie Howard


Nature, erewhile so marvelously lovely, is bereft
Of her supernal charm;
And with the few dead garlands of departed splendor left,
Like crape upon her arm,
In boreal hints, and sudden gusts
That fan the glowing ember,
By multitude of ways fulfills
The promise of November.

Upon the path where Beauty, sylvan priestess, sped away,
Lies the rich afterglow
Of Indian Summer, bringing round the happy holiday
That antedates the snow:
The glad Thanksgiving time, the cheer,
The festival commotion
That stirs fraternal feeling from
The mountains to the ocean.

O Hospitality! unclose thy bounty-laden hand
In generous dealing, where
Is gathered in reunion each long-severed household band,
And let no vacant chair
Show where the strongest, brightest link
In love’s dear chain is broken –
A symbol more pathetic than
By language ever spoken.

Into the place held sacred to the memory of some
Beloved absentee,
Perchance passed to the other shore, oh, let the stranger come
And in gratuity
Partake of festal favors that
Shall sweeten hours of labor,
And strengthen amity and love
Unto his friend and neighbor.

Let gratitude’s pure incense in warm orisons ascend,
A blessing to secure,
And gracious impulse bearing largesse of good gifts extend
To all deserving poor;
So may the day be hallowed by
Unstinted thanks and giving,
In sweet remembrance of the dead
And kindness to the living.

Hattie Howard

A Friend Indeed.

If every friend who meditates
In soft, unspoken thought
With winning courtesy and tact
The doing of a kindly act
To cheer some lonely lot,
Were like the friend of whom I dream,
Then hardship but a myth would seem.

If sympathy were always thus
Oblivious of space,
And, like the tendrils of the vine,
Could just as lovingly incline
To one in distant place,
‘Twould draw the world together so
Might none the name of stranger know.

If every throb responsive that
My ardent spirit thrills
Could, like the skylark’s ecstasy,
Be vocal in sweet melody,
Beyond dividing hills
In octaves of the atmosphere
Were music wafted to his ear.

If every friendship were like one,
So helpful and so true,
To other hearts as sad as mine
‘Twould bring the joy so near divine,
And hope revive anew;
So life’s dull path would it illume,
And radiate beyond the tomb.

Hattie Howard

Apple Blossoms.

Of all the lovely blossoms
That decorate the trees,
And shower down their petals
With every breath of breeze,
There is nothing so sweet or fair to me
As the delicate blooms of the apple tree.

A thousand shrubs and flow’rets
Delicious pleasure bring,
But beautiful Pomona
Must be the queen of spring;
And out of her flagon the peach and pear
Their chalices fill with essence rare.

Oh, is it any wonder,
Devoid of blight or flaw,
The peerless blooms of Eden
Our primal mother saw
In redolent beauty before her placed
So tempted fair Eve the fruit to taste?

But woman’s love of apples,
Involving fearful price,
And Adam’s love for woman
That cost him Paradise,
By the labor of hands and sweat of brow,
Have softened the curse to a blessing now.

If so those pink-eyed glories,
In fields and orchards gay
Develop luscious fruitage
By Horticulture’s way,
Then, sweet as the heart of rich legumes,
Shall luxury follow the apple blooms.

Hattie Howard


Around my vine-wreathed portico,
At evening, there’s a perfect glow
Of little lights a-flashing –
As if the stellar bodies had
From super-heat grown hyper-mad,
And spend their ire in clashing.

As frisky each as shooting star,
These tiny electricians are
The Lampyrine Linnaean- –
Or lightning-bugs, that sparkling gleam
Like scintillations in a dream
Of something empyrean.

They brush my face, light up my hair,
My garments touch, dart everywhere;
And if I try to catch them
They’re quicker than the wicked flea –
And then I wonder how ‘twould be
To have a dress to match them.

To be a “princess in disguise,”
And wear a robe of fireflies
All strung and wove together,
And be the cynosure of all
At Madame Haut-ton’s carnival,
In fashion’s gayest feather.

So, sudden, falls upon the grass
The overpow’ring light of gas,
And through the lattice streaming;
As wearily I close my eyes
Brief are the moments that suffice
To reach the land of dreaming.

Now at the ball, superbly dressed
As I suppose, to eclipse the rest,
Within an alcove shady
A brilliant flame I hope to be,
While all admire and envy me,
The “bright electric lady.”

But, ah, they never shine at all!
My eyes ignite – I leave the hall,
For wrathful tears have filled them;
I could have crushed them on the spot –
The bugs, I mean! – and quite forgot
That stringing them had killed them.

Hattie Howard


If all the sermons good men preach
And all the precepts that they teach
Were gathered into one
Unbroken line of silver speech,
The shining filament might reach
From earth unto the sun.

If all the stories ever told
By wild romancers, young or old,
Into a thread were drawn,
And from its cable coil unrolled,
‘Twould span those misty hills of gold
That heaven seems resting on.

If every folly, every freak,
From day to day, from week to week,
Is written in “The Book,”
With all the idle words we speak,
Would it not crimson many a cheek
Upon the page to look?

If all the good deeds that we do
From honest motives pure and true
Shall there recorded be,
Known unto God and angels too,
Is it not sad they are so few
And wrought so charily?

Hattie Howard

A Fowl Affair.

I hope I’m not too orthodox
To give a joke away,
That took me like the chicken-pox
And left a debt to pay.

Let argument ignore the cost,
If it be dear or cheap,
And only claim that naught be lost
When it’s too good to keep.

The proverb says “All flesh is grass,”
But this I do deny,
Because of that which came to pass,
But not to pass me by.

A body weighing by the pound
Inside of half a score,
In case and cordage safely bound,
Was landed at my door.

What could it be? for friends are slack,
And give, I rather trow,
When they are sure of getting back
As much as they bestow.

My hair, at thought of dark design,
Or dynamitish fate,
Stood up like quills of porcupine,
But more than twice as straight.

Anon, I mused on something rare,
Like duck or terrapin,
But dreamed not, of the parcel, there
Might be a pullet-in.

A mighty jerk, – the string that broke
The fowl affair revealed,
The victim of a cruel choke,
Its neck completely peeled.

The biped in its paper cof-
Fin, cramped and plump and neat,
Had scratched its very toenails off
In making both ends meat.

The only part I always ate,
That never made me ill,
Had gone away decapitate
And carried off the bill.

I pondered o’er the sacrifice,
The merry-thought, the wings,
On giblet gravy, salad nice,
And chicken-pie-ous things.

In heat of Fahrenheit degree
Two hundred twelve or more,
Where its grandsire, defying me,
Had crowed the year before,

I thrust it with a hope forlorn, –
I knew what toughness meant,
And sighed that ever I was born
To die of roasting scent.

But presto! what dénouement grand
Of cookery sublime!
‘Twas done as by the second hand,
The drumsticks beating thyme.

And now the moral – he who buys
Will comprehend its worth, –
Look not so much to weight and size
As to the date of birth.

In fowls there is a difference;
“The good die young,” they say,
And for the death of innocence
To make us meat, we pray.

Hattie Howard

All the Rage.

A common wayside flower it grew,
Unhandsome and unnoticed too,
Except in deprecation
That such an herb unreared by toil,
Prolific cumberer of the soil,
Defied extermination.

Its gorgeous blooms were never stirred
By honey-bee nor humming-bird
In their corollas dipping;
But they from clover white and red
Delicious nectar drew instead
In dainty rounds of sipping.

No place its own euphonious name
Within the catalogue might claim
Of any flora-lover;
For, in the scores of passers-by,
As yet no true artistic eye
Its beauty could discover.

The reaper with his sickle keen
Aimed at its crest of gold and green
With spiteful stroke relentless,
And would have rooted from the ground
The “Solidago” – blossom-crowned,
But gaudy, rank, and scentless.

But everything must have its day –
And since some fickle devotée
Or myrmidon of Fashion
Declares that this obnoxious weed,
From wild, uncultivated seed,
Shall be the “ruling passion,”

Effusive schoolgirls dote on it;
Whose “frontispieces” infinite
That need no decoration
Are hid beneath its golden dust,
Till many a fine, symmetric bust
Is lost to admiration.

Smart dudes and ladies’ men – the few
Who wish they could be ladies too –
Display a sprig of yellow
Conspicuous in their buttonhole,
To captivate a maiden soul
Or vex some other fellow.

And spinsters of uncertain age
Are clamoring now for “all the rage”
To give a dash of color
To their complexions, which appear
To be the hue they hold so dear –
Except a trifle duller.

That négligée “blue-stocking” friend,
Who never cared her time to spend
On mysteries of the toilet,
Now wears a sumptuous bouquet
And shakes your hand a mile away
For fear that you will spoil it.

Delightful widows, dressed in black,
Complain with modest sighs they lack
That coveted expression,
That sort of Indian Summer air
Which “relicts” always ought to wear
By general concession;

And so lugubrious folds of crape
Are crimped and twisted into shape
With graceful heads of yellow,
That give a winsome toning down
To sombre hat and sable gown –
In autumn tintings mellow.

Alas, we only hate the weed!
And think that it must be, indeed,
The ladies’ last endeavor
To match the gentlemen, who flaunt
That odious dried tobacco plant
At which they puff forever.

Hattie Howard

The Beauty of Nature.

Oh bud and leaf and blossom,
How beautiful they are!
Than last year’s vernal season
‘Tis lovelier by far;
This earth was never so enchanting
Nor half so bright before –
But so I’ve rhapsodized, in springtime,
For forty years or more.

What luxury of color
On shrub and plant and vine,
From pansies’ richest purple
To pink of eglantine;
From buttercups to “johnny-jump-ups,”
With deep cerulean eyes,
Responding to their modest surname
In violet surprise.

Sometimes I think the sunlight
That gilds the emerald hills,
And makes Aladdin dwellings
Of dingy domiciles,
Is surplus beauty overflowing
That Heaven cannot hold –
The topaz glitter, or the jacinth,
The glare of streets of gold.

In “Cedar Hill,” the city
Of “low green tents” of sod,
I read the solemn record
Of those gone home to God;
While from their hallowed dust arising
The fragrant lilies grow
As if their life was all the sweeter
For those who sleep below.

And so ’tis not in sadness
I dwell upon the thought,
When I am dead and buried
That I shall be forgot.
Because the germ of reproduction
Doth this poor body hold,
Perchance to add to nature’s beauty
A rose above the mold.

Hattie Howard


As one long struggling to be free,
O suffering isle! we look to thee
In sympathy and deep desire
That thy fair borders yet shall hold
A people happy, self-controlled,
Saved and exalted – as by fire.

Burning like thine own tropic heat
Thousands of lips afar repeat
The story of thy wrongs and woes;
While argosies to thee shall bear,
Of men and money everywhere,
Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes.

Hispaniola waves her plume
Defiant over many a tomb
Where sleep thy sons, the true and brave;
But, lo! an army coming on
The places fill of heroes gone,
For liberty their lives who gave.

The nations wait to hear thy shout
Of “Independence!” ringing out,
Chief of the Antilles, what wilt thou?
Buffets and gyves from your effete
Old monarchy dilapidate,
Or freedom’s laurels for thy brow?

In man’s extremity it is
That Heaven’s opportunities
Shine forth like jewels from the mine;
Then, Cuba, in thy hour of need,
With vision clear the tokens read
And trust for aid that power divine.

Hattie Howard


The morning sun rose bright and fair
Upon a lovely village where
Prosperity abounded,
And ceaseless hum of industry
In lines of friendly rivalry
From day to day resounded.

Its shaded avenues were wide,
And closely bordered either side
With cottages or mansions,
Or marked by blocks of masonry
That might defy a century
To loosen from their stanchions.

Its peaceful dwellers daily vied
To make this spot, with anxious pride,
A Paradise of beauty,
Recounted its attractions o’er,
And its adornment held no more
A pleasure than a duty.

But, ere the daylight passed away,
That hamlet fair in ruins lay,
Its hapless people scattered
Like playthings, at the cyclone’s will,
And scarce remained one domicile
Its fury had not shattered.

Few moments of the tempest’s wrath
Sufficed to mark one dreadful path
With scenes of devastation;
While over piles of wild débris
Rose shrieks of dying agony
Above the desolation.

Oh, mystery! who can understand
Why, sudden, from God’s mighty hand
Destructive bolts of power
Without discrimination strike
The evil and the good alike –
As in that dreadful hour!

Alas for aching hearts that wait
Today in homes made desolate
By one sharp blow appalling –
For all who kneel by altars lone,
And strive to say “Thy will be done,”
That awful day recalling!

We dare not question his decrees
Who seeth not as mortal sees,
Nor doubt his goodness even;
Nor let our hearts be dispossessed
Of faith that he disposeth best
All things in earth and Heaven.

Hattie Howard

A Prisoner.

Where I can see him all day long
And hear his wild, spontaneous song,
Before my window in his cage,
A blithe canary sits and swings,
And circles round on golden wings;
And startles all the vicinage
When from his china tankard
He takes a dainty drink
To clear his throat
For as sweet a note
As ever yet was caroled
By lark or bobolink.

Sometimes he drops his pretty head
And seems to be dispirited,
And then his little mistress says:
“Poor Dickie misses his chickweed,
Or else I’ve fed him musty seed
As stale as last year’s oranges!”
But all the time I wonder
If we half comprehend
In sweet song-words
The thought of birds,
Or why so oft their raptures
In sudden silence end.

They do not pine for forest wilds
Within the “blue Canary isles,”
As exiles from their native home,
For in a foreign domicile
They first essayed their gamut-trill
Beneath a cage’s gilded dome;
But maybe some sad throbbing
Betimes their spirits stirs,
Who love as we
Dear liberty,
That they, admired and petted,
Are only – prisoners.

Hattie Howard

The Summer House.

Midway upon the lawn it stands,
So picturesque and pretty;
Upreared by patient artist hands,
Admired of all the city;
The very arbor of my dream,
A covert cool and airy,
So leaf-embowered as to seem
The dwelling of a fairy.

It is the place to lie supine
Within a hammock swinging,
To watch the sunset, red as wine,
To hear the crickets singing;
And while the insect world around
Is buzzing – by the million –
No wingèd thing above the ground
Intrudes in this pavilion.

It is the place, at day’s decline,
To tell the old, old story
Behind the dark Madeira vine,
Behind the morning glory;
To confiscate the rustic seat
And barter stolen kisses,
For honey must be twice as sweet
In such a spot as this is.

It is the haunt where one may get
Relief from petty trouble,
May read the latest day’s gazette
About the “Klondike” bubble:
How shanties rise like golden courts.
Where sheep wear glittering fleeces,
How gold is picked up – by the quartz –
And all get rich as Croesus.

Here hid away from dust and heat,
Secure from rude intrusion,
While willing lips the thought repeat,
So grows the fond illusion:
That happiness the product is
Of lazy, languid dozing,
Of soft midsummer reveries,
Half-waking, half-reposing.

And here in restful interlude,
Life’s fallacies forgetting,
Its frailties – such a multitude –
The fuming and the fretting,
Amid the fragrance, dusk, and dew,
The happy soul at even
May walk abroad, and interview
Bright messengers from Heaven.

Hattie Howard


Yes, it is drawing nigh –
The time of blossoming;
The waiting heart beats stronger
With every breath of Spring,
The days are growing longer;
While happy hours go by
As if on zephyr wing.

A wealth of mellow light
Reflected from the skies
The hill and vale is flooding;
Still in their leafless guise
The Jacqueminots are budding,
Creating new delight
By promise of surprise.

The air is redolent
As ocean breezes are
From spicy islands blowing,
Or groves of Malabar
Where sandal-wood is growing;
Or sweet, diffusive scent,
From fragrant attar-jar.

Just so is loveliness
Renewed from year to year;
And thus emotions tender,
Born of the atmosphere,
Of bloom, and vernal splendor
That words cannot express,
Make Spring forever dear.

Can mortal man behold
So beautiful a scene,
Without the innate feeling
That thus, like dying sheen
The sunset hues revealing,
Glints pure, celestial gold
On fields of living green?

Hattie Howard

That was indeed the greatest compilation of Hattie Howard’s poems!

Of course, I wouldn’t miss reading my most favorite work in this collection―Christmas Bells. Since I love Christmas, I can’t wait for it to come, and this poem doubtlessly adds my excitement for this holiday.

What about you? What’s your most favorite poem of Hattie Howard?

Do you still want to add another poem to this list? Let me know in the comment section below! 😉


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