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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN HANDFUL OF MEAL, by                    
First Line: I sat in my cosy study, with naught but the light from
Last Line: From sharing our joys alway.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets; Writing & Writers


"An handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruse."—1st
Kings, 17:12.

I sat in my cosy study, with naught but the light from the log
That burned on the hearth-stone ruddy, defying the damp and the fog
Of the out-doors' dark and gloom,
And I heard the cold winds bluster as they swept from the Blue Hills down,
While the rain-drops gleamed with lustre like the jewels of a crown
On the windows of my room.

There I mused o'er a poet's yearnings, and I longed for a theme and song
That, like the log in its burnings, would flout all the storms of Wrong
And banish the glooms of pain;
When, up-startled quick, I listened to the moanings of the wind,
And saw where the window glistened, a picture, sharp defined
In the globule of the rain.

Like a lens with its focal power reducing a mirrored scene,
That fleck of the whipping shower then thrown on my glazéd screen
Reflected a saddening sight,
For my mind had a sensive coating, and the image transferred there
Still lives in its confines, smoting and chiding me, whene'er
My ease-fond heart sings light.

'Twas a garret in the city, one my pen could never draw,
And my soul was filled with pity at the wretchedness I saw,
In no place mollified,
There, a woman I saw, weeping, while around her on the floor
Lay three little children, sleeping, rags their coverlet, no more,
No warm fire I espied.

Starved, the form that I saw bending o'er a cupboard, seeming bare,
'Twas a picture most heart-rending, one of poverty's despair,
Foreign, even unto me,
Roughened hands she wrung in sorrow, tears redoubled in their flow
As she thought of the to-morrow and of what it might bestow,
Dark the portents, I could see.

In the flickering lamp-light gleaming, I beheld an earthen crock,
Which, though once with flour teeming, now a handful held, to mock
And to jeer at falling tears,
Then I thought of that old story, handed from the ages down,
Of a prophet, old and hoary, of a widow in a town
Gone for, lo! these many years.

And how God, through him, sustained her, though the meal and oil ran low,
Through her faith, the scant remainder never seemed to lesser grow
All despite the common use,
And I wondered if past ages were more favored by the Lord,
If our griefs He still assuages, when His mercy is implored.
If He still refills Life's cruse?

While I mused, another falling raindrop, merged in unison
With the first, that scene appalling, was translated into one
Filled with even greater shame,
I beheld a battle raging, I could see the cannon's flash,
And the smoke arose, presaging death to thousands in the clash,
Hell-like seemed War's lurid flame.
In the midst of that fierce battle, 'twixt both armies in a trench,
Undisturbed by roar and rattle, minding not the rotting stench,
Lay a soldier nigh to death,
In his hand a picture showing wife and children counting three,
Who, I could not help but knowing, were the same that I did see,
Rapt, I held my quickened breath.

First, he gazed on it intently, with a smile upon his face,
To his lips he raised it gently, then I saw the teardrops race
Down each blackened, smoke-stained cheek,
And I saw his lips beseeching God Almighty them to spare,
When a hurtled shell came screeching, falling close beside him there,
Crazed by fear, I gave a shriek!

In my fright, I lost the setting of the picture in the rain,
And my eyes were welled and wetting, for the tears knew no restrain,
I had seen what War had wrought,
And the darkening shadows lengthened, as the charring log low-burned,
Though the blackened depths but strengthened all that plastic mind discerned,
Coming, as it did, unsought.

Then I looked for my vision's meaning, for I knew that a lesson lay
In these pictures for my gleaning, so I read what the prophets say,
And this was revealed to me:
If thou draw out thy soul's deep measure to the hungry, and satisfy need
Of afflicted hearts with thy treasure, thy* light shall the noon-day exceed
And rise from obscurity.

And I read of the promise spoken, He would widows and fatherless shield,
For the handful of meal was a token of bushels His harvests should yield,
And herein my lesson lay;
And I vowed that the poet's mission would henceforth be, to bring
A world of self-men to contrition, and teach of the joys that spring
From sharing our joys alway.





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