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Photo by Joyce M. Tice Sept 2000 |
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Bert Bently lived on the next farm across the way. I like to think of him as our poet laureate. He drove around in an old Model T with a kerosene stove in it to keep warm, He used to tease my grandmother, said she was" growin teakettles" because she had so many on the old woodstove for hot water. He would tell stories and recite poetry.
The Haunts of Long Ago ......
.Do you ever stop to ponder,
when your days are getting short.
And again you start to wander
where you used to go for sport..
Tho your feet have lost most of their pep
and you've grown both old and slow.
When you go back with a brother to the haunts of long ago.
.My brother came to visit me
he seemed most heaven sent,
we went back to the woodlands
where our childhood days were spent.
The friends we knew there
were like ourselves, feeble old and grey.
A hill where thirteen families lived has neither fence or home.
The houses that we knew so well are rotted burned or gone.
But we still within our memories could see each smiling face
of children that we knew so well.They're scattered every place.
.The woodlands where we used to hunt
are all filled up with brush
and roads we knew are overwhelmed,
where our hounds would make their rush.
The orchards are but worn out stubs
where the good fruit used to grow.
When I wandered with my brother in the haunts of long ago.
Life is only what we make it
we must take things as they come.
Tis hard sometimes to take it when some get sugar plums.
But there's no stand still to anything,
it either hrives or fails
and like ourselves is finished when our supreme master calls.
Then lets go on and live it the way our maker taught.
The things we thought would flourish often go for naught.
Tis too late to start another.
For we find we're much too slow.
When we wander in the haunts of long ago.......
By Bert Bently during the 1940's
Sue Edling
Star-Gazette Feb. 4, 1918
TO THE CITY OF ELMIRA
City, thou whose walls o'ershadow
The old river, the Chemung
Winding on, through wood and meadow,
And tobacco lands among.
Thou, old city, historic,
Famous names thee famous make!
Beautiful ! thy park, Glen Rorick !
And that park with Eldridge Lake !
Rorick that, illuminated brightly
When the dews were cool, below
Shed its dazzling luster nightly
On the waes in song that flow.
O how often ! O how often
Heard the music in the glen !
Strains so sweet ! that seem to soften
Hearts, and youth was happy then !
There, when sunset- skies vermillion
Dyed the stream; or shadows lay
On its bosom, the pavilion
With the dance was ringing gay !
Youth itself was gay, light-hearted !
Lad and lass ! I think with pain
They, all of them ! now parted,
Some to never meet again.
War-the tragic ! its clouds hover
Above thee, thou city fair !
As they do all cities over
In this broad land, everywhere.
For the youth that thrill'd with pleasure
With a patriot's zeal now thrills !
Devotion, with unstinted measure,
For his country, his heat fills.
Death shall yield its scroll, and grieve
thee !
When, Elmira, they are lost,
Glorious names thy martyred leave thee
Ah ! but at what awful cost !
JOHN JAMES ELWOOD.
Elmira, N. Y.
Thank you, Mr. Elwood, for your poetical lines. This department of The
Star-Gazette receives so many effusions that are utterly void of merit
from people who are very well meaning, yet who are devoid of the first
principles of the essence of poetry, that it is a relief to have something
like yours. Were some of the lines that are received to be printed with
the name of the writer attached, it would be a positive unkindness, for
the person would be covered with ridicule, and therefore if verses that
are sent in do not appear, please do not blame the editor, but in all kindness
thank the stars that he has done you a lasting favor.
The editor does not know Mr.. Elwood, which is regretful,
but if he does not watch out some of the poets like Gray, or Byron, or
Goldsmith, est., will be turning over in their graves in a quest for their
long-held laurels.
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