Sheet music on music stand


Musician's Club of Women - Recital with Laura Bumgardner



When the stunned soul can first lift tired eyes
On her changed world of ruin, waste and wrack,
Ah, what a pang of aching sharp surprise
Brings all sweet memories of the lost past back,
With wild self-pitying grief of one betrayed,
Duped in a land of dreams where Truth is dead!

Are these the heavens that she deemed were kind?
Is this the world that yesterday was fair?
What painted images of folk half-blind
Be these who pass her by, as vague as air?
What go they seeking? there is naught to find.
Let them come nigh and hearken her despair.

A mocking lie is all she once believed,
And where her heart throbbed, is a cold dead stone.
This is a doom we never preconceived,
Yet now she cannot fancy it undone.
Part of herself, part of the whole hard scheme,
All else is but the shadow of a dream.



The passion of despair is quelled at last;

The cruel sense of undeserved wrong,

The wild self-pity, these are also past;

She knows not what may come, but she is strong;

She feels she hath not aught to lose nor gain,

Her patience is the essence of all pain.

As one who sits beside a lapsing stream,

She sees the flow of changeless day by day,

Too sick and tired to think, too sad to dream,

Nor cares how soon the waters slip away,

Nor where they lead; at the wise God's decree,

She will depart or bide indifferently.

There is deeper pathos in the mild

And settled sorrow of the quiet eyes,

Than in the tumults of the anguish wild,

That made her curse all things beneath the skies;

No question, no reproaches, no complaint,

Hers is the holy calm of some meek saint.



Her languid pulses thrill with sudden hope,
That will not be forgot nor cast aside,
And life in statelier vistas seems to ope,
Illimitably lofty, long, and wide.
What doth she know? She is subdued and mild,
Quiet and docile 'as a weaned child.'

If grief came in such unimagined wise,
How may joy dawn? In what undreamed-of
May the light break with splendor of surprise,
Disclosing all the mercy and the power?
A baseless hope, yet vivid, keen, and bright,
As the wild lightning in the starless night.

She knows not whence it came, nor where it
But it revealed, in one brief flash of flame,
A heaven so high, a world so rich and vast,
That, full of meek contrition and mute shame,
In patient silence hopefully withdrawn,
She bows her head, and bides the certain dawn.



My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said,—he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it!—this, . . . the paper’s light . . .
Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God’s future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!



If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me?  Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors, another home than this?

Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change
That’s hardest.  If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove,
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Yet love me—wilt thou?  Open thy heart wide,
And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.



Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!
I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth:
I have heard love talked in my early youth,
And since, not so long back but that the flowers
Then gathered, smell still.

Mussulmans and Giaours
Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth
For any weeping.  Polypheme’s white tooth
Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers,
The shell is over-smooth,—and not so much
Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate
Or else to oblivion.  But thou art not such
A lover, my Beloved! thou canst wait
Through sorrow and sickness,

to bring souls to touch,
And think it soon when others cry “Too late.”



How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.



Laugh, and the world laughs with you;

Weep, and you weep alone;

For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,

But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;

Sigh, it is lost on the air;

The echoes bound to a joyful sound,

But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;

Grieve, and they turn and go;

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;

Be sad, and you lose them all,—

There are none to decline your nectared wine,

But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;

Fast, and the world goes by.

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a large and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow aisles of pain.


IT'S THE FLU (1918) - ANON.

When your head is blazing, burning,

And your brain is turning,

Unto buttermilk from churning,

It’s the Flu.

When your joints are creaking, cracking,

As if all the fiends were racking,

All the devils were attacking,

It’s the Flu.

It’s the Flu, Flu, Flu

Which has you, you, you,

It has caught you and has got you

And it sticks like glue.

It’s the very latest fashion,

It’s the doctor’s pet and passion,

So sneeze a bit and sneeze a bit—

Ka-chew, chew chew.

When the stomach grows uneasy,

Quaking, querulous or queasy,

All dyspeptic and diseasy,

It’s the Flu.

When you have appendicitis,

Par-enchy-ma and ne-phri-tis,

Laryngitis or gastritis,

It’s the Flu.

It’s the Flu, Flu, Flu

Which has you, you, you,

It has caught you and has got you

And it sticks like glue.

It’s the very latest fashion,

It’s the doctor’s pet and passion,

So sneeze a bit and sneeze a bit—

Ka-chew, chew chew.

When you have a corn or pimple,

Complicated ill or simple,

Broken bone or fading dimple,

It’s the Flu.

When, no matter what assails you,

If no doctor knows what ails you,

Then the answer never fails you,

It’s the Flu. 



Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;

Home-keeping hearts are happiest,

For those that wander they know not where

Are full of trouble and full of care;

To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed,

They wander east, they wander west,

And are baffled and beaten and blown about

By the winds of the wilderness of doubt

To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;

The bird is safest in its nest;

O’er all that flutter their wings and fly

A hawk is hovering in the sky;

To stay at home is best.



Hope on, dear Heart, and you will see

The walls of worry fade and flee;

And sane of soul and sound of mind,

You 'll go your way of life and find

The paths, once barren, suddenly

 In blossom; and from Arcady

 The summer wind blow sweet and kind

 Hope on, dear Heart.

 Think what it 'd mean to you and me

 This life if Hope should cease to be!

 If Hope should die what doubts would blind!

 What black despairs go unconfined!

 What sorrows weight us utterly!

 Hope on, dear Heart!