Poems By Dorothy D. Holman

{August 13, 1895 - April 17, 1984}


How often in our childhood past,
On a crisp October morn,
Our father routed us from bed
Almost before the dawn.

With basket bag and bucket we
To the woodlands hurried then,
To gather chestnuts ere the sgirr'ls
Had hidden all of them.

Jack Frost had passed by in the night
And opened the burrs wide,
What fun it was to gather up
The wee brown nuts inside.

With baskets full and bulging sack,
Back homeward we would rove,
To mother getting breakfast there,
Before the old wood stove.

White Magic

I planted magic in the sod,
And waited patiently
To see what pushed away the clod,
What rare thing it would be

I watered it with care each day,
Tended it hopefully;
And soon a green shoot sprouted there,
Which filled my heart with glee,

The shoot grew tall; became a stem;
I watched it grow and grow
Until one day there blossomed then
A lily white as snow.


I love the crisp October days,
The time when leaves are falling;
When irksome grow the daily tasks
And all outdoors is calling.

I love to wander down the lane
Beneath some leafy bower,
where all around me falls like rain
A red and golden shower.

How quiet are the woodlands then;
The birds have ceased their trilling.
Through trees the sun with radiant glove
The atmosphere is filling.

Returning then the spirit calm,
(The hours have passed so fleetly)
Back to my cozy fireside warm,
So ul satisfied, completely.


My garden is a lovely place;
Such friendly flowers blossom here
Each pansy seems to have a face
That smiles on me when I draw near.

The poppy nods its stately head,
And bows and curtsies as I pass.
The tulip in the tulip bed
Peers shyly at me as through the grass.

Oh, Yes! It is a lovely place;
While fingers work amid the sod,
My soul with nature keeps apace,
My heart is all atune with God.