Maymie Willard Poems

Date: [unknown] [unknown]
Location: Missouri
Surnames/tags: Willard Lindesmith

Willard Family Poems
The following poems were written by Maymie or Albert Willard

The Writing Bug
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard

'Tis sad to be bit by the writing bug. No work, no rest, no sleep.
No time to visit one's neighbors; There's barely time to eat.
The work piles up around me so, My furniture and floors are a sight!
I get my mop and dusting cloth—Sit down and start to write.

The hubby comes in requiring lunch To my shocking, remorseful surprise.
I honestly had no idea 'twas noon. When I write—my, how time flies!
He calmly but firmly suggests I allow Him to start a fire with my trash
That he might prepare for himself and kids A bit of toast and some hash.

Abashed and enraged, I plunged to work And toiled till the sun had set.
The house became neat and tidy again But hubby's words, I couldn't forget.
So, next morning ere the dew is all gone I attack the yard so sadly in need.
I rake and hoe and gather cans, Burn trash and cut the weeds.

Then thinking it scarcely time for lunch, And truly in need of some rest,
I dare to sit and pen a few lines 'Bout the beauty of the scenery, west.
For as I worked in the sweet scented open With Springtime's orchestra atune—
I found my resolve to quit writing was broken. The bug sealed my doom.

So I sat searching for adjectives To describe the trees, hills and sky,
And forgot my family's existence Till husband again stood nigh.
So the bug bites me day after day, Making me want to write
A poem about the trees I see; A story about the folk on my right.

Tho' Spring is my favorite season I'll be somewhat relieved when it's gone.
For when it departs it usually takes My writing bug along.

J.I.’s Fever
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard — March 11, 1922

I had tried to be a Christian for a number of long years,
And I really loved my Jesus — when my life was full of cheers.
But when life’s boat sailed smoothly, and sweet blessings came each day,
I’d forget the blessed Giver, and oft times neglect to pray.
When the birds were singing sweetly, and the flowers bloomed fresh and bright,
I’d forget Who made this big world and made everything just right.
Then when trouble became my pathway, and I scarce knew what to do,
I would go to my dear Jesus, and He’d always help me through.
I would promise to do better and not neglect Him any more,
But e’er long I’d be back doing just as I had done before.
Jesus was so kind and patient; I was so wicked and so vile,
That He wearied of such doings, so He smote my precious child
With the awful, dreaded fever, and the darling babe there lay
With his little body burning with the fever, night and day.
And I felt the guilty party, for I believe He punished me.
Oh, I’d have given my life gladly to have saved his awful pain,
And I begged the Lord to save him, but my pleadings seemed in vain.
Day by day the babe grew worse. Oh! this world looked dark to me.
There was nothing bright or sunny that my weary eyes could see.
My poor heart was torn and bleeding — J.I. was the sunshine of our home.
When I thought he would not recover, I took a walk alone
For a visit with my Savior. I knew not what else to do.
So once more I begged for J.I.’s life, or to take my poor life, too.
Well, I prayed and wept in anguish till I felt my strength was gone,
Then I said, deep in my heart, “Thy will, not mine be done.”
He quickly healed the little cherub in the twinkling of an eye,
And he soon can be back playing, just as cute and gay and spry.

Harvest Time
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard
(printed in the Buffalo paper, by Maymie J. Willard, Long Lane, Mo.)

The spring has come and gone again, old summer now is past
We know that autumn days are here, as the leaves are falling fast.
The woodlands robed in brightest hues of green and gold and red;
Where once we saw bright fragrant flowers, there hangs the fruit instead.

The forest trees are loaded with nuts and acorns too;
But won’t likely be so burdened when Mr. Squirrel gets through.
The orchard trees are loaded too, with apples, peaches and pears.
Everything is rejoicing, ‘cause harvest time is here.

Most everything is harvested that grows on the farm:
The hay, oats, wheat and rye are already in the barn.
The alfalfa’s cut and stored away to feed the hungry stock,
But the pumpkins are yet in the field beneath a fodder shock.

The cellar shelves are crammed full of cans and jars, which all
Very plainly designates the time of year as fall.
With apples, turnips, “tater”, the bins are heaping high,
Which shows us very plainly that winter’s drawing nigh.

Summer flowers have passed away as early beauties will,
But goldenrod and gentians, their places nicely fill
Until jack frost shall come some night, then they shall be no more.
He kindly reaps the flowers and grass, and tightly locks the door.

The harvest is very beautiful for those who sowed the seed,
And cultivated properly, their harvest is great indeed.
But those who failed to sow the seed or didn’t cultivate at all
Are sure to “reap what they sowed” whenever comes the fall.

An Excuse
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard
(printed in the Buffalo paper)

“If I could preach like Preacher Brown,” said Layman Jones to me,
“I’d quit grubbing in the ground, and a preacher I would be.”
But he can’t preach like Preacher Brown no more than you and I,
And so he picks his mattock up and lays his Bible by.

He goes to grubbing in the ground amidst the sprouts and rocks,
Forgetful of his calling; only mindful of his stock.
And every day that passes by lost souls are going down
To everlasting torment, ‘cause Jones couldn’t preach like Brown.

The Church in the Wildwood
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard
(printed in the Buffalo paper)

Poor little church in the wildwood, you are almost forgotten now,
Six days in the week they are busy driving a big new plow.
And then on the morn of the seventh, the day that the Lord said “rest,”
They hurriedly “do their chores” and don their Sunday’s best.

And then—do they go to the church? No. No one can there be found
They’ve cranked their fliver to go to a wonderful baseball game in town.
Young men from far and near, and fathers and mothers abound.
Children not yet in their teens, and maiden with faces so fair.
‘Tis here the wealthy and poor, the halt the simple and lame
Come together as equals to see a baseball game.

Sure there are some who do not go, but rest from their week of toil
And learn in the Government bulletin how to enrich the soil.
Or how to raise poultry better, or how to make money at home,
Or learn how best to fight insects, or to keep the cockleburr down.

But no one goes to the church that stands at the foot of the hill.
They’re busy with worldly affairs and the church is so ugly and still!
It might have sufficed in the past with people “old foggy” and “green,”
Who had no other amusement; nothing else to be heard or be seen.
But in these modern times with folks so wondrously wise
Men do not think of foolishly petitioning the skies.

Poor little church in the Wildwood; your day will soon be o’er.
You’ve faithfully done what you could; you’ve stood with an open door.
Lo! these many long years you’ve stood, welcoming all who would come
Altho’ you’ve been scourged and stoned, always your duty you’ve done.

Your roof is sadly decaying; your windows are all broken out.
Altho’ you’ve been spit in the face, you never were known to pout.
If people would act like you whenever the Savior comes,
He’d gladly shout to the world, “Come. Indeed, it is well done.”

Paupers in HeavenBuffalo Baptist Church
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard
(printed in the Buffalo, Mo. paper)

Our minister said at church today that Heaven contains no pain,
But all will be gladness, joy and love when our Savior comes back to reign.
He said there’d be no sickness; there’s no sorrow, grief nor woe
No sad goodbyes, no tears nor death in that land where Christians go.

There’ll be no League of Nations there; no need for such will be
For there’ll be no war, no greed, no strife, no pride, no anger, and no jealousy.
There’ll be no heartaches over there, or friends who prove untrue,
Only kind words from those we love in that land beyond the blue.

Heaven’s a place so divinely fair, it’s such a curious thing.
To think that there’d be paupers there in the place where angels sing.
Just imagine the paupers that wander the alleys and street.
Forever journeying to “no where” with never enough to eat.

These paupers in Heaven our minister said are perchance the big business man
Who hasn’t the time to send treasures above as he’s getting all the wealth he can.
Or it might be a haughty society dame whose appointments, parties and teas
Take all of her thoughts from the Kingdom work and the building over the seas.

The paupers in Heaven naturally come from every class and rank
The fellow who fails to have accounts with the great unfailable bank.

Ode to Dear Father
(To my Dear Dad, by Joyce, March 25, 1922)
(pictured at right is John Ira Lindesmith, 1878-1924)

As I wandered thru the woodland on the farm where I was raised,
My tho’ts strayed back to Father, and my happy childhood days
When I was a little girlie, and my life from care was free,
As I played there in the wildwood, gathering flowers from bush and tree.

Where Dad cut the blackjack bushes, and the sprouts that stood around,
Then he’d pile them ‘round a snag tree, and burn till the tree fell down.
He just cut and piled and burned, just as if he liked it so,
Never stopping work to rest, even when there’d come a snow.

Do you see those rails down yonder, that fence all of those big fields?
Well, he made them. Do you wonder that his age he keenly feels?
Some may sing you songs of Mother, some may talk of worldly fame,
But to me there’s nothing sweeter, than my dear old father’s name.

Mother fills her place in life, as does every other thing,
But this would be a dreary place, if we could ne’er hear father sing.
I have heard dear Papa singing, ever since life’s earliest dawn,
Singing of that dear old City where the baby Christ was born.

Singing as he toiled along; toiling almost night and day.
Trying to make a living, and his honest debts to pay.
Dear Papa, you will cease your toiling some of these sweet, happy days,
But you’ll just keep on a-singing as you give our Father praise.

I can see you sitting up there in my imagination now,
With a gold harp in your hand, and a starry crown upon your brow.
I can hear your sweet voice singing as it sang in days of yore
Of that sweet and happy home, beyond that bright celestial shore.

Some of these days we will be called and I earnestly pray that we
May be an unbroken family in that home beyond the sea.
Where there’ll be no land to clear; where there’ll be no debts to pay,
But we’ll all be there together, to dwell with Christ for aye.

Mother Dear
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard
(dedicated to my mother, March 4, 1923)
(pictured at right is Myrtle Nora Pease Lindesmith, 1881-1957)

Another birthday finds you with us, Mother Dear
And for many more I pray you may be here
What is home without a mother,
for there never is another
That can fill the place of mother,
Mother Dear.

When all other sources fail us, Mother Dear,
And our hearts are full of trouble doubt and fear.
We just take our cares to mother,
for there isn’t any other
That can help us out like mother,
Mother Dear.

Many times you’ve suffered for me, Mother Dear.
Many times I could have saved you if I cared.
But we all impose on Mother,
for there never was another
Than can “stand” as much as mother,
Mother Dear.

Sad Memories
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard
(written May, 1925 in loving memory of J.I. Lindesmith, who died June 8, 1924)

The earth has donned its green robes Daddy dear.
The roses are blooming again.
The song birds have all come from the south,
And are singing their sweetest refrain.

‘Tis May-time, the time that you loved, Daddy dear
But this May is so sad and lone;
For when I go back to childhoods’ sweet clime
You are not there to welcome me home.

Beneath a neat, green mound, Daddy dear,
Your tired body has found a sweet rest.
Your beautiful soul is dwelling with God
In that home prepared for the blest.

I’m sure you’re happy up there, Daddy dear
Unless you look down and see
This poor, broken circle you left here below.
That forever is mourning for thee.

If so, don’t worry about us Daddy dear
For ‘twill only be a short time
Till our circle will become unbroken again
In that sweeter and happier clime.

On the rest of our journey thru life, Daddy dear
You, our guardian angel, will be.
As ever thou hast—your wise, loving words
Will direct us on to eternity.

The following poems were written to her children while she was in the hospital:

A Mother’s Wish for Her Son
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard
(Feb. 1, 1938, to J.I. Willard on his 17th birthday, written by his mother on her hospital bed at the S.B.A. Hospital, Topeka, Ks. 11 days before she died)
(pictured at right is J.I. at about the time Maymie wrote this poem)

Another milestone on life’s way is passing dear lad of mine
Another year with all its joys and sorrows lie behind.
It seems but yesterday to me since your sweet chubby hand
Was clasped in mine so strong and brown that you might firmly stand.

May this new year that lies ahead be just the very year you need
With friends and joys and work to do, but always time for a golden deed.

And may the Father’s loving hand hold yours now brown and strong
And lead you in His finite way ss thru this mile you tread along.

Little Pal of Mine
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard
(Feb. 6, 1938, for Mary Frances Willard, on her 10th birthday, 6 days before Maymie died)
(pictured at right: Duane, Frances, J.I. & Dallas, probably summer, 1938)

The day is long; there is no song within my heart today,
For the dearest girl in all the world is miles and miles away.
In bed I lie, and fret and sigh because I cannot dine
With you today on your birthday, oh little pal of mine.

Altho’ you’re there and I am here your face I plainly see
Its eyes so blue and smile to true will e’re before me be.
Oh may this year ahead my dear be filled with joy sublime
And may you never cease to be a little pal of mine.
— Mother

Somehow It’s Best
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard — Feb. 5, 1938

I cannot see, why it must be my health should fail me so
That at this time in my very prime all toil I must forego.
But surely there’s a reason why that I must lie and wait
And suffer pain and dire distress and humbly pray for a kinder fate.

Perhaps I failed to appreciate good health when it was mine,
And closed my eyes to others needs when on beds of suffering they reclined.
How little did I appreciate what home and loved ones meant
Until my Lord saw my great need and to this hospital I was sent.

Maybe He saw my crying need was patience for each day
To quietly wait His council wise to lead me on the way.
Perchance He saw my need of love implanted in my soul
To help poor fallen fellow-men to grasp the Heavenly goal.

I may have on my strength relied which caused my Lord to see
That through pain and helplessness I might obtain humility.
Perhaps my faith in God and man was faltering and weak
I know not why—but know ‘tis best, and beg for mercy at His feet.

Faith, Oh Faith
by Maymie Joyce (Lindesmith) Willard — Feb. 1st, 1938

The way was dark and lonely, the light I could not see.
No longer could I see the face of Christ of Calvary.
I sought for Him who surely knows the anguish of my soul.
I read His word for comfort, but that didn’t quite console.
And then the thought appeared to me, “Perhaps I’ve failed to trust
This Friend who’s never failed me and blessed me, oh so much.”
Perhaps His dear kind heart is wounded that my faith in Him should fail.
“Oh forgive my unbelief,” became my heart’s sad wail.
I felt His presence near me; He blessed my very soul.
And then again His words I heard, “Thy faith hath made thee whole.”

Poem from World War I
by Albert Willard
(pictured at right are Albert and Maymie not long before they were married)

Just a few sketches of the army life of the advanced school detachment of the 10th Division since arriving in France:

Well we scarcely had landed in France above three days or more
When we received the orders to our disappointment sore
To board the stock cars for camp DeSouge where there’s nothing to be found
But sandy swamps and soldiers, but with these it does abound.

So we finally did reach Bordeaux, and ‘twas there we spent one night
For when the morn did finally dawn, our bunch they looked a fright.
Our faces were a horrid sight, our backs were like a bow.
I never will forget that night we spent there in Bordeaux.

At noon we landed at DeSouge and looked us up some shacks
For which we might stretch out there in and ease our aching backs.
So after our schooling all was o’er having so long to stay
We decided we’d make some souvenirs to pass the time away.

We went out on the target range; it was covered with low brush
And many different kind of things were collected there by us
While some were pounding out the bands, others were spoiling cash
But we were always at the kitchen when they were dipping out the hash.

But we’re longing for the time to come when our orders may relate:
Come to Bordeaux and board the ship for the dear United States.
‘Tis then we’ll all be at our post and ready to make the run.
We’ll take one hundred steps per minute and we’ll only count it fun.

For when our stay is over here how happy then we’ll be.
We’ll dance and shout farewell to France and Camp DeSouge in glee.
We may be some time getting back, but we’re coming just the same.
And when at last we do return our joy will be supreme.

‘Tis then we’ll lay our firearms down and use our arms so strong
If we can find some loved ones there that’s waited, oh so long.
But I think that I shall now conclude so I may have some room
To call you up when I get back some rainy afternoon.

Well, I guess we’re the luckiest guys that ever started out
For when we left Camp Funston, ‘twas to get the sour-krauts.
And I’m sure we bluffed the laddies, for we didn’t fire a gun
And now the War is over and I didn’t get a Hun.

My Mother — A Prayer
by Albert Willard
(pictured at right are Albert's parents: Rhoda and Joe Willard)

For the sore travail that I caused you,
For the visions and despairs,
My mother, forgive me.

Forgive me the peril I brought you to,
The sobs and the moans I wrung from you,

And for the strength I took from you
Mother, forgive me.

For the fears that I gave you,
For the alarms and the dreads,
My mother, forgive me.

Forgive me the joys I deprived you,
The toils I made you,
For the hours, the days, and the years I claimed from you,
My mother, forgive me.

For the times that I hurt you,
The times I had no smile for you,
The caresses I did not give you,
My mother, forgive me.

Forgive me for my angers and revolts,
For my deceit and evasions,
For all the pangs and sorrows I brought to you,
Mother, forgive me.

For your lessons I did not learn,
For your wishes I did not heed,
For the counsels I did not obey,
My mother, forgive me.

Loving Father
Written for Albert Willard by his daughter, Mary Frances (Willard) Kohler
(maybe when she was a teenager)

Of all those involved in a world so large,
Where millions have millions of minds,
There is one who will always be dear through the years;
One who's loving heart is gentle and kind.

In the world of today where tragedy rules,
Where hearts cry in hunger and pain,
Millions have died, each cause we don't know,
But in majority, because love didn't reign.

Should each man possess patience as thine
With love everlasting and untold,
The picture we face would be no disgrace
For great beauty and hope it would hold.

They say you have passed the "prime of life"
But this may be strictly untrue,
For dear Father, I know well enough, you won't
Give up, but fight on till it's through.

Your courage was shown some twenty years ago
When in Khaki you joined the Infantry.
You viewed France in rain and shine
You weren't a conqueror, but lover of Liberty.

I imagine you thought of your sweetheart at home
For then, memories were precious and sweet.
You returned and married the girl you adored
Your dream was then full and complete.

Then the offsprings came, both several and few.
Some looked like their mother and some like you.
Each one brought with it worry and tears,
And once in a while, laughter and cheers.

The disappointments and failures you two shared together
That came and went in all kinds of weather,
Then, I can picture a moonlit night,
When, you alone, saw her slip from our sight.

Circuit Rider
by Ida E. Garner
This poem written in memory of Rev. Joseph M. Willard (1865-1963)

He wasn’t born to purple robes or to a laurel crown;
He spent his life just serving men with no thought of renown,
As shepherd of the Master’s flock, a circuit riding preacher,
Who sought to emulate his Lord, the Galilean Teacher.

For he had heard his Lord’s command, “Go preach, baptize and teach,”
And gladly answered, “Here am I, Lord, send me, I beseech.”
So he, as shepherd of the flock, the straying sheep must lead
Safely into the Master’s fold; the trusting lambs must feed.

From place to place he gladly went in every kind of weather
To represent the Christ he served, wherever men might gather;
Whether in meeting house or tent, in school house or brush arbor,
It mattered not — he loved his cause and naught could quench his ardor.

But as he traveled dusty roads or forded swollen streams,
He saw great spires that rose above the churches of his dreams.
Although within their stately walls he knew he’d never stand,
He was content to work and dream and for the future plan.

No title such as P.H.D. or D.D. graced his name;
Such titles were not offered by the school from which he came.

Degrees this college offered to its students, it is true;
Degrees of love and service, of friendship and of truth.

His alma mater was the school through which the great for ages
Have slowly passed: the School of Life, the college of the sages.
And there, a humble student, at the feet of the Great Teacher,
He learned the lessons Life requires of all who would be leaders.

No smooth-voiced orator was he; his sermons knew no frills.
He spoke the tongue his people knew, the language of the hills.
We thrilled when he portrayed the joys of a blessed home on high,
And trembled when he told the fate of sinners by and by.

And as he stood in pulpit crude or by an open grave,
And pointed to the Lamb of God whose blood alone can save;
As God’s own oracle he spake, in homely phrase, ‘tis true;
But if his words lacked eloquence, we neither cared, nor knew.

He’s passing from our presence now; his place is being filled
By men well trained in colleges, just as he would have willed.
In learning and in eloquence perhaps they may excel;
But in the hearts of those he served, he will forever dwell.

He wasn’t born to purple robes or fading laurel crown
Of earth’s acclaim. The crown of life shall one day grace his brow.
His robe shall be of spotless white that dazzles like the sun;
His greatest recompense shall be his Master’s phrase, “Well, done!”

Albert Willard loved poetry, and though he wrote some, he was best remembered for the poems he memorized and quoted often. At any occasion he always had an appropriate poem to recite. The following are some of his favorites:

A Father’s Wish
author unknown; often quoted by Albert Willard

I may never be as clever as my neighbor down the street.
I may never be as wealthy as some other men I meet.
I may never gather glory which some other men have had,
But I've got to be successful as a little fellow's dad.

There are certain dreams I cherish that I'd like to see come true.
There are things I would accomplish before my time of life is through;
But the task I think of mostly is to guide a little lad,
And to make myself successful as that little fellow's dad.

It's the job I dream of mostly; it's the task I think of most.
If I should fail that growing youngster I'd have nothing else to boast.
Although wealth and fame I'd gathered, all my future would be sad,
If I had failed to be successful as that little fellow's dad.

I may never gain much glory. I may never gather gold.
Men may count me as a failure when my business life is told.
But if the one who follows after shall be righteous; I'll be glad.
Then I'll know I've been successful as that little fellow's dad.

The Touch of the Master’s Hand
by Myra Brooks Welch

Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin, but held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried, "Who will start bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar" --then, "Two!" "Only two? Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, twice; Going for three --" but no,
From the room, far back, a gray-haired man came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin, and tightening the loose strings.
He played a melody pure and sweet as sweet as a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer with a voice that was quiet and low,
Said what am I bidden for the old violin? And he held it up with the bow.
A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two? Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
Three thousand, once; three thousand twice; And going, and gone!" said he
. The people cheered, but some of them cried, "We do not quite understand
What changed its worth?" Swift came the reply: "The touch of the master's hand.

And many a man with life out of tune, and battered and scattered with sin,
Is auctioned off cheap to the thoughtless crowd, much like the old violin.
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine; a game -- and he travels on.
He's "going" once, and "going" twice, he's "going" and "almost gone."
But the Master comes and the foolish crowd never quite understands
The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought by the touch of the Master's hand.