Poems By William Bell Scott |
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VII.Age—Twenty.
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VII.Age—Twenty.
But how felt he who opened first
Those gates that never close
To the bewildered footstep hurrying on?
We may listen while he talks.
“Life is like a melody no doubt,
An ever-changing melody, that ne'er
Runs through the scale: the plectrum's held
By love's own hand, they say:—
I' faith his hand should be made of gold!”
Quoth he one evening, as a friend
Broke in upon his gloom.
“what, Archer! moody;—strange indeed
When marian is yours!
I have seen her, such an air
Of the reposing dancer, blent
With girlish homebred quietness!—
So delicately she has gained
A taste like pure simplicity.”
“Oh, she is perfect grace, refined,
Yet marvellously fresh;
More wine, dear Thorn?”—“Yes, yes, more wine.”
“You must know her”—“And must love?”
“Ah! why not?”—“Well, be it so!”
Those gates that never close
To the bewildered footstep hurrying on?
We may listen while he talks.
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An ever-changing melody, that ne'er
Runs through the scale: the plectrum's held
By love's own hand, they say:—
I' faith his hand should be made of gold!”
Quoth he one evening, as a friend
Broke in upon his gloom.
“what, Archer! moody;—strange indeed
When marian is yours!
I have seen her, such an air
Of the reposing dancer, blent
With girlish homebred quietness!—
So delicately she has gained
A taste like pure simplicity.”
“Oh, she is perfect grace, refined,
Yet marvellously fresh;
More wine, dear Thorn?”—“Yes, yes, more wine.”
“You must know her”—“And must love?”
“Ah! why not?”—“Well, be it so!”
Two weeks therefrom, said Maryanne:
“Joan, I wonder what he means
By never coming; his handsome friend
Laughs at him too.”—“Forget him dear;
How richly all our wants are filled
Since he is gone.”—“Indeed they are,”
Said Maryanne, and gave a laugh
Of scorn so very like Joan's!
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By never coming; his handsome friend
Laughs at him too.”—“Forget him dear;
How richly all our wants are filled
Since he is gone.”—“Indeed they are,”
Said Maryanne, and gave a laugh
Of scorn so very like Joan's!
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