Stories that might be true With other poems: By Dora Greenwell |
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| II. | PART II. Winter. |
 | Stories that might be true |  |
II. PART II. Winter.
When Amy was a child, our old, fond nurse, would say that she
Was the fairest flower of the flock, best apple on the tree;
And still as she grew up, at home we knew that she was fair,
But seldom thought of it because we saw her always there;
So, when we came to Town, almost it took us by surprise
To learn how beautiful she was through other people's eyes,
For all eyes turned to follow Her that still so little guessed
The secret, that she oft has turned, unconscious, with the rest
To see what beauteous form drew near; for many, bright and gay
Are there, yet none like Amy (so at least I hear them say)
That move with such an untrained grace, and bear upon their looks
The freshness of the breezes light, and sunny, singing brooks,
As if the wild, free, harmless things by stream and wood and hill,
That had her to themselves so long, played light about her still;
It is, they say, as when you meet in crowded thorough-fare,
Some sight or scent that o'er you brings a breath of country air,
With the hay-fields and the corn-fields, and the sweetness only there.
I watch her from my window now, I look down through the park
To see her come in from her ride before the day grows dark,
And she looks up to meet my eye and waves her hand to me,
As when upon the slippery rock, she held the birchen tree,
And springs to earth as light and free, as if her footstep fell
Still on the soft, dry, springing moss and purple heather-bell!
Was the fairest flower of the flock, best apple on the tree;
And still as she grew up, at home we knew that she was fair,
But seldom thought of it because we saw her always there;
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To learn how beautiful she was through other people's eyes,
For all eyes turned to follow Her that still so little guessed
The secret, that she oft has turned, unconscious, with the rest
To see what beauteous form drew near; for many, bright and gay
Are there, yet none like Amy (so at least I hear them say)
That move with such an untrained grace, and bear upon their looks
The freshness of the breezes light, and sunny, singing brooks,
As if the wild, free, harmless things by stream and wood and hill,
That had her to themselves so long, played light about her still;
It is, they say, as when you meet in crowded thorough-fare,
Some sight or scent that o'er you brings a breath of country air,
With the hay-fields and the corn-fields, and the sweetness only there.
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To see her come in from her ride before the day grows dark,
And she looks up to meet my eye and waves her hand to me,
As when upon the slippery rock, she held the birchen tree,
And springs to earth as light and free, as if her footstep fell
Still on the soft, dry, springing moss and purple heather-bell!
We spend no days together now because our present lives
Are threads too far apart to meet, though Amy ever strives
To knit them close where'er she may, and ever seeks to twine
And weave with mine, as it runs on, a bright and silver line;
At night I hear a quick, light step, and sudden in the room,
A flutter 'mid its quietness, a shining on its gloom,
She comes, all rustling silken-soft, all floating warm and bright,
And glimmers through the dusk in robes of gossamer and light,
Like a swan that spreads its white, full plumes upon the breast of night;
She comes to ask me for her flowers, for none will Amy wear
Unless I bind them on her breast, or twine them in her hair,
And she says that nothing would go well, or please her at the ball
Without she has a kiss from me the last, last thing of all;
And still when she comes back again, while all is fresh and new
Upon her mind, like fairy tales it is (but these are true)
To hear of all that she has seen,—the wondrous things and fair,
Until it sometimes seems to me that I myself was there,
But still she ends “Thou little one, I leave thee, yet I find
Not one among them all I love like Her I leave behind!
Are threads too far apart to meet, though Amy ever strives
To knit them close where'er she may, and ever seeks to twine
And weave with mine, as it runs on, a bright and silver line;
At night I hear a quick, light step, and sudden in the room,
A flutter 'mid its quietness, a shining on its gloom,
She comes, all rustling silken-soft, all floating warm and bright,
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Like a swan that spreads its white, full plumes upon the breast of night;
She comes to ask me for her flowers, for none will Amy wear
Unless I bind them on her breast, or twine them in her hair,
And she says that nothing would go well, or please her at the ball
Without she has a kiss from me the last, last thing of all;
And still when she comes back again, while all is fresh and new
Upon her mind, like fairy tales it is (but these are true)
To hear of all that she has seen,—the wondrous things and fair,
Until it sometimes seems to me that I myself was there,
But still she ends “Thou little one, I leave thee, yet I find
Not one among them all I love like Her I leave behind!
“Not One I love so well as thee;” but this was at the first,
And then a change came over her, it seemed as if she nursed
Some hidden thought; as folded close within the rose's breast,
The sweetest, reddest leaf lies curled, and only to be guessed
By the fragrance and the trembling light it sheds through all the rest;
And kinder She could never grow, yet softer now I deemed,
And graver, tenderer, her smile; yet strange to me it seemed
That gayer, brighter still she found each brilliant scene, and well
She loved to go, yet nothing now was ever left to tell:
Upon a low seat by the fire she sat one night, and leant
Her cheek upon her hand, and while her drooping head she bent
To me, the warm light streamed around, and seemed her brow to bless
With a sunny Glory, and a crown of glowing loveliness,
More bright than were the scarlet flowers that I was wreathing then
About her hair, as light I laughed and said “no more again
Will I take, Amy, all this pains to make thee gay and fair,
That never bringest me a word of all that passes there
To pay me for my lovely flowers; make much of these and prize
This wreath, because it is the last:” but then from Amy's eyes
Her soul looked forth,—“Yes Annie! yet, perchance, some future day
Thou wilt twine me yet another one, more sweet though not so gay,”
And kissed me then because I wept, and whispered in my ear
“Well will He love my darling, else he had never been so dear!”
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Some hidden thought; as folded close within the rose's breast,
The sweetest, reddest leaf lies curled, and only to be guessed
By the fragrance and the trembling light it sheds through all the rest;
And kinder She could never grow, yet softer now I deemed,
And graver, tenderer, her smile; yet strange to me it seemed
That gayer, brighter still she found each brilliant scene, and well
She loved to go, yet nothing now was ever left to tell:
Upon a low seat by the fire she sat one night, and leant
Her cheek upon her hand, and while her drooping head she bent
To me, the warm light streamed around, and seemed her brow to bless
With a sunny Glory, and a crown of glowing loveliness,
More bright than were the scarlet flowers that I was wreathing then
About her hair, as light I laughed and said “no more again
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That never bringest me a word of all that passes there
To pay me for my lovely flowers; make much of these and prize
This wreath, because it is the last:” but then from Amy's eyes
Her soul looked forth,—“Yes Annie! yet, perchance, some future day
Thou wilt twine me yet another one, more sweet though not so gay,”
And kissed me then because I wept, and whispered in my ear
“Well will He love my darling, else he had never been so dear!”
I wept; but not as Amy thought, in fear to lose her love,
For I know that in the heart as in the blessed Home above,
There is ever room that grows no less however many share,
There is room enough and Love enough for all the angels there!
I wept, but 'twas for joy, to think that now her heart would find
A heart to answer her's again, and pay her back in kind
For all the love that met me new with every dawning day,
For all she gave, and gave, untired; for all I could not pay,—
More blest to give than to receive, yet both are surely blest,—
Long, long may Amy joy in both, to prove which is the best!
For I know that in the heart as in the blessed Home above,
There is ever room that grows no less however many share,
There is room enough and Love enough for all the angels there!
I wept, but 'twas for joy, to think that now her heart would find
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For all the love that met me new with every dawning day,
For all she gave, and gave, untired; for all I could not pay,—
More blest to give than to receive, yet both are surely blest,—
Long, long may Amy joy in both, to prove which is the best!
| Stories that might be true | |