 | Romance and revery |  |
131
STILL WATER.
He wrote and wrote, but could not make a name;
Then cursed his fate and called the world to blame;—
The world, that knew not genius when it came!
Then cursed his fate and called the world to blame;—
The world, that knew not genius when it came!
“The world,” he cried, “that crowns us in a night,
For nothing; but that damns us, wrong or right,
Rather from sheer indifference than for spite.”
For nothing; but that damns us, wrong or right,
Rather from sheer indifference than for spite.”
One of his friends would slyly smile to hear;
“Ah! second-hand Byronics!” one would sneer;
One said “Give over;” one said “Persevere!”
“Ah! second-hand Byronics!” one would sneer;
One said “Give over;” one said “Persevere!”
One said but little, though she thought and thought,
Through the long weeks and all the work they brought,
While the wife toiled and while the mother taught.
Through the long weeks and all the work they brought,
While the wife toiled and while the mother taught.
There went a story that he might have wed
An heiress, this poor scribbler for his bread,
But took a little meek-eyed girl instead,—
An heiress, this poor scribbler for his bread,
But took a little meek-eyed girl instead,—
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A little meek-eyed girl without a cent,
Who scarcely knew what half his writings meant,
Loved him reveringly, and was content.
Who scarcely knew what half his writings meant,
Loved him reveringly, and was content.
And now her spirit mused upon a way
To brighten his dull face again. One day
Her slender hand along his shoulder lay.
To brighten his dull face again. One day
Her slender hand along his shoulder lay.
“Write this” ... And then she told him what to write
In just a few fleet words, and stole from sight,
With smiling lips but with a look of fright.
In just a few fleet words, and stole from sight,
With smiling lips but with a look of fright.
He laughed, at first; yet in a little space
The languid laughter died from out his face
And left mute meditation in its place. ...
The languid laughter died from out his face
And left mute meditation in its place. ...
If I mistake not, it was this same year
That suddenly men knew him, far and near,
As having won the world's capricious ear.
That suddenly men knew him, far and near,
As having won the world's capricious ear.
And she? Why, if she had not seen so plain
How soon the laurels cured his longing pain,
She might have held them even in mild disdain.
How soon the laurels cured his longing pain,
She might have held them even in mild disdain.
But now she blesses fortune's kind decree,—
Proud, glad, through him!—though still, for all we see,
The same small meek-eyed wife she used to be.
Proud, glad, through him!—though still, for all we see,
The same small meek-eyed wife she used to be.
| Romance and revery | |