Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | ||
186
“A PAT OF BUTTER.”
TO EMILIA.
Yellow as the cups of gold,Peering through the springtime mold,
Sweeter than a breath of clover
Blowing the June meadows over.—
Butter, such as Goethe said
Werter saw his Charlotte spread
For her sisters and her brothers,
And, perhaps, for a few others,
Till it turned her lover's head;
Such as sweet Red Riding Hood,
By that wicked wolf pursued,
Through the enchanted forest bore
To her grandam's fatal door.
'T is the ashen time of Lent.
Well, I know some fairy sent
This, for my soul's nourishment:
Well I know a fairy churned
The creamy lactage till it turned
187
Of gracious presence, known to fame
By her sweet baptismal name
Of Emilia (Emily),
Pressed it into shape for me
With her jeweled fingers.
Say you:
“This is all a dream?” I pray you,
Then, in sober truth to tell me
Has your huckster some to sell me?
Tell me, tell me, I implore,
What's his number? Where 's his store?
1877.
Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | ||