 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
228
THE GRAY GARDEN
Here in this room she used to sit
Where, by that window, stands her chair:
Often her hands forgot to knit
Intent upon the garden there.
An old kind face, that kept its youth
As flavor keeps a winter pear;
The soul of Esther, heart of Ruth
Were hers that helped her still to bear.
Where, by that window, stands her chair:
Often her hands forgot to knit
Intent upon the garden there.
An old kind face, that kept its youth
As flavor keeps a winter pear;
The soul of Esther, heart of Ruth
Were hers that helped her still to bear.
The garden, whispering through its flowers,
Spoke to her heart of many things,
That helped her pass the twilight hours
With old, divine rememberings.
There she would wander like a ghost,
Or stand just where that white rose swings,
And listen, for an hour almost,
How Dusk went by on nighthawk wings.
Spoke to her heart of many things,
That helped her pass the twilight hours
With old, divine rememberings.
There she would wander like a ghost,
Or stand just where that white rose swings,
And listen, for an hour almost,
How Dusk went by on nighthawk wings.
No flowers were hers of gaudy hue,
Remindful of a different day;
The candytuft and feverfew
Helped her gray dreams in some dim way:
Nor was there any rich perfume,
Scarlet or gold, but all was gray,
Subdued of fragrance as of bloom,
That helped her quiet soul to pray.
Remindful of a different day;
The candytuft and feverfew
Helped her gray dreams in some dim way:
Nor was there any rich perfume,
Scarlet or gold, but all was gray,
Subdued of fragrance as of bloom,
That helped her quiet soul to pray.
229
The garden seemed to fill a need;
'T was like an old acquaintanceship,
Or love;—like that she bade “God speed,”
Who raised her fingers to his lip
And left, returning nevermore
From yonder narrow, far-off strip
Of purple sea and saffron shore,
Whence vanished, years ago, his ship.
'T was like an old acquaintanceship,
Or love;—like that she bade “God speed,”
Who raised her fingers to his lip
And left, returning nevermore
From yonder narrow, far-off strip
Of purple sea and saffron shore,
Whence vanished, years ago, his ship.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |