The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
(After Longfellow)
Staring sunlight on the lawn,
Chequered shadows in the wood;
Summer's odors, idly borne,
Linger by the trickling flood.
Chequered shadows in the wood;
Summer's odors, idly borne,
Linger by the trickling flood.
Lingering, waiting, long delayed,
Till the pure and limpid pool
Mirrors, with night's coming shade,
Childhood tripping home from school.
Till the pure and limpid pool
Mirrors, with night's coming shade,
Childhood tripping home from school.
Tripping down the well-worn track,
Zephyrs greet the coming girl,
Press the little bonnet back,
Nestle in the dewy curl.
Zephyrs greet the coming girl,
Press the little bonnet back,
Nestle in the dewy curl.
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Robins twittering thro' the leaves,
Chirping wren and chattering jay
Carol 'neath the verdant eaves;
Carols she as sweet as they.
Chirping wren and chattering jay
Carol 'neath the verdant eaves;
Carols she as sweet as they.
Satchel swinging on her arm,
On her cheek health's glowing flush,
Stands, in all of girlhood's charms,
Youth beside the alder-bush.
On her cheek health's glowing flush,
Stands, in all of girlhood's charms,
Youth beside the alder-bush.
Summers nine had o'er her fled,
Left their violets in her eyes,
On her cheeks their roses spread,
On her lips their balmy sighs.
Left their violets in her eyes,
On her cheeks their roses spread,
On her lips their balmy sighs.
On the grass her bonnet lies,
On the grass her satchel flung;
Who its secrets may surmise?
Rosy fingers grope among
On the grass her satchel flung;
Who its secrets may surmise?
Rosy fingers grope among
Remnants of her dinner there—
Dinner past, but not forgot;
Dimpled hand with tender care
Draws the bread and butter out.
Dinner past, but not forgot;
Dimpled hand with tender care
Draws the bread and butter out.
White and bare that arm and hand,
And beneath the rippling stream,
Like two pebbles on the strand,
White the little ankles gleam.
And beneath the rippling stream,
Like two pebbles on the strand,
White the little ankles gleam.
Leaning o'er the waters clear,
Looking in the limpid spring
Sees she there her cheeks appear—
Sees her blue eyes glistening?
Looking in the limpid spring
Sees she there her cheeks appear—
Sees her blue eyes glistening?
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Crimson clouds and skies of blue,
Morn and eve had mirror'd there;
But those eyes and cheeks to view
With their tints, might well compare.
Morn and eve had mirror'd there;
But those eyes and cheeks to view
With their tints, might well compare.
Breathless lie her lips apart,
Motionless her arms incline,
Wildly beats that little heart—
Ah! the child was feminine.
Motionless her arms incline,
Wildly beats that little heart—
Ah! the child was feminine.
Yes, the curse of Eve the mother—
Woman's vanity—the spell
On her falls, and eke another,
Down the bread and butter fell.
Woman's vanity—the spell
On her falls, and eke another,
Down the bread and butter fell.
On the waters had she cast it:
By and by it might be found.
Foolish hand forgot to clasp it—
Let it fall upon the ground.
By and by it might be found.
Foolish hand forgot to clasp it—
Let it fall upon the ground.
Such is fate; and though we mutter,
Why and wherefore? none decide.
Ever falls one's bread and butter,
Always on the buttered side?
Why and wherefore? none decide.
Ever falls one's bread and butter,
Always on the buttered side?
With her sorrows let us leave her—
Great her fault, let justice own;
Great her punishment—nor grieve her
With the chastening to come.
Great her fault, let justice own;
Great her punishment—nor grieve her
With the chastening to come.
Learning well this moral lesson:
Though our visions still are fair,
Humblest things in our possession
Greater than illusions are.
Though our visions still are fair,
Humblest things in our possession
Greater than illusions are.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |