 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE.
I passed it yesterday again,
The school-house by the river,
Where you and I were children, Jane,
And used to glow and shiver
In heats of June, December's frost;
And where, in rainy weather,
The swollen roadside brook we crossed
So many times together.
The school-house by the river,
Where you and I were children, Jane,
And used to glow and shiver
In heats of June, December's frost;
And where, in rainy weather,
The swollen roadside brook we crossed
So many times together.
I felt the trickle of the rain
From your wet ringlets dripping;
I caught your blue eye's twinkle, Jane,
When we were nearly slipping;
And thought, while you in fear and glee
Were clinging to my shoulder,
“Oh, will she trust herself to me,
When we are ten years older?”
From your wet ringlets dripping;
I caught your blue eye's twinkle, Jane,
When we were nearly slipping;
And thought, while you in fear and glee
Were clinging to my shoulder,
“Oh, will she trust herself to me,
When we are ten years older?”
For I was full of visions vain,
The boy's romantic hunger:
You were the whole school's darling, Jane,
And many summers younger.
Your head a cherub's used to look,
With sunbeams on it lying,
Bent downward to your spelling-book,
For long and hard words prying.
The boy's romantic hunger:
You were the whole school's darling, Jane,
And many summers younger.
Your head a cherub's used to look,
With sunbeams on it lying,
Bent downward to your spelling-book,
For long and hard words prying.
The mountains through the window-pane
Showered over you their glory:
The awkward farm-boy loved you, Jane:
You know the old, old story.
I never watch the sunset now
Upon those misty ranges,
But your bright lips, and cheek, and brow,
Gleam out of all its changes.
Showered over you their glory:
The awkward farm-boy loved you, Jane:
You know the old, old story.
I never watch the sunset now
Upon those misty ranges,
14
Gleam out of all its changes.
I wonder if you see that chain
On memory's dim horizon;
There 's not a lovelier picture, Jane,
To rest even your sweet eyes on:
The Haystacks each an airy tent,
The Notch a gate of splendor;
And river, sky, and mountains blent
In twilight radiance tender.
On memory's dim horizon;
There 's not a lovelier picture, Jane,
To rest even your sweet eyes on:
The Haystacks each an airy tent,
The Notch a gate of splendor;
And river, sky, and mountains blent
In twilight radiance tender.
I wonder, with a flitting pain,
If thoughts of me returning,
Are mingled with the mountains, Jane:
I stifle down that yearning.—
A rich man's wife, on you no claim
Have I, lost dreams to rally;
Yet Pemigewasset sings your name
Along its winding valley:
If thoughts of me returning,
Are mingled with the mountains, Jane:
I stifle down that yearning.—
A rich man's wife, on you no claim
Have I, lost dreams to rally;
Yet Pemigewasset sings your name
Along its winding valley:
And once I hoped that for us twain
Might fall one calm life-closing;
That Campton hills might guard us, Jane,
In one green grave reposing.
They say the old man's heart is rock:
You never thought so, never!
And, loving you alone, I lock
The school-house door forever!
Might fall one calm life-closing;
That Campton hills might guard us, Jane,
In one green grave reposing.
They say the old man's heart is rock:
You never thought so, never!
And, loving you alone, I lock
The school-house door forever!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |