 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
161
THE BARN WINDOW.
The old barn window, John,—
Do you remember it,—
How just above it, on the beam,
The tame doves used to sit,
And how we watched the sunshine stream
Through motes and gossamer,
When down they fluttered, John,
With such a breezy whirr?
Do you remember it,—
How just above it, on the beam,
The tame doves used to sit,
And how we watched the sunshine stream
Through motes and gossamer,
When down they fluttered, John,
With such a breezy whirr?
I think the sunsets, John,
Are seldom now as red;
They used to linger like a crown
Upon your auburn head,
From the high hayloft looking down
To tell me of the nest
The white hen hid there, John,—
The whole brood's handsomest!
Are seldom now as red;
They used to linger like a crown
Upon your auburn head,
From the high hayloft looking down
To tell me of the nest
The white hen hid there, John,—
The whole brood's handsomest!
Those times were pleasant, John,
When we were boy and girl,
Though modern young folk style them “slow;”
Alack! a giddy whirl
The poor old world is spinning now,
To stop, who guesses when?
Be thankful with me, John,
That we were children then!
When we were boy and girl,
Though modern young folk style them “slow;”
Alack! a giddy whirl
The poor old world is spinning now,
To stop, who guesses when?
Be thankful with me, John,
That we were children then!
Have you forgotten, John,
That Wednesday afternoon
When the great doors were opened wide,
And all the scents of June
Came in to greet us, side by side,
In the high-seated swing,
Where flocks of swallows, John,
Fanned us with startled wing?
That Wednesday afternoon
When the great doors were opened wide,
And all the scents of June
Came in to greet us, side by side,
In the high-seated swing,
Where flocks of swallows, John,
Fanned us with startled wing?
Up to the barn eaves, John,
We swung, two happy things,
At home and careless in the air
As if we both had wings.
The mountain-side lay far and fair,
Beyond the blue stream's shore;
I cried, “Swing higher, John!”
And—fell upon the floor.
We swung, two happy things,
At home and careless in the air
As if we both had wings.
The mountain-side lay far and fair,
Beyond the blue stream's shore;
I cried, “Swing higher, John!”
And—fell upon the floor.
Next time I saw you, John,
You stood beside my bed;
Tears trembled in your clear boy-glance;
I thought that I was dead.
But felt my childish pulses dance
To be beside you still:
I lived to love you, John,
As to the end I will.
You stood beside my bed;
Tears trembled in your clear boy-glance;
I thought that I was dead.
162
To be beside you still:
I lived to love you, John,
As to the end I will.
We swing no longer, John;
We sit at our own door,
And watch the shadows on the hill,
The sunshine on the shore.
But the window in the barn is still
A magic-glass to me;
For through its cobwebs, John,
Our childhood's days I see.
We sit at our own door,
And watch the shadows on the hill,
The sunshine on the shore.
But the window in the barn is still
A magic-glass to me;
For through its cobwebs, John,
Our childhood's days I see.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |