 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
MEHETABEL.
Mehetabel's knitting lies loose in her hand;
She watches the gold of a broken red brand
That glitters and flashes,
And falls into ashes:
The flame that illumines her face
From the cavernous, black fire-place
Brings ever new wonders of color and shade
To flicker about her, and shimmer and fade.
Does any one guess
Of this maid's loveliness,
That the lonesome and smoky old room seems to bless?
She watches the gold of a broken red brand
That glitters and flashes,
And falls into ashes:
The flame that illumines her face
From the cavernous, black fire-place
Brings ever new wonders of color and shade
To flicker about her, and shimmer and fade.
Does any one guess
Of this maid's loveliness,
That the lonesome and smoky old room seems to bless?
Mehetabel's mother calls out of the gloom,
From a clatter of shovel and kettle and broom,
From her flurry and worry
Of work-a-day hurry:
“Our Hetty sits there in a dream,
With her needles half round to the seam,
With nothing to vex her, and nothing to try her;
But never will she set the river afire.”
And back to the din
Of iron and tin
One shadow flits out, while another steals in.
From a clatter of shovel and kettle and broom,
From her flurry and worry
Of work-a-day hurry:
“Our Hetty sits there in a dream,
With her needles half round to the seam,
210
But never will she set the river afire.”
And back to the din
Of iron and tin
One shadow flits out, while another steals in.
Mehetabel's lover through new-fallen snow
So softly has come that the maid does not know
He is standing behind her,
So happy to find her
Alone, that he hardly can speak:
A whisper,—a flush on her cheek
More lovely than sunset's reflection, by far!
“Oh, Hetty,” he murmurs, “the white evening star
And the beacon-lights swim
On the ocean's blue rim,
But I see your sweet eyes, and they make the stars dim.”
So softly has come that the maid does not know
He is standing behind her,
So happy to find her
Alone, that he hardly can speak:
A whisper,—a flush on her cheek
More lovely than sunset's reflection, by far!
“Oh, Hetty,” he murmurs, “the white evening star
And the beacon-lights swim
On the ocean's blue rim,
But I see your sweet eyes, and they make the stars dim.”
Mehetabel's wooer is stalwart and tall;
His figure looms dark on the flame-lighted wall.
Outside in pale shadow
Lie pasture and meadow;
Dim roselight is on the white hill;
The sea glimmers purple and chill:—
“Oh, Hetty, be mine for the calm and the storm!
Though cold be the wide world, my heart's love is warm;
Knit me into your dream,
And my rude life will seem
Like a beautiful landscape in June's golden beam!”
His figure looms dark on the flame-lighted wall.
Outside in pale shadow
Lie pasture and meadow;
Dim roselight is on the white hill;
The sea glimmers purple and chill:—
“Oh, Hetty, be mine for the calm and the storm!
Though cold be the wide world, my heart's love is warm;
Knit me into your dream,
And my rude life will seem
Like a beautiful landscape in June's golden beam!”
Mehetabel's forehead has gathered a cloud,
A thousand new thoughts to her young bosom crowd;
Her knitting drops lower;
No lover can show her
The way through her mind's tangled maze.
He reads no response in her gaze:
Her heart is a snow-drift where foot never trod;
Love's sun has not wakened a bud on its sod;
And pure as the glow
Of the stars on the snow
Are the glances that up through her long lashes go.
A thousand new thoughts to her young bosom crowd;
Her knitting drops lower;
No lover can show her
The way through her mind's tangled maze.
He reads no response in her gaze:
Her heart is a snow-drift where foot never trod;
Love's sun has not wakened a bud on its sod;
And pure as the glow
Of the stars on the snow
Are the glances that up through her long lashes go.
Mehetabel's future, an unexplored land,
Spreads vaguely before her, unpeopled and grand:
Its wild paths wait lonely
For her footsteps only;
She must weave out the web of her dream,
Though flimsy and worthless it seem
To her mother's eye, filled with the dust-motes of care;
Though it bar up her path from the heart that beats there
In the rich, ruddy gloom,
Breathing odor and bloom,
And sweet sense of life through the dusk of the room.
Spreads vaguely before her, unpeopled and grand:
Its wild paths wait lonely
For her footsteps only;
She must weave out the web of her dream,
Though flimsy and worthless it seem
To her mother's eye, filled with the dust-motes of care;
Though it bar up her path from the heart that beats there
In the rich, ruddy gloom,
Breathing odor and bloom,
And sweet sense of life through the dusk of the room.
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Mehetabel's dream—you will guess it in vain;
Only half to herself is unwound the bright skein.
She is but a woman,
As gentle as human,
Yet rooted in hearts fresh as hers
Is the hope that the universe stirs;
And broad be her thought as life's measureless zone,
Or narrow as self is, it still is her own;
And alone she may dare
What she never would share
With friendship the dearest, or love the most rare.
Only half to herself is unwound the bright skein.
She is but a woman,
As gentle as human,
Yet rooted in hearts fresh as hers
Is the hope that the universe stirs;
And broad be her thought as life's measureless zone,
Or narrow as self is, it still is her own;
And alone she may dare
What she never would share
With friendship the dearest, or love the most rare.
Mehetabel's answer—it has not been told.
To ashes has fallen the firelight's red gold.
No mother, no lover,
For her, the world over!
The work-a-day jangle is still.
An empty house stands on the hill:
The rafters are cobwebbed, the ceiling is bare,
But always a wraith haunts the carved oaken chair:
And early and late
There 's a creak at the gate,
And a wind through the room, with a soft sigh of “Wait!”
To ashes has fallen the firelight's red gold.
No mother, no lover,
For her, the world over!
The work-a-day jangle is still.
An empty house stands on the hill:
The rafters are cobwebbed, the ceiling is bare,
But always a wraith haunts the carved oaken chair:
And early and late
There 's a creak at the gate,
And a wind through the room, with a soft sigh of “Wait!”
Mehetabel—Hetty—the dream of a dream,
The film of a snow-cloud, a star's broken beam,
Were a tangible story
To hers; but the glory
Of ages dims down to a spark,
And dies out at last in the dark,
Among questions unanswered, unrealized dreams:
Still the beautiful cheat of what may be and seems,
Flashes up on night's brink,
When the live embers blink,
And the tales that they mutter we dream that we think.
The film of a snow-cloud, a star's broken beam,
Were a tangible story
To hers; but the glory
Of ages dims down to a spark,
And dies out at last in the dark,
Among questions unanswered, unrealized dreams:
Still the beautiful cheat of what may be and seems,
Flashes up on night's brink,
When the live embers blink,
And the tales that they mutter we dream that we think.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |