 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
BESSIE AND RUTH.
Above, them the meadow-lark's call
Rose, piercing the tremulous ether,
As they clambered across the stone wall,
And came through the lane together.
Two girls, in their gowns of blue,
With their milking-pails, came through
Red waves of the wind-shaken clover:
And the bloom of the grass dropped dew,
And the dawn into sunrise grew,
As they loitered talking it over,—
Talking a love-secret over.
Rose, piercing the tremulous ether,
As they clambered across the stone wall,
And came through the lane together.
Two girls, in their gowns of blue,
With their milking-pails, came through
Red waves of the wind-shaken clover:
And the bloom of the grass dropped dew,
And the dawn into sunrise grew,
As they loitered talking it over,—
Talking a love-secret over.
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Their secret; they thought it was hid,
But the wren and the bob-o'-link knew it;
And a wood-thrush, the alders amid,
To his mate in a flute-echo threw it.
They talked of two lads on the sea;
They talked of two weddings to be;
And a rose-colored future each wove her;
Two hearts that were fettered, yet free;
In the shade of a green-golden tree
As they lingered, talking it over,—
Talking the old story over.
But the wren and the bob-o'-link knew it;
And a wood-thrush, the alders amid,
To his mate in a flute-echo threw it.
They talked of two lads on the sea;
They talked of two weddings to be;
And a rose-colored future each wove her;
Two hearts that were fettered, yet free;
In the shade of a green-golden tree
As they lingered, talking it over,—
Talking the old story over.
They climbed the bleak slopes of a cliff
Made warm by the footsteps of summer;
And each asked the solemn waves if
They had heard of a laggard home-comer.
Mist-flushed with the heats of July,
The white, silent vessels went by,
But neither saw sign of her rover:
And the deeps of Ruth's dreamy blue eye
Were ruffled by Bessie's long sigh,
While the slow waves murmured it over,—
Murmured the mystery over.
Made warm by the footsteps of summer;
And each asked the solemn waves if
They had heard of a laggard home-comer.
Mist-flushed with the heats of July,
The white, silent vessels went by,
But neither saw sign of her rover:
And the deeps of Ruth's dreamy blue eye
Were ruffled by Bessie's long sigh,
While the slow waves murmured it over,—
Murmured the mystery over.
They parted at dusk on the beach;
The third moon of harvest was waning:
A yearning was in their low speech,
As of billow to billow complaining.
To Bessie the deep faith of Ruth
Lapsed sad as the ebb-tide of youth;
And the stars in the sky-gulf above her
Sank chill as her dumb thoughts, in sooth;
For she doubted her own maiden-truth,
Dreaming another love over,—
Wondering, dreaming it over.
The third moon of harvest was waning:
A yearning was in their low speech,
As of billow to billow complaining.
To Bessie the deep faith of Ruth
Lapsed sad as the ebb-tide of youth;
And the stars in the sky-gulf above her
Sank chill as her dumb thoughts, in sooth;
For she doubted her own maiden-truth,
Dreaming another love over,—
Wondering, dreaming it over.
The lark's note pierced heaven again;
And again, in the June-lighted weather,
The footsteps of two in the lane,
Kept time to a love-tune together.
The gossip of bluebird and thrush
Slid lightly from tree-top to bush,
And shook with faint laughter the clover;
And the sweet-brier bent with a blush
That warned the pert blackbird to hush,
While Bessie went by with her lover,
Talking her second love over.
And again, in the June-lighted weather,
The footsteps of two in the lane,
Kept time to a love-tune together.
The gossip of bluebird and thrush
Slid lightly from tree-top to bush,
And shook with faint laughter the clover;
And the sweet-brier bent with a blush
That warned the pert blackbird to hush,
While Bessie went by with her lover,
Talking her second love over.
Ruth came through the brown fields alone
To the sea, veiled in gray of November:
Dead leaves rustled past; with a moan
Strove the wind to revive autumn's ember
But the youth-light shone on in her eye,
And a joy in her heart, sweet and high,
Sang clearer than curlew or plover.
There is hope that is never put by!
There is love that refuses to die!
And the old sea this burden croons over
Forever, over and over!
To the sea, veiled in gray of November:
Dead leaves rustled past; with a moan
Strove the wind to revive autumn's ember
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And a joy in her heart, sweet and high,
Sang clearer than curlew or plover.
There is hope that is never put by!
There is love that refuses to die!
And the old sea this burden croons over
Forever, over and over!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |