 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
245
THE FATAL ARROW.
My father had a fair-haired harvester;—
I gleaned behind him in the barley-land;
And there he put a red rose in my hand:
Oh, cruel, killing leaves those rose-leaves were!
I gleaned behind him in the barley-land;
And there he put a red rose in my hand:
Oh, cruel, killing leaves those rose-leaves were!
He sang to me a little love-lorn lay,
Learned of some bird; and while his sickle swept
Athwart the shining stalks, my wild heart kept
Beating the tune up with him all the way.
Learned of some bird; and while his sickle swept
Athwart the shining stalks, my wild heart kept
Beating the tune up with him all the way.
One time we rested by a limpid stream,
O'er which the loose-tongued willows whispered low;
Ah, blessed hour! so long and long ago,
It cometh back upon me like a dream.
O'er which the loose-tongued willows whispered low;
Ah, blessed hour! so long and long ago,
It cometh back upon me like a dream.
And there he told me, blushing soft,—ah me!—
Of one that he could love,—so young, so fair,
Like mine the color of her eyes and hair:
O foolish heart! I thought that I was she!
Of one that he could love,—so young, so fair,
Like mine the color of her eyes and hair:
O foolish heart! I thought that I was she!
Full flowed his manly beard; his eyes so brown
Made sweet confession with their tender look;
A thousand times I kissed him in the brook,
Across the flowers,—with bashful eyelids down.
Made sweet confession with their tender look;
A thousand times I kissed him in the brook,
Across the flowers,—with bashful eyelids down.
And even yet I cannot hear the stir
Of willows by a water but I stop,
And down the warm waves all their length I drop
My empty arms, to find my harvester.
Of willows by a water but I stop,
And down the warm waves all their length I drop
My empty arms, to find my harvester.
246
In all his speech there was no word to mend;
Whate'er he said, or right or wrong, was best,
Until at last an arrow pierced my breast,
Tipt with a fatal point,—he called me friend!
Whate'er he said, or right or wrong, was best,
Until at last an arrow pierced my breast,
Tipt with a fatal point,—he called me friend!
Still next my heart the fading rose I wore,
But all so sad; full well I knew, God wot,
That I had been in love and he had not,
And in the barley-field I gleaned no more.
But all so sad; full well I knew, God wot,
That I had been in love and he had not,
And in the barley-field I gleaned no more.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |