 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
206
ROSALIE.
From the rough bark green buds were breaking;
The birds chirped gaily for the taking
Of summer mates; April was trilling,
Like a young psaltress, to the wind,
That stopt from dancing to unbind
The primrose; for the thawing weather
The runnels brimmed. We were together—
I singing out aloud, she stilling
Her hurried heart-beats. While, that day,
Idly I hummed the poet's rhyming,
Her thoughts were all another way,
Where the white flower of love was climbing
Through sunshine of sweet eyes—not mine!
We were divided by that light:
The self-same minute we might twine
Our distaffs with new flax—at night
Put by our wheels at once; the gloaming
Fall just the same upon the combing
And braiding of our hair—in vain!
Our hearts were never one again.
The birds chirped gaily for the taking
Of summer mates; April was trilling,
Like a young psaltress, to the wind,
That stopt from dancing to unbind
The primrose; for the thawing weather
The runnels brimmed. We were together—
I singing out aloud, she stilling
Her hurried heart-beats. While, that day,
Idly I hummed the poet's rhyming,
Her thoughts were all another way,
Where the white flower of love was climbing
Through sunshine of sweet eyes—not mine!
We were divided by that light:
The self-same minute we might twine
Our distaffs with new flax—at night
Put by our wheels at once; the gloaming
Fall just the same upon the combing
And braiding of our hair—in vain!
Our hearts were never one again.
Beneath the barn-roof, thick with moss,
Rumbled the fanmill; uncomplaining,
The oxen from its golden raining
(One milky-white, the other dun)
Went the long day to plow across
The stubble, slantwise from the sun.
The yellow mist was on the thorns,
And here and there a fork of flowers
Shone whiter than, athwart the showers
Of winnowed chaff, the heifer's horns.
And while the springtime came and went
With showery clouds and sunny gleaming,
We were together: she a-dreaming,
I scarcely happy, yet content.
Rumbled the fanmill; uncomplaining,
The oxen from its golden raining
(One milky-white, the other dun)
Went the long day to plow across
The stubble, slantwise from the sun.
The yellow mist was on the thorns,
And here and there a fork of flowers
Shone whiter than, athwart the showers
Of winnowed chaff, the heifer's horns.
And while the springtime came and went
With showery clouds and sunny gleaming,
We were together: she a-dreaming,
I scarcely happy, yet content.
Alone beside the southern wall
I digged the earth; the summer flowers
In pleasant times, betwixt the showers,
I sadly planted, one and all;
And when they made a crimson blind
Before the window with their bloom,
I spun alone within the room—
Right hardly did the wisps unbind,
So wet they were with tears. Ah, me!
Blithe songs they said the winds were blowing—
From where the harvesters were mowing—
I only cared for Rosalie.
I digged the earth; the summer flowers
In pleasant times, betwixt the showers,
I sadly planted, one and all;
207
Before the window with their bloom,
I spun alone within the room—
Right hardly did the wisps unbind,
So wet they were with tears. Ah, me!
Blithe songs they said the winds were blowing—
From where the harvesters were mowing—
I only cared for Rosalie.
'T was autumn; gray with twilight's hue,
The embers of the day were lying;
Athwart the dusk the bat was flying,
And insects made their faint ado.
So evening sloped into the night,
And all the black tops of the furs
Shone as with golden, prickly burrs,
So small the stars were, and so bright.
Close by the homestead, old and low,
A gnarled and knotty oak was growing,
And shadows of red leaves were blowing
Across the coverlid of snow.
The embers of the day were lying;
Athwart the dusk the bat was flying,
And insects made their faint ado.
So evening sloped into the night,
And all the black tops of the furs
Shone as with golden, prickly burrs,
So small the stars were, and so bright.
Close by the homestead, old and low,
A gnarled and knotty oak was growing,
And shadows of red leaves were blowing
Across the coverlid of snow.
Awake, sweet Rosalie, I said,
The moon's pale fires run harmlessly
Down the dry holts—awake and see!
She did not turn her in the bed.
My heart, I thought, must fall abreaking:
All—all but one wild wish—was past:
For that white sunken mouth, once speaking,
To say she loved me, at the last!
Two comforts yet were mine to keep:
Betwixt her and her faithless lover
Bright grass would spread a flowery cover;
And Rosalie was well asleep.
The moon's pale fires run harmlessly
Down the dry holts—awake and see!
She did not turn her in the bed.
My heart, I thought, must fall abreaking:
All—all but one wild wish—was past:
For that white sunken mouth, once speaking,
To say she loved me, at the last!
Two comforts yet were mine to keep:
Betwixt her and her faithless lover
Bright grass would spread a flowery cover;
And Rosalie was well asleep.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |