Stories that might be true With other poems: By Dora Greenwell |
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| THE LITTLE SISTER. |
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 | Stories that might be true |  |
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THE LITTLE SISTER.
I. [PART I.]Summer.
My sister raised me to the bed, my mother solemnly
Rested her hand upon my head, in silence, I could see
Her eyes were raised to Heaven; at last she spoke, but not to me,
“Poor child! thy Father yet will find a blessing left for thee:”
Then turning unto Amy said, “to Thee, though yet so young,
I leave a legacy of Love,” the words upon her tongue
Failed, yet a look told all the rest, and Amy wept, and clung
About her neck, and kissed her then so fondly and so fast,
I only heard a murmured sound of blessing to the last,
And she was gone; yet surely then her spirit as it past
Breathed all its love on Amy's soul, and lives in it again,
For she has been the mother to me I lost, yet lost not then!
Rested her hand upon my head, in silence, I could see
Her eyes were raised to Heaven; at last she spoke, but not to me,
“Poor child! thy Father yet will find a blessing left for thee:”
Then turning unto Amy said, “to Thee, though yet so young,
I leave a legacy of Love,” the words upon her tongue
Failed, yet a look told all the rest, and Amy wept, and clung
About her neck, and kissed her then so fondly and so fast,
I only heard a murmured sound of blessing to the last,
And she was gone; yet surely then her spirit as it past
Breathed all its love on Amy's soul, and lives in it again,
For she has been the mother to me I lost, yet lost not then!
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And every one is kind to me, but sometimes they forget
Because I have been ill so long, but Amy never yet
Forgot me, and I often think that seeing her so kind
Makes all the others kinder still, and keeps it in their mind,
And oft she jests with me, and says, that still as we begun,
Five years before me, all through life she will smoothe the path we run;
She thinks of me, let her ever be so busy or so gay,
And happy she must be that has so much to give away;
It seems as if her joyous heart took in a double share
Of all the gladness of the world, the more to have to spare;
And every one is wanting her, that is their joy and pride,
But still she says her happiest days are those that side by side
We spend together; far beneath the Castle where we dwell
Sinks deep, and low, and sudden down, a rocky, woody dell;
It seems as if, by chasm rift, the Earth had flung in there,
In haste to fill the yawning gap, all goodly things and rare,
For I never saw a place so wild, so lonely, or so fair,
I never heard the sweet birds sing so loud as they do there,
Calling each other, morn and eve, across the narrow glen,
As if they sung “joy,” only “joy” a hundred times again,
And all except their song is hushed; the wind that hath its will
O'er all without, can never find its way within the Ghyll,
And only rocks the tall tree tops while all beneath is still;
And there at evening lingeringly, the golden sunbeams stray
All up and down the grassy slopes, and seem to lose their way
Among the trees, till every bole is touched with ruddy light,
And all the pebbles in the brook are flashing wet and bright;
The brook that through the sultry day, with waters clear and brown,
From rocky shelving ledge to ledge, still slips and gurgles down,
And chafes and murmurs round about broad burdock leaves outspread,
And great stones slippery with moss that choke its shingly bed,
Till every here and there awhile for quietness makes stay
In dark, deep hollows of a hand that holds it on its way,
Where all things that are glossy-smooth and moist, and green and cool,
Drip from the overhanging rock and cluster round the pool,
And forth from ev'ry crevice and cleft peep lovely plants and rare,
As if they were some costly theft half thrust for hiding there,
That Earth would keep unto herself because they are so fair,
For never, save in such fairy-nooks they flourish anywhere!
Because I have been ill so long, but Amy never yet
Forgot me, and I often think that seeing her so kind
Makes all the others kinder still, and keeps it in their mind,
And oft she jests with me, and says, that still as we begun,
Five years before me, all through life she will smoothe the path we run;
She thinks of me, let her ever be so busy or so gay,
And happy she must be that has so much to give away;
It seems as if her joyous heart took in a double share
Of all the gladness of the world, the more to have to spare;
And every one is wanting her, that is their joy and pride,
But still she says her happiest days are those that side by side
We spend together; far beneath the Castle where we dwell
Sinks deep, and low, and sudden down, a rocky, woody dell;
It seems as if, by chasm rift, the Earth had flung in there,
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For I never saw a place so wild, so lonely, or so fair,
I never heard the sweet birds sing so loud as they do there,
Calling each other, morn and eve, across the narrow glen,
As if they sung “joy,” only “joy” a hundred times again,
And all except their song is hushed; the wind that hath its will
O'er all without, can never find its way within the Ghyll,
And only rocks the tall tree tops while all beneath is still;
And there at evening lingeringly, the golden sunbeams stray
All up and down the grassy slopes, and seem to lose their way
Among the trees, till every bole is touched with ruddy light,
And all the pebbles in the brook are flashing wet and bright;
The brook that through the sultry day, with waters clear and brown,
From rocky shelving ledge to ledge, still slips and gurgles down,
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And great stones slippery with moss that choke its shingly bed,
Till every here and there awhile for quietness makes stay
In dark, deep hollows of a hand that holds it on its way,
Where all things that are glossy-smooth and moist, and green and cool,
Drip from the overhanging rock and cluster round the pool,
And forth from ev'ry crevice and cleft peep lovely plants and rare,
As if they were some costly theft half thrust for hiding there,
That Earth would keep unto herself because they are so fair,
For never, save in such fairy-nooks they flourish anywhere!
Not far from this a ferny bank uprises in the dell,
With thick dry heath o'ergrown, and moss that seems to heave and swell
Unto the touch, and fox-gloves wave o'er all with crimson bell:
Here Amy has me brought, and here through half the summer day
We sit and talk, or oftener dream the quiet hours away;
And, lying in the shadow, mark the dark leaves glistening bright
Shoot up and flash in elfin spears and javelins of light,
Or listen to the wordless song, the story without end,
That summer woods through all their leaves, and falling waters, send;
Till sometimes Amy will arise and up and down the brook,
Flit light from stone to stone, and peer within each leafy nook,
Or diving 'mid the boughs, awhile I see her not, but hear
Her singing loud behind their screen to show me she is near.
One day we marked some flowers that grew so high upon the rock,
“They feel themselves so safe” I said, “they look as if to mock
And shake their little heads at us”—“but I will tame their pride
And take them in their very nest;” then Amy laughing, cried,
And up the rock with light sure step she sprung, and ever higher
Kept clambering up the slippery stair, and held by bush and brier,
Until at last the summit gained, she clapped her hands, and flung
The flowers down to me, and stamped her little foot, and sung
Till all the woody vale awoke its echoes to prolong
The song that floated o'er its depths, the sweet and self-same song,
“Joy, only joy,” that all the birds had sung in it so long,—
And singing all the way she came, once more she neared the ground,
But now with slower step, and ere she took her last light bound,
To stay herself a moment's space, she clasped a birchen tree
That grew upon the rock, and waved her other hand to me;
When she stopped singing all at once, and o'er her face a look
Passed, as if then some sudden blame unto her heart she took,
And when she reached me where I sat, she spoke not for awhile,
But turned her head, and when again she raised her eyes, the smile
Was only on her lip; I saw that all its glee was gone,
And when at last she spoke 'twas not of what she thought upon;
With thick dry heath o'ergrown, and moss that seems to heave and swell
Unto the touch, and fox-gloves wave o'er all with crimson bell:
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We sit and talk, or oftener dream the quiet hours away;
And, lying in the shadow, mark the dark leaves glistening bright
Shoot up and flash in elfin spears and javelins of light,
Or listen to the wordless song, the story without end,
That summer woods through all their leaves, and falling waters, send;
Till sometimes Amy will arise and up and down the brook,
Flit light from stone to stone, and peer within each leafy nook,
Or diving 'mid the boughs, awhile I see her not, but hear
Her singing loud behind their screen to show me she is near.
One day we marked some flowers that grew so high upon the rock,
“They feel themselves so safe” I said, “they look as if to mock
And shake their little heads at us”—“but I will tame their pride
And take them in their very nest;” then Amy laughing, cried,
170
Kept clambering up the slippery stair, and held by bush and brier,
Until at last the summit gained, she clapped her hands, and flung
The flowers down to me, and stamped her little foot, and sung
Till all the woody vale awoke its echoes to prolong
The song that floated o'er its depths, the sweet and self-same song,
“Joy, only joy,” that all the birds had sung in it so long,—
And singing all the way she came, once more she neared the ground,
But now with slower step, and ere she took her last light bound,
To stay herself a moment's space, she clasped a birchen tree
That grew upon the rock, and waved her other hand to me;
When she stopped singing all at once, and o'er her face a look
Passed, as if then some sudden blame unto her heart she took,
And when she reached me where I sat, she spoke not for awhile,
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Was only on her lip; I saw that all its glee was gone,
And when at last she spoke 'twas not of what she thought upon;
And I made answer lightly too, but silent and untold
Was something drawn between us then that loosens not its hold,
And oft I think within myself, sweet sister, could you see
This heart of mine that loves you so, you would never grieve for me!
Was something drawn between us then that loosens not its hold,
And oft I think within myself, sweet sister, could you see
This heart of mine that loves you so, you would never grieve for me!
II. PART II. Winter.
When Amy was a child, our old, fond nurse, would say that she
Was the fairest flower of the flock, best apple on the tree;
And still as she grew up, at home we knew that she was fair,
But seldom thought of it because we saw her always there;
So, when we came to Town, almost it took us by surprise
To learn how beautiful she was through other people's eyes,
For all eyes turned to follow Her that still so little guessed
The secret, that she oft has turned, unconscious, with the rest
To see what beauteous form drew near; for many, bright and gay
Are there, yet none like Amy (so at least I hear them say)
That move with such an untrained grace, and bear upon their looks
The freshness of the breezes light, and sunny, singing brooks,
As if the wild, free, harmless things by stream and wood and hill,
That had her to themselves so long, played light about her still;
It is, they say, as when you meet in crowded thorough-fare,
Some sight or scent that o'er you brings a breath of country air,
With the hay-fields and the corn-fields, and the sweetness only there.
I watch her from my window now, I look down through the park
To see her come in from her ride before the day grows dark,
And she looks up to meet my eye and waves her hand to me,
As when upon the slippery rock, she held the birchen tree,
And springs to earth as light and free, as if her footstep fell
Still on the soft, dry, springing moss and purple heather-bell!
Was the fairest flower of the flock, best apple on the tree;
And still as she grew up, at home we knew that she was fair,
But seldom thought of it because we saw her always there;
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To learn how beautiful she was through other people's eyes,
For all eyes turned to follow Her that still so little guessed
The secret, that she oft has turned, unconscious, with the rest
To see what beauteous form drew near; for many, bright and gay
Are there, yet none like Amy (so at least I hear them say)
That move with such an untrained grace, and bear upon their looks
The freshness of the breezes light, and sunny, singing brooks,
As if the wild, free, harmless things by stream and wood and hill,
That had her to themselves so long, played light about her still;
It is, they say, as when you meet in crowded thorough-fare,
Some sight or scent that o'er you brings a breath of country air,
With the hay-fields and the corn-fields, and the sweetness only there.
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To see her come in from her ride before the day grows dark,
And she looks up to meet my eye and waves her hand to me,
As when upon the slippery rock, she held the birchen tree,
And springs to earth as light and free, as if her footstep fell
Still on the soft, dry, springing moss and purple heather-bell!
We spend no days together now because our present lives
Are threads too far apart to meet, though Amy ever strives
To knit them close where'er she may, and ever seeks to twine
And weave with mine, as it runs on, a bright and silver line;
At night I hear a quick, light step, and sudden in the room,
A flutter 'mid its quietness, a shining on its gloom,
She comes, all rustling silken-soft, all floating warm and bright,
And glimmers through the dusk in robes of gossamer and light,
Like a swan that spreads its white, full plumes upon the breast of night;
She comes to ask me for her flowers, for none will Amy wear
Unless I bind them on her breast, or twine them in her hair,
And she says that nothing would go well, or please her at the ball
Without she has a kiss from me the last, last thing of all;
And still when she comes back again, while all is fresh and new
Upon her mind, like fairy tales it is (but these are true)
To hear of all that she has seen,—the wondrous things and fair,
Until it sometimes seems to me that I myself was there,
But still she ends “Thou little one, I leave thee, yet I find
Not one among them all I love like Her I leave behind!
Are threads too far apart to meet, though Amy ever strives
To knit them close where'er she may, and ever seeks to twine
And weave with mine, as it runs on, a bright and silver line;
At night I hear a quick, light step, and sudden in the room,
A flutter 'mid its quietness, a shining on its gloom,
She comes, all rustling silken-soft, all floating warm and bright,
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Like a swan that spreads its white, full plumes upon the breast of night;
She comes to ask me for her flowers, for none will Amy wear
Unless I bind them on her breast, or twine them in her hair,
And she says that nothing would go well, or please her at the ball
Without she has a kiss from me the last, last thing of all;
And still when she comes back again, while all is fresh and new
Upon her mind, like fairy tales it is (but these are true)
To hear of all that she has seen,—the wondrous things and fair,
Until it sometimes seems to me that I myself was there,
But still she ends “Thou little one, I leave thee, yet I find
Not one among them all I love like Her I leave behind!
“Not One I love so well as thee;” but this was at the first,
And then a change came over her, it seemed as if she nursed
Some hidden thought; as folded close within the rose's breast,
The sweetest, reddest leaf lies curled, and only to be guessed
By the fragrance and the trembling light it sheds through all the rest;
And kinder She could never grow, yet softer now I deemed,
And graver, tenderer, her smile; yet strange to me it seemed
That gayer, brighter still she found each brilliant scene, and well
She loved to go, yet nothing now was ever left to tell:
Upon a low seat by the fire she sat one night, and leant
Her cheek upon her hand, and while her drooping head she bent
To me, the warm light streamed around, and seemed her brow to bless
With a sunny Glory, and a crown of glowing loveliness,
More bright than were the scarlet flowers that I was wreathing then
About her hair, as light I laughed and said “no more again
Will I take, Amy, all this pains to make thee gay and fair,
That never bringest me a word of all that passes there
To pay me for my lovely flowers; make much of these and prize
This wreath, because it is the last:” but then from Amy's eyes
Her soul looked forth,—“Yes Annie! yet, perchance, some future day
Thou wilt twine me yet another one, more sweet though not so gay,”
And kissed me then because I wept, and whispered in my ear
“Well will He love my darling, else he had never been so dear!”
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Some hidden thought; as folded close within the rose's breast,
The sweetest, reddest leaf lies curled, and only to be guessed
By the fragrance and the trembling light it sheds through all the rest;
And kinder She could never grow, yet softer now I deemed,
And graver, tenderer, her smile; yet strange to me it seemed
That gayer, brighter still she found each brilliant scene, and well
She loved to go, yet nothing now was ever left to tell:
Upon a low seat by the fire she sat one night, and leant
Her cheek upon her hand, and while her drooping head she bent
To me, the warm light streamed around, and seemed her brow to bless
With a sunny Glory, and a crown of glowing loveliness,
More bright than were the scarlet flowers that I was wreathing then
About her hair, as light I laughed and said “no more again
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That never bringest me a word of all that passes there
To pay me for my lovely flowers; make much of these and prize
This wreath, because it is the last:” but then from Amy's eyes
Her soul looked forth,—“Yes Annie! yet, perchance, some future day
Thou wilt twine me yet another one, more sweet though not so gay,”
And kissed me then because I wept, and whispered in my ear
“Well will He love my darling, else he had never been so dear!”
I wept; but not as Amy thought, in fear to lose her love,
For I know that in the heart as in the blessed Home above,
There is ever room that grows no less however many share,
There is room enough and Love enough for all the angels there!
I wept, but 'twas for joy, to think that now her heart would find
A heart to answer her's again, and pay her back in kind
For all the love that met me new with every dawning day,
For all she gave, and gave, untired; for all I could not pay,—
More blest to give than to receive, yet both are surely blest,—
Long, long may Amy joy in both, to prove which is the best!
For I know that in the heart as in the blessed Home above,
There is ever room that grows no less however many share,
There is room enough and Love enough for all the angels there!
I wept, but 'twas for joy, to think that now her heart would find
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For all the love that met me new with every dawning day,
For all she gave, and gave, untired; for all I could not pay,—
More blest to give than to receive, yet both are surely blest,—
Long, long may Amy joy in both, to prove which is the best!
| Stories that might be true | |