 | Collected poems |  |
104
DOROTHY
A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE
She then must once have looked, as I
Look now, across the level rye,—
Past Church and Manor-house, and seen,
As now I see, the village green,
The bridge, and Walton's river—she
Whose old-world name was “Dorothy.”
Look now, across the level rye,—
Past Church and Manor-house, and seen,
As now I see, the village green,
The bridge, and Walton's river—she
Whose old-world name was “Dorothy.”
The swallows must have twittered, too,
Above her head; the roses blew
Below, no doubt,—and, sure, the South
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,—
That wistful mouth, which comes to me
Linked with her name of Dorothy.
Above her head; the roses blew
Below, no doubt,—and, sure, the South
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,—
That wistful mouth, which comes to me
Linked with her name of Dorothy.
What was she like? I picture her
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper;—
Soft,—pensive,—far too subtly graced
To suit the blunt bucolic taste,
Whose crude perception could but see
“Ma'am Fine-airs” in “Miss Dorothy.”
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper;—
Soft,—pensive,—far too subtly graced
To suit the blunt bucolic taste,
105
“Ma'am Fine-airs” in “Miss Dorothy.”
How not? She loved, maybe, perfume,
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room;—
Perchance too candidly preferred
“Clarissa” to a gossip's word;—
And, for the rest, would seem to be
Or proud, or dull—this Dorothy.
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room;—
Perchance too candidly preferred
“Clarissa” to a gossip's word;—
And, for the rest, would seem to be
Or proud, or dull—this Dorothy.
Poor child!—with heart the down-lined nest
Of warmest instincts unconfest,
Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree,
Unwinged from birth;—poor Dorothy!
Of warmest instincts unconfest,
Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree,
Unwinged from birth;—poor Dorothy!
Not less I dream her mute desire
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At “twice-told tales” of foxes killed;—
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free
'Twixt sport, and Port—and Dorothy!
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At “twice-told tales” of foxes killed;—
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free
'Twixt sport, and Port—and Dorothy!
'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy!
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy!
106
L'ENVOI.
These last I spoke. Then Florence said,
Below me,—“Dreams? Delusions, Fred!”
Next, with a pause,—she bent the while
Over a rose, with roguish smile—
“But how disgusted, Sir, you'll be
To hear I scrawled that ‘Dorothy.’”
Below me,—“Dreams? Delusions, Fred!”
Next, with a pause,—she bent the while
Over a rose, with roguish smile—
“But how disgusted, Sir, you'll be
To hear I scrawled that ‘Dorothy.’”
| Collected poems | |