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I I DREW it from its china tomb;— | |
| It came out feebly scented | |
| With some thin ghost of past perfume | |
| That dust and days had lent it. | |
| |
| An old, letter,—folded still! | 5 |
| To read with due composure, | |
| I sought the sun-lit window-sill, | |
| Above the gray enclosure, | |
| |
| That glimmering in the sultry haze, | |
| Faint flowered, dimly shaded, | 10 |
| Slumbered like Goldsmith’s Madam Blaize, | |
| Bedizened and brocaded. | |
| |
| A queer old place! You ’d surely say | |
| Some tea-board garden-maker | |
| Had planned it in Dutch William’s day | 15 |
| To please some florist Quaker, | |
| |
| So trim it was. The yew-trees still, | |
| With pious care perverted, | |
| Grew in the same grim shapes; and still | |
| The lipless dolphin spurted; | 20 |
| |
| Still in his wonted state abode | |
| The broken-nosed Apollo; | |
| And still the cypress-arbor showed | |
| The same umbrageous hollow. | |
| |
| Only,—as fresh young Beauty gleams | 25 |
| From coffee-colored laces,— | |
| So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams | |
| The fresher modern traces; | |
| |
| For idle mallet, hoop, and ball | |
| Upon the lawn were lying; | 30 |
| A magazine, a tumbled shawl, | |
| Round which the swifts were flying; | |
| |
| And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, | |
| A heap of rainbow knitting, | |
| Where, blinking in her pleased repose, | 35 |
| A Persian cat was sitting. | |
| |
| “A place to love in,—live,—for aye, | |
| If we too, like Tithonus, | |
| Could find some God to stretch the gray | |
| Scant life the Fates have thrown us; | 40 |
| |
| “But now by steam we run our race, | |
| With buttoned heart and pocket; | |
| Our Love’s a gilded, surplus grace,— | |
| Just like an empty locket! | |
| |
| “‘The time is out of joint.’ Who will, | 45 |
| May strive to make it better; | |
| For me, this warm old window-sill, | |
| And this old dusty letter.” | |
| |
II “Dear John (the letter ran), it can’t, can’t be, | |
| For Father’s gone to Chorley Fair with Sam, | 50 |
| And Mother’s storing Apples,—Prue and Me | |
| Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam: | |
| But we shall meet before a Week is gone,— | |
| ‘’T is a long Lane that has no turning,’ John! | |
| |
| “Only till Sunday next, and then you ’ll wait | 55 |
| Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile— | |
| We can go round and catch them at the Gate, | |
| All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile; | |
| Dear Prue won’t look, and Father he’ll go on, | |
| And Sam’s two Eyes are all for Cissy, John! | 60 |
| |
| “John, she ’s so smart,—with every ribbon new, | |
| Flame-colored Sack, and Crimson Padesoy; | |
| As proud as proud; and has the Vapours too, | |
| Just like My Lady;—calls poor Sam a Boy, | |
| And vows no Sweet-heart’s worth the Thinking-on | 65 |
| Till he ’s past Thirty … I know better, John! | |
| |
| “My Dear, I don’t think that I thought of much | |
| Before we knew each other, I and you; | |
| And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch, | |
| Gives me enough to think a Summer through. | 70 |
| See, for I send you Something! There, ’t is gone! | |
| Look in this corner,—mind you find it, John!” | |
| |
III This was the matter of the note,— | |
| A long-forgot deposit, | |
| Dropped in an Indian dragon’s throat, | 75 |
| Deep in a fragrant closet, | |
| |
| Piled with a dapper Dresden world,— | |
| Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses,— | |
| Bonzes with squat legs undercurled, | |
| And great jars filled with roses. | 80 |
| |
| Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed! | |
| You had no thought or presage | |
| Into what keeping you dismissed | |
| Your simple old-world message! | |
| |
| A reverent one. Though we to-day | 85 |
| Distrust beliefs and powers, | |
| The artless, ageless things you say | |
| Are fresh as May’s own flowers, | |
| |
| Starring some pure primeval spring, | |
| Ere Gold had grown despotic,— | 90 |
| Ere Life was yet a selfish thing, | |
| Or Love a mere exotic! | |
| |
| I need not search too much to find | |
| Whose lot it was to send it, | |
| That feel upon me yet the kind, | 95 |
| Soft hand of her who penned it; | |
| |
| And see, through twoscore years of smoke, | |
| In by-gone, quaint apparel, | |
| Shine from yon time-black Norway oak | |
| The face of Patience Caryl,— | 100 |
| |
| The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed; | |
| The gray gown, primly flowered; | |
| The spotless, stately coif whose crest | |
| Like Hector’s horse-plume towered; | |
| |
| And still the sweet half-solemn look | 105 |
| Where some past thought was clinging, | |
| As when one shuts a serious book | |
| To hear the thrushes singing. | |
| |
| I kneel to you! Of those you were, | |
| Whose kind old hearts grow mellow,— | 110 |
| Whose fair old faces grow more fair | |
| As Point and Flanders yellow; | |
| |
| Whom some old store of garnered grief, | |
| Their placid temples shading, | |
| Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf | 115 |
| With tender tints of fading. | |
| |
| Peace to your soul! You died unwed— | |
| Despite this loving letter. | |
| And what of John? The less that ’s said | |
| Of John, I think, the better. | 120 |
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