Aunt Eunice
Up to her house, Aunt Eunice takes
A clean-cut, graveled walk that makes
With prim directness, stiff and straight,
From wide front steps to tall front gate.
Between two rows of box it lies,
Each freshly trimmed, austere, precise,
With small green cross-rows that divide
The square-cut beds on either side.
And there, in orderly array, are set
Sweet-peas and pinks, and mignonette
With larkspur, lavender and phlox,
White candytuft, and hollyhocks.
Beside the gate, which ball and chain
Swing, loudly clicking, back again
When she goes through, two poplars stand,
Stiff spires of green on either hand.
It has a quaint, old-fashioned air;
And tall Aunt Eunice, standing there
Gray-gowned, gray-haired, serene of face,
Seems all in keeping with the place.
The gaunt old poplars wave and toss,
The old-time scents are blown across —
And there she stands, though grave and gray,
As straight as when he sailed away.
" Sweetheart, " he said (they both could see
His ship, hove short, prepared for sea),
" God's ways are not the ways of men,
And yet, I think to come again —
" I think to come again, and have
The thing you promise; dear, be brave! "
And then they kissed, with eyes all wet
For love and grief, and sail was set.
The poplar-trees grew brown and bare;
The moan of wind was in the air;
Where lavender and mignonette
Had bloomed, the autumn rains were wet.
But still, by draught-blown candle-light
Aunt Eunice took the Book each night
And read the psalm of those who go
To sea in ships, for they do know
God's wonders in the deep, and see
The haven where they fain would be.
Then she would look across the deep
And say her prayers, and go to sleep.
The hard, white winter wore away;
The fields were greening every day,
And faint forehints of fragrance rose
From beds within the garden close.
And with the summer in the air,
Aunt Eunice grew more warmly fair —
Her sweet eyes sweeter still — for he
Was sailing to her oversea.
When brave men yield to death's embrace,
Though all uncowed they meet his face,
The life they give is far more dear
To them, than his who shrieks in fear.
So he — her lover — knowing still
She waited, watched the last boat fill,
And never felt so sweet as then
The love he might not know again.
He saw the last man leave the ship —
Then — oh, Great God! — he felt her dip
Her bows, and settle: — " Pull away!
Give way, lads, all! " he cried. They say
With face like Stephen's, glorified,
He went down with his ship, and died.
And that was all that they could tell
The waiting girl who loved him well.
I do not know how all the days
She went the old accustomed ways;
None other knew — but she could find
Her way with God, and He was kind.
And so she keeps the quaint old place,
A gentle quiet in her face —
The warmest heart and helpfulest
That ever soothed a soul distressed.
Amid the memories that cling
For her, about the end of Spring,
When griefs, too sacred to forget,
Are waked by scent of mignonette.
A clean-cut, graveled walk that makes
With prim directness, stiff and straight,
From wide front steps to tall front gate.
Between two rows of box it lies,
Each freshly trimmed, austere, precise,
With small green cross-rows that divide
The square-cut beds on either side.
And there, in orderly array, are set
Sweet-peas and pinks, and mignonette
With larkspur, lavender and phlox,
White candytuft, and hollyhocks.
Beside the gate, which ball and chain
Swing, loudly clicking, back again
When she goes through, two poplars stand,
Stiff spires of green on either hand.
It has a quaint, old-fashioned air;
And tall Aunt Eunice, standing there
Gray-gowned, gray-haired, serene of face,
Seems all in keeping with the place.
The gaunt old poplars wave and toss,
The old-time scents are blown across —
And there she stands, though grave and gray,
As straight as when he sailed away.
" Sweetheart, " he said (they both could see
His ship, hove short, prepared for sea),
" God's ways are not the ways of men,
And yet, I think to come again —
" I think to come again, and have
The thing you promise; dear, be brave! "
And then they kissed, with eyes all wet
For love and grief, and sail was set.
The poplar-trees grew brown and bare;
The moan of wind was in the air;
Where lavender and mignonette
Had bloomed, the autumn rains were wet.
But still, by draught-blown candle-light
Aunt Eunice took the Book each night
And read the psalm of those who go
To sea in ships, for they do know
God's wonders in the deep, and see
The haven where they fain would be.
Then she would look across the deep
And say her prayers, and go to sleep.
The hard, white winter wore away;
The fields were greening every day,
And faint forehints of fragrance rose
From beds within the garden close.
And with the summer in the air,
Aunt Eunice grew more warmly fair —
Her sweet eyes sweeter still — for he
Was sailing to her oversea.
When brave men yield to death's embrace,
Though all uncowed they meet his face,
The life they give is far more dear
To them, than his who shrieks in fear.
So he — her lover — knowing still
She waited, watched the last boat fill,
And never felt so sweet as then
The love he might not know again.
He saw the last man leave the ship —
Then — oh, Great God! — he felt her dip
Her bows, and settle: — " Pull away!
Give way, lads, all! " he cried. They say
With face like Stephen's, glorified,
He went down with his ship, and died.
And that was all that they could tell
The waiting girl who loved him well.
I do not know how all the days
She went the old accustomed ways;
None other knew — but she could find
Her way with God, and He was kind.
And so she keeps the quaint old place,
A gentle quiet in her face —
The warmest heart and helpfulest
That ever soothed a soul distressed.
Amid the memories that cling
For her, about the end of Spring,
When griefs, too sacred to forget,
Are waked by scent of mignonette.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.