Classic Poem

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, old letter, — folded still!
— 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,
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
— 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;

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
— 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;
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,
— 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;

" 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,
— 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 ,
And Mother's storing Apples, — Prue and Me
— Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam:
But we shall meet before a Week is gone, —
" 'Tis a long Lane that has no Turning," John!

" Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait
— 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!

" John , she's so smart, — with every Ribbon new,
— Flame-colored Sack, and Crimson Padesoy:
As proud as proud; and has the Vapors too,
— Just like My Lady; — calls poor Sam a Boy,
And vows no Sweet-heart's worth the Thinking-on
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.
See, for I send you Something! There, 'tis 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
— 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.

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
— Distrust beliefs and powers,
The artless, ageless things you say
— Are fresh as May's own flowers. . . .

I need not search too much to find
— Whose lot it was to send it,
That feel upon me yet the kind,
— Soft hand of her who penned it;

And see, through two-score years of smoke,
— In by-gone, quaint apparel,
Shine from yon time-black Norway oak
— The face of Patience Caryl, —

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
— 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, —
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
— 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.