Sarah Orne Jewett

[ At Bethlehem, Pennsylvania ] What of this house with massive walls And small-paned windows, gay with blooms? A quaint and ancient aspect falls Like pallid sunshine through the rooms. Not this new country’s rush and haste Could breed, one thinks, so still a life; Here is the old Moravian home, A placid foe of worldly strife. For this roof covers, night and day, The widowed women poor and old, The mated without mates, who say Their light is out, their story told. To these the many mansions seem Dear household fires that cannot die; They wait through separation dark An endless union by and by. Each window has its watcher wan To fit the autumn afternoon, The dropping poplar leaves, the dream Of spring that faded all too soon. Upon the highest window-ledge A glowing scarlet flower shines down. Oh, wistful sisterhood, whose home Has sanctified this quiet town! Oh, hapless household, gather in The tired-hearted and the lone! What broken homes, what sundered love, What disappointment you have known! They count their little wealth of hope And spend their waiting days in peace, What comfort their poor loneliness Must find in every soul’s release! And when the wailing trombones go Along the street before the dead In that Moravian custom quaint, They smile because a soul has fled.

The wind may blow the snow about, For all I care, says Jack, And I don’t mind how cold it grows, For then the ice won’t crack. Old folks may shiver all day long, But I shall never freeze; What cares a jolly boy like me For winter days like these? Far down the long snow-covered hills It is such fun to coast, So clear the road! the fastest sled There is in school I boast. The paint is pretty well worn off, But then I take the lead; A dandy sled’s a loiterer, And I go in for speed. When I go home at supper-time, Ki! but my cheeks are red! They burn and sting like anything; I’m cross until I’m fed. You ought to see the biscuit go, I am so hungry then; And old Aunt Polly says that boys Eat twice as much as men. There’s always something I can do To pass the time away; The dark comes quick in winter-time— A short and stormy day And when I give my mind to it, It’s just as father says, I almost do a man’s work now, And help him many ways. I shall be glad when I grow up And get all through with school, I’ll show them by-and-by that I Was not meant for a fool. I’ll take the crops off this old farm, I’ll do the best I can. A jolly boy like me won’t be A dolt when he’s a man. I like to hear the old horse neigh Just as I come in sight, The oxen poke me with their horns To get their hay at night. Somehow the creatures seem like friends, And like to see me come. Some fellows talk about New York, But I shall stay at home.

High at the window in her cage The old canary flits and sings, Nor sees across the curtain pass The shadow of a swallow’s wings. A poor deceit and copy, this, Of larger lives that mark their span, Unreckoning of wider worlds Or gifts that Heaven keeps for man. She gathers piteous bits and shreds, This solitary, mateless thing, To patient build again the nest So rudely scattered spring by spring; And sings her brief, unlisted songs, Her dreams of bird life wild and free, Yet never beats her prison bars At sound of song from bush or tree. But in my busiest hours I pause, Held by a sense of urgent speech, Bewildered by that spark-like soul, Able my very soul to reach. She will be heard; she chirps me loud, When I forget those gravest cares, Her small provision to supply, Clear water or her seedsman’s wares. She begs me now for that chief joy The round great world is made to grow,— Her wisp of greenness. Hear her chide, Because my answering thought is slow! What can my life seem like to her? A dull, unpunctual service mine; Stupid before her eager call, Her flitting steps, her insight fine. To open wide thy prison door, Poor friend, would give thee to thy foes; And yet a plaintive note I hear, As if to tell how slowly goes The time of thy long prisoning. Bird! does some promise keep thee sane? Will there be better days for thee? Will thy soul too know life again? Ah, none of us have more than this: If one true friend green leaves can reach From out some fairer, wider place, And understand our wistful speech!

The lilacs lift in generous bloom Their plumes of dear old-fashioned flowers; Their fragrance fills the still old house Where left alone I count the hours. High in the apple-trees the bees Are humming, busy in the sun,— An idle robin cries for rain But once or twice and then is done. The Sunday-morning quiet holds In heavy slumber all the street, While from the church, just out of sight Behind the elms, comes slow and sweet The organ’s drone, the voices faint That sing the quaint long-meter hymn— I somehow feel as if shut out From some mysterious temple, dim And beautiful with blue and red And golden lights from windows high, Where angels in the shadows stand And earth seems very near the sky. The day-dream fades—and so I try Again to catch the tune that brings No thought of temple nor of priest, But only of a voice that sings.