Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 70

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "Ah, that I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein.

And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned,

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, "It might have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge!

G.o.d pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!

_John G. Whittier._

Sister and I

We were hunting for wintergreen berries, One May-day, long gone by, Out on the rocky cliff's edge, Little sister and I.

Sister had hair like the sunbeams; Black as a crow's wing, mine; Sister had blue, dove's eyes; Wicked, black eyes are mine.

Why, see how my eyes are faded-- And my hair, it is white as snow!

And thin, too! don't you see it is?

I tear it sometimes; so!

There, don't hold my hands, Maggie, I don't feel like tearing it now; But--where was I in my story?

Oh, I was telling you how We were looking for wintergreen berries; 'Twas one bright morning in May, And the moss-grown rocks were slippery With the rains of yesterday.

But I was cross that morning, Though the sun shone ever so bright-- And when sister found the most berries, I was angry enough to fight!

And when she laughed at my pouting-- We were little things, you know-- I clinched my little fist up tight, And struck her the biggest blow!

I struck her--I tell you--I struck her, And she fell right over below-- There, there, Maggie, I won't rave now; You needn't hold me so-- She went right over, I tell you, Down, down to the depths below!

'Tis deep and dark and horrid There where the waters flow!

She fell right over, moaning, "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so sad, That, when I looked down affrighted, It drove me _mad--mad_!

Only her golden hair streaming Out on the rippling wave, Only her little hand reaching Up, for someone to save; And she sank down in the darkness, I never saw her again, And this is a chaos of blackness And darkness and grief since then.

No more playing together Down on the pebbly strand; Nor building our dolls stone castles With halls and parlors grand; No more fis.h.i.+ng with bent pins, In the little brook's clear waves; No more holding funerals O'er dead canaries' graves; No more walking together To the log schoolhouse each morn; No more vexing the master With putting his rules to scorn; No more feeding of white lambs With milk from the foaming pail; No more playing "see-saw"

Over the fence of rail; No more telling of stories After we've gone to bed; Nor talking of ghosts and goblins Till we fairly s.h.i.+ver with dread; No more whispering fearfully And hugging each other tight, When the shutters shake and the dogs howl In the middle of the night; No more saying "Our Father,"

Kneeling by mother's knee-- For, Maggie, I _struck_ sister!

And mother is dead, you see.

Maggie, sister's an angel, Isn't she? Isn't it true?

For angels have golden tresses And eyes like sister's, blue?

Now _my_ hair isn't golden, My eyes aren't blue, you see-- Now tell me, Maggie, if I were to die, Could they make an angel of me?

You say, "Oh, yes"; you think so?

Well, then, when I come to die, We'll play up there, in G.o.d's garden-- We'll play there, sister and I.

Now, Maggie, you needn't eye me Because I'm talking so queer; Because I'm talking so strangely; You needn't have the least fear, Somehow I'm feeling to-night, Maggie, As I never felt before-- I'm sure, I'm sure of it, Maggie, I never shall rave any more.

Maggie, you know how these long years I've heard her calling, so sad, "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so mournful?

It always drives me _mad_!

How the winter wind shrieks down the chimney, "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" oh! oh!

How the south wind wails at the cas.e.m.e.nt, "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so low, But most of all when the May-days Come back, with the flowers and the sun, How the night-bird, singing, all lonely, "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" doth moan; You know how it sets me raving-- For _she_ moaned, "_Oh, Bessie!_" just so, That time I _struck_ little sister, On the May-day long ago!

Now, Maggie, I've something to tell you-- You know May-day is here-- Well, this very morning, at sunrise, The robins chirped "Bessie!" so clear-- All day long the wee birds singing, Perched on the garden wall, Called "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so sweetly, I couldn't feel sorry at all.

Now, Maggie, I've something to tell you-- Let me lean up to you close-- Do you see how the sunset has flooded The heavens with yellow and rose?

Do you see o'er the gilded cloud mountains Sister's golden hair streaming out?

Do you see her little hand beckoning?

Do you hear her little voice calling out "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so gladly, "Bessie, oh, Bessie! Come, haste"?

Yes, sister, I'm coming; I'm coming, To play in G.o.d's garden at last!