Английская поэзия

ГлавнаяБиографииСтихи по темамСлучайное стихотворениеПереводчикиСсылкиАнтологии
Рейтинг поэтовРейтинг стихотворений

Augusta Webster (Августа Вебстер)

The Happiest Girl in the World

A week ago; only a little week:
it seems so much much longer, though that day
is every morning still my yesterday;
as all my life 'twill be my yesterday,
for all my life is morrow to my love.
Oh fortunate morrow! Oh sweet happy love!

A week ago; and I am almost glad
to have him now gone for this little while,
that I may think of him and tell myself
what to be his means, now that I am his,
and know if mine is love enough for him,
and make myself believe it all is true.

A week ago; and it seems like a life,
and I have not yet learned to know myself:
I am so other than I was, so strange,
grown younger and grown older all in one;
and I am not so sad and not so gay;
and I think nothing, only hear him think.

  That morning, waking, I remembered him
  "Will he be here to-day? he often comes; —
  and is it for my sake or to kill time?"
  and, wondering "Will he come?" I chose the dress
  he seemed to like the best, and hoped for him;
  and did not think I could quite love him yet.
  And did I love him then with all my heart?
  or did I wait until he held my hands
  and spoke "Say, shall it be?" and kissed my brow,
  and I looked at him and he knew it all?

  And did I love him from the day we met?
  but I more gladly danced with some one else
  who waltzed more smoothly and was merrier:
  and did I love him when he first came here?
  but I more gladly talked with some one else
  whose words were readier and who sought me more.
  When did I love him? How did it begin?

  The small green spikes of snowdrops in the spring
  are there one morning ere you think of them;
  still we may tell what morning they pierced up:
  June rosebuds stir and open stealthily,
  and every new blown rose is a surprise;
  still we can date the day when one unclosed:
  but how can I tell when my love began?

  Oh, was it like the young pale twilight star
  that quietly breaks on the vacant sky,
  is sudden there and perfect while you watch,
  and, though you watch, you have not seen it dawn,
  the star that only waited and awoke?

  But he knows when he loved me; for he says
  the first time we had met he told a friend
  "The sweetest dewy daisy of a girl,
  but not the solid stuff to make a wife;"
  and afterwards the first time he was here,
  when I had slipped away into our field
  to watch alone for sunset brightening on
  and heard them calling me, he says he stood
  and saw me come along the coppice walk
  beneath the green and sparkling arch of boughs,
  and, while he watched the yellow lights that played
  with the dim flickering shadows of the leaves
  over my yellow hair and soft pale dress,
  flitting across me as I flitted through,
  he whispered inly, in so many words,
  "I see my wife; this is my wife who comes,
  and seems to bear the sunlight on with her:"
  and that was when he loved me, so he says.

  Yet is he quite sure? was it only then?
  and had he had no thought which I could feel?
  for why was it I knew that he would watch,
  and all the while thought in my silly heart,
  as I advanced demurely, it was well
  I had on the pale dress with sweeping folds
  which took the light and shadow tenderly,
  and that the sunlights touched my hair and cheek,
  because he'd note it all and care for it?

  Oh vain and idle poor girl's heart of mine,
  content with that coquettish mean content!
  He, with his man's straight purpose, thinking "wife,"
  and I but that 'twas pleasant to be fair
  and that 'twas pleasant he should count me fair.
  But oh, to think he should be loving me
  and I be no more moved out of myself!
  The sunbeams told him, but they told me nought,
  except that maybe I was looking well.
  And oh had I but known! Why did no bird,
  trilling its own sweet lovesong, as I passed,
  so musically marvellously glad,
  sing one for me too, sing me "It is he,"
  sing "Love him," and "You love him: it is he,"
  that I might then have loved him when he loved,
  that one dear moment might be date to both?

  And must I not be glad he hid his thought
  and did not tell me then, when it was soon
  and I should have been startled, and not known
  how he is just the one man I can love,
  and, only with some pain lest he were pained,
  and nothing doubting, should have answered "No."
  How strange life is! I should have answered "No."
  Oh, can I ever be half glad enough
  he is so wise and patient and could wait!

  He waited as you wait the reddening fruit
  which helplessly is ripening on the tree,
  and not because it tries or longs or wills,
  only because the sun will shine on it:
  but he who waited was himself that sun.

  Oh was it worth the waiting? was it worth?
  For I am half afraid love is not love,
  this love which only makes me rest in him
  and be so happy and so confident,
  this love which makes me pray for longest days
  that I may have them all to use for him,
  this love which almost makes me yearn for pain
  that I might have borne something for his sake,
  this love which I call love, is less than love.
  Where are the fires and fevers and the pangs?
  where is the anguish of too much delight,
  and the delirious madness at a kiss,
  the flushing and the paling at a look,
  and passionate ecstasy of meeting hands?
  where is the eager weariness at time
  that will not bate a single measured hour
  to speed to us the far-off wedding day?
  I am so calm and wondering, like a child
  who, led by a firm hand it knows and trusts
  along a stranger country beautiful
  with a bewildering beauty to new eyes
  if they be wise to know what they behold,
  finds newness everywhere but no surprise,
  and takes the beauty as an outward part
  of being led so kindly by the hand.
  I am so cold: is mine but a child's heart,
  and not a woman's fit for such a man?
  Alas am I too cold, am I too dull,
  can I not love him as another could?
  And oh, if love be fire, what love is mine
  that is but like the pale subservient moon
  who only asks to be earth's minister?
  And, oh, if love be whirlwind, what is mine
  that is but like a little even brook
  which has no aim but flowing to the sea,
  and sings for happiness because it flows?

  Ah well, I would that I could love him more
  and not be only happy as I am;
  I would that I could love him to his worth,
  with that forgetting all myself in him,
  that subtle pain of exquisite excess,
  that momentary infinite sharp joy,
  I know by books but cannot teach my heart:
  and yet I think my love must needs be love,
  since he can read me through — oh happy strange,
  my thoughts that were my secrets all for me
  grown instantly his open easy book! —
  since he can read me through, and is content.

  And yesterday, when they all went away,
  save little Amy with her daisy chains,
  and left us in that shadow of tall ferns,
  and the child, leaning on me, fell asleep,
  and I, tired by the afternoon long walk,
  said "I could almost gladly sleep like her,"
  did he not answer, drawing down my head,
  "Sleep, darling, let me see you rest on me,"
  and when the child, awaking, wakened me,
  did he not say "Dear, you have made me glad,
  for, seeing you so sleeping peacefully,
  I feel that you do love me utterly,
  no questionings, no regrettings, but at rest."

  Oh yes, my good true darling, you spoke well
  "No questionings, no regrettings, but at rest:"
  what should I question, what should I regret,
  now I have you who are my hope and rest?

  I am the feathery wind-wafted seed
  that flickered idly half a merry morn,
  now thralled into the rich life-giving earth
  to root and bud and waken into leaf
  and make it such poor sweetness as I may;
  the prisoned seed that never more shall float
  the frolic playfellow of summer winds
  and mimic the free changeful butterfly;
  the prisoned seed that prisoned finds its life
  and feels its pulses stir, and grows, and grows.
  Oh love, who gathered me into yourself,
  oh love, I am at rest in you, and live.

  And shall I for so many coming days
  be flower and sweetness to him? Oh pale flower,
  grow, grow, and blossom out, and fill the air,
  feed on his richness, grow, grow, blossom out,
  and fill the air, and be enough for him.

  Oh crystal music of the air-borne lark,
 so falling, nearer, nearer, from the sky,
  are you a message to me of dear hopes?
  oh trilling gladness, flying down to earth,
  have you brought answer of sweet prophecy?
  have you brought answer to the thoughts in me?
  Oh happy answer, and oh happy thoughts!
  and which is the bird's carol, which my heart's?

  My love, my love, my love! And I shall be
  so much to him, so almost everything:
  and I shall be the friend whom he will trust,
  and I shall be the child whom he will teach,
  and I shall be the servant he will praise,
  and I shall be the mistress he will love,
  and I shall be his wife. Oh days to come,
  will ye not pass like gentle rhythmic steps
  that fall to sweetest music noiselessly?

  But I have known the lark's song half sound sad,
  and I have seen the lake, which rippled sun,
  toss dimmed and purple in a sudden wind;
  and let me laugh a moment at my heart
  that thinks the summer-time must all be fair,
  that thinks the good days always must be good:
  yes let me laugh a moment — may be weep.

  But no, but no, not laugh; for through my joy
  I have been wise enough to know the while
  some tears and some long hours are in all lives,
  in every promised land some thorn plants grow,
  some tangling weeds as well as laden vines:
  and no, not weep; for is not my land fair,
  my land of promise flushed with fruit and bloom?
  and who would weep for fear of scattered thorns?
  and very thorns bear oftentimes sweet fruits.

  Oh the black storm that breaks across the lake
  ruffles the surface, leaves the deeps at rest —
  deep in our hearts there always will be rest:
  oh summer storms fall sudden as they rose,
  the peaceful lake forgets them while they die —
  our hearts will always have it summer time.

  All rest, all summer time. My love, my love,
  I know it will be so; you are so good,
  and I, near you, shall grow at last like you;
  and you are tender, patient — oh I know
  you will bear with me, help me, smile to me,
  and let me make you happy easily;
  and I, what happiness could I have more
  than that dear labour of a happy wife?
  I would not have another. Is it wrong,
  and is it selfish that I cannot wish,
  that I, who yet so love the clasping hand
  and innocent fond eyes of little ones,
  I cannot wish that which I sometimes read
  is women's dearest wish hid in their love,
  to press a baby creature to my breast?
  Oh is it wrong? I would be all for him,
  not even children coming 'twixt us two
  to call me from his service to serve them;
  and maybe they would steal too much of love,
  for, since I cannot love him now enough,
  what would my heart be halved? or would it grow?
  But he perhaps would love me something less,
  finding me not so always at his side.

  Together always, that was what he said;
  together always. Oh dear coming days!
  O dear dear present days that pass too fast,
  although they bring such rainbow morrows on!
  that pass so fast, and yet, I know not why,
  seem always to encompass so much time.
  And I should fear I were too happy now,
  and making this poor world too much my Heaven,
  but that I feel God nearer and it seems
  as if I had learned His love better too.

  So late already! The sun dropping down,
  and under him the first long line of red —
  my truant should be here again by now,
  is come maybe. I will not seek him, I;
  he would be vain and think I cared too much;
  I will wait here, and he shall seek for me,
  and I will carelessly — Oh his dear step —
  he sees me, he is coming; my own love!

Augusta Webster's other poems:
  1. My Loss
  2. The Pine
  3. Her Memories
  4. An Inventor
  5. White Rose and Red

Распечатать стихотворение. Poem to print Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1175

Последние стихотворения

To English version


Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru