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    Path Flower and Other Verses
    Path Flower and Other Verses
    Path Flower and Other Verses
    Ebook120 pages57 minutes

    Path Flower and Other Verses

    By Olive Tilford Dargan

    ()

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    Path Flower and Other Verses

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      Book preview

      Path Flower and Other Verses - Olive Tilford Dargan

      Project Gutenberg's Path Flower and Other Verses, by Olive T. Dargan

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Path Flower and Other Verses

      Author: Olive T. Dargan

      Release Date: November 20, 2008 [EBook #27297]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PATH FLOWER AND OTHER VERSES ***

      Produced by David Garcia, Stephen Blundell and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This

      file was produced from images generously made available

      by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)

      PATH FLOWER

      All rights reserved

      PATH FLOWER

      AND

      OTHER VERSES

      BY

      OLIVE T. DARGAN

      MCMXIV

      LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.

      NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

      CONTENTS

      The author thanks the editors of Scribner's Magazine, The Century, The Atlantic Monthly, and M'Clure's for permission to reprint the greater part of the verse included in this volume.

      PATH FLOWER

      A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,

      A lark o'er Golder's lane,

      As I the April pathway trod

      Bound west for Willesden.

      At foot each tiny blade grew big

      And taller stood to hear,

      And every leaf on every twig

      Was like a little ear.

      As I too paused, and both ways tried

      To catch the rippling rain,—

      So still, a hare kept at my side

      His tussock of disdain,—

      Behind me close I heard a step,

      A soft pit-pat surprise,

      And looking round my eyes fell deep

      Into sweet other eyes;

      The eyes like wells, where sun lies too,

      So clear and trustful brown,

      Without a bubble warning you

      That here's a place to drown.

      How many miles? Her broken shoes

      Had told of more than one.

      She answered like a dreaming Muse,

      I came from Islington.

      So long a tramp? Two gentle nods,

      Then seemed to lift a wing,

      And words fell soft as willow-buds,

      I came to find the Spring.

      A timid voice, yet not afraid

      In ways so sweet to roam,

      As it with honey bees had played

      And could no more go home.

      Her home! I saw the human lair,

      I heard the hucksters bawl,

      I stifled with the thickened air

      Of bickering mart and stall.

      Without a tuppence for a ride,

      Her feet had set her free.

      Her rags, that decency defied,

      Seemed new with liberty.

      But she was frail. Who would might note

      The trail of hungering

      That for an hour she had forgot

      In wonder of the Spring.

      So shriven by her joy she glowed

      It seemed a sin to chat.

      (A tea-shop snuggled off the road;

      Why did I think of that?)

      Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept,—

      But she was passing on,

      And I but muddled "You'll accept

      A penny for a bun?"

      Then up her little throat a spray

      Of rose climbed for it must;

      A wilding lost till safe it lay

      Hid by her curls of rust;

      And I saw modesties at fence

      With pride that bore no name;

      So old it was she knew not whence

      It sudden woke and came;

      But that which shone of all most clear

      Was startled, sadder thought

      That I should give her back the fear

      Of life she had forgot.

      And I blushed for the world we'd made,

      Putting God's hand aside,

      Till for the want of sun and shade

      His little children died;

      And blushed that I who every year

      With Spring went up and down,

      Must greet a soul that ached for her

      With penny for a bun!

      Struck as a thief in holy place

      Whose sin upon him cries,

      I watched the flowers leave her face,

      The song go from her eyes.

      Then she, sweet heart, she saw my rout,

      And of her charity

      A hand of grace put softly out

      And took the coin from me.

      A red-cap sang in

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