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and led me to her niece, Who greeted me as if some special grace Of courtesy were due, to make amends For the familiar badinage her aunt Had poured upon me.
They had come without-- One with her work, the other with her book-- To taste the freshness of the evening air, Washed of the hot day's dust by rain; to hear The robin's hymn of joy; and watch the clouds That canopied with gold the sinking sun. The maiden in a pale-blue, muslin robe-- Dyed with forget-me-nots, I fancied then, And sweet with life in every fold, I knew-- A blush-rose at her throat, and in her hair A sprig of green and white, was lovelier Than sky or landscape; and her low words fell More musically than the robin's hymn. So, with my back to other scene and sound, I faced the faces, took the proffered chair And looked and listened.
"Tell us of yourself," Spoke the blunt aunt, with license of her years. "What are you doing now?"
"Nothing," I said.
"And were you not the boy who was to grow Into a great, good man, and write fine books, And have no end of fame?"
The question cut Deeper than she intended. The hot blush And stammering answer told her of the hurt, And tenderly she tried to heal the wound: "I know that you have suffered; but your hours Must not be told by tears. The life that goes In unavailing sorrow goes to waste."
"True," I replied, "but work may not be done Without a motive. Never worthy man Worked worthily who was not moved by love. When she I loved, and she who loved me died, My motive died; and it can never rise Till trump of love shall call it from the dust To resurrection."
I spoke earnestly, Without a thought that other ears than hers Were listening to my words; but when I looked, I saw the maiden's eyes were dim with tears. I knew her own experience was touched, And that her heart made answer to my own In perfect sympathy.
To change the drift, I took her book, and read the title-page: "So you like poetry," I said.
"So well my aunt Finds fault with me."
"You write, perhaps?"
"A happy woman!" I exclaimed; "in truth, The first I ever found affecting art Who shunned expression by it. If a girl Like painting, she must paint; if poetry, She must write verses. Can you tell me why . Men with a taste for art in finest forms Cherish the fancy that they may become, Or are, Art's masters? You shall see a man Who never drew a line or struck an arc Direct an architect, and spoil his work, Because, forsooth! he likes a tasteful house! He likes a muffin, but he does not go Into his kitchen to instruct his cook,-- Nay, that were insult. He admires fine clothes, But trusts his tailor. Only in those arts Which issue from creative potencies Does his conceit engage him. He could learn The baker's trade, and learn to cut a coat, But never learn to do that one great deed Which he essays."
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