An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their dams Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams, A leak comes spirtin' thru some pin-hole cleft, Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, Then all the waters bow themselves an' come, Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam, Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune An' gives one leap from Aperl into June: Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think, Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink; The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud; The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud; Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, An' look all dipped in sunshine like a poet; The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade; In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clings An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings; All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers, Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try With pins, they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby! But I don't love your cat'logue style, do you? — Ez ef to sell off Natur' by vendoo;
One word with blood in 't 's twice ez good ez two: 'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year, Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, Or climbs against the breeze with quiverin' wings, Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair,
Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air. . -James Russell Lowell
God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.
Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender.
A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in
There war n't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'.
The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back f'om Concord busted.
The very room, coz she was in,
Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'.
'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.
He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clear grit an' human natur', None could n't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter.
He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells All is, he could n't love 'em.
But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.
She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir;
My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher.
An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upun it.
Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper,
All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle.
An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.
"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?"
"Wal no . . . I come dasignin' "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo’es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."
To say why gals acts so or so,
Or don't, 'ould be persumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t' other, An' on which one he felt the wust He could n't ha' told ye nuther.
Says he, "I'd better call agin;"
Says she, "Think likely, Mister:" Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o'smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes.
For she was jes' the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin',
Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'.
Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.
My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone;
As cheerful as she can;
Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.
My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!
Her hair is almost gray;
Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way? How can she lay her glasses down, And say she reads as well,
When through a double convex lens She just makes out to spell?
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