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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=349978" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Happiest Girl in the World</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A week ago; only a little week:<br>it seems so much much longer, though that day<br>is every morning still my yesterday;<br>as all my life 'twill be my yesterday,<br>for all my life is morrow to my love.<br>Oh fortunate morrow! Oh sweet happy love!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A week ago; and I am almost glad<br>to have him now gone for this little while,<br>that I may think of him and tell myself<br>what to be his means, now that I am his,<br>and know if mine is love enough for him,<br>and make myself believe it all is true.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A week ago; and it seems like a life,<br>and I have not yet learned to know myself:<br>I am so other than I was, so strange,<br>grown younger and grown older all in one;<br>and I am not so sad and not so gay;<br>and I think nothing, only hear him think.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That morning, waking, I remembered him<br>"Will he be here to-day? he often comes; -- <br>and is it for my sake or to kill time?"<br>and, wondering "Will he come?" I chose the dress<br>he seemed to like the best, and hoped for him;<br>and did not think I could quite love him yet.<br>And did I love him then with all my heart?<br>or did I wait until he held my hands<br>and spoke "Say, shall it be?" and kissed my brow,<br>and I looked at him and he knew it all?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And did I love him from the day we met?<br>but I more gladly danced with some one else<br>who waltzed more smoothly and was merrier:<br>and did I love him when he first came here?<br>but I more gladly talked with some one else<br>whose words were readier and who sought me more.<br>When did I love him? How did it begin?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The small green spikes of snowdrops in the spring<br>are there one morning ere you think of them;<br>still we may tell what morning they pierced up:<br>June rosebuds stir and open stealthily,<br>and every new blown rose is a surprise;<br>still we can date the day when one unclosed:<br>but how can I tell when my love began?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, was it like the young pale twilight star<br>that quietly breaks on the vacant sky,<br>is sudden there and perfect while you watch,<br>and, though you watch, you have not seen it dawn,<br>the star that only waited and awoke?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But he knows when he loved me; for he says<br>the first time we had met he told a friend<br>"The sweetest dewy daisy of a girl,<br>but not the solid stuff to make a wife;"<br>and afterwards the first time he was here,<br>when I had slipped away into our field<br>to watch alone for sunset brightening on<br>and heard them calling me, he says he stood<br>and saw me come along the coppice walk<br>beneath the green and sparkling arch of boughs,<br>and, while he watched the yellow lights that played<br>with the dim flickering shadows of the leaves<br>over my yellow hair and soft pale dress,<br>flitting across me as I flitted through,<br>he whispered inly, in so many words,<br>"I see my wife; this is my wife who comes,<br>and seems to bear the sunlight on with her:"<br>and that was when he loved me, so he says.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet is he quite sure? was it only then?<br>and had he had no thought which I could feel?<br>for why was it I knew that he would watch,<br>and all the while thought in my silly heart,<br>as I advanced demurely, it was well<br>I had on the pale dress with sweeping folds<br>which took the light and shadow tenderly,<br>and that the sunlights touched my hair and cheek,<br>because he'd note it all and care for it?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh vain and idle poor girl's heart of mine,<br>content with that coquettish mean content!<br>He, with his man's straight purpose, thinking "wife,"<br>and I but that 'twas pleasant to be fair<br>and that 'twas pleasant he should count me fair.<br>But oh, to think he should be loving me<br>and I be no more moved out of myself!<br>The sunbeams told him, but they told me nought,<br>except that maybe I was looking well.<br>And oh had I but known! Why did no bird,<br>trilling its own sweet lovesong, as I passed,<br>so musically marvellously glad,<br>sing one for me too, sing me "It is he,"<br>sing "Love him," and "You love him: it is he,"<br>that I might then have loved him when he loved,<br>that one dear moment might be date to both?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And must I not be glad he hid his thought<br>and did not tell me then, when it was soon<br>and I should have been startled, and not known<br>how he is just the one man I can love,<br>and, only with some pain lest he were pained,<br>and nothing doubting, should have answered "No."<br>How strange life is! I should have answered "No."<br>Oh, can I ever be half glad enough<br>he is so wise and patient and could wait!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He waited as you wait the reddening fruit<br>which helplessly is ripening on the tree,<br>and not because it tries or longs or wills,<br>only because the sun will shine on it:<br>but he who waited was himself that sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh was it worth the waiting? was it worth?<br>For I am half afraid love is not love,<br>this love which only makes me rest in him<br>and be so happy and so confident,<br>this love which makes me pray for longest days<br>that I may have them all to use for him,<br>this love which almost makes me yearn for pain<br>that I might have borne something for his sake,<br>this love which I call love, is less than love.<br>Where are the fires and fevers and the pangs?<br>where is the anguish of too much delight,<br>and the delirious madness at a kiss,<br>the flushing and the paling at a look,<br>and passionate ecstasy of meeting hands?<br>where is the eager weariness at time<br>that will not bate a single measured hour<br>to speed to us the far-off wedding day?<br>I am so calm and wondering, like a child<br>who, led by a firm hand it knows and trusts<br>along a stranger country beautiful<br>with a bewildering beauty to new eyes<br>if they be wise to know what they behold,<br>finds newness everywhere but no surprise,<br>and takes the beauty as an outward part<br>of being led so kindly by the hand.<br>I am so cold: is mine but a child's heart,<br>and not a woman's fit for such a man?<br>Alas am I too cold, am I too dull,<br>can I not love him as another could?<br>And oh, if love be fire, what love is mine<br>that is but like the pale subservient moon<br>who only asks to be earth's minister?<br>And, oh, if love be whirlwind, what is mine<br>that is but like a little even brook<br>which has no aim but flowing to the sea,<br>and sings for happiness because it flows?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah well, I would that I could love him more<br>and not be only happy as I am;<br>I would that I could love him to his worth,<br>with that forgetting all myself in him,<br>that subtle pain of exquisite excess,<br>that momentary infinite sharp joy,<br>I know by books but cannot teach my heart:<br>and yet I think my love must needs be love,<br>since he can read me through -- oh happy strange,<br>my thoughts that were my secrets all for me<br>grown instantly his open easy book! -- <br>since he can read me through, and is content.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yesterday, when they all went away,<br>save little Amy with her daisy chains,<br>and left us in that shadow of tall ferns,<br>and the child, leaning on me, fell asleep,<br>and I, tired by the afternoon long walk,<br>said "I could almost gladly sleep like her,"<br>did he not answer, drawing down my head,<br>"Sleep, darling, let me see you rest on me,"<br>and when the child, awaking, wakened me,<br>did he not say "Dear, you have made me glad,<br>for, seeing you so sleeping peacefully,<br>I feel that you do love me utterly,<br>no questionings, no regrettings, but at rest."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh yes, my good true darling, you spoke well<br>"No questionings, no regrettings, but at rest:"<br>what should I question, what should I regret,<br>now I have you who are my hope and rest?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am the feathery wind-wafted seed<br>that flickered idly half a merry morn,<br>now thralled into the rich life-giving earth<br>to root and bud and waken into leaf<br>and make it such poor sweetness as I may;<br>the prisoned seed that never more shall float<br>the frolic playfellow of summer winds<br>and mimic the free changeful butterfly;<br>the prisoned seed that prisoned finds its life<br>and feels its pulses stir, and grows, and grows.<br>Oh love, who gathered me into yourself,<br>oh love, I am at rest in you, and live.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And shall I for so many coming days<br>be flower and sweetness to him? Oh pale flower,<br>grow, grow, and blossom out, and fill the air,<br>feed on his richness, grow, grow, blossom out,<br>and fill the air, and be enough for him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh crystal music of the air-borne lark,<br>so falling, nearer, nearer, from the sky,<br>are you a message to me of dear hopes?<br>oh trilling gladness, flying down to earth,<br>have you brought answer of sweet prophecy?<br>have you brought answer to the thoughts in me?<br>Oh happy answer, and oh happy thoughts!<br>and which is the bird's carol, which my heart's?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My love, my love, my love! And I shall be<br>so much to him, so almost everything:<br>and I shall be the friend whom he will trust,<br>and I shall be the child whom he will teach,<br>and I shall be the servant he will praise,<br>and I shall be the mistress he will love,<br>and I shall be his wife. Oh days to come,<br>will ye not pass like gentle rhythmic steps<br>that fall to sweetest music noiselessly?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But I have known the lark's song half sound sad,<br>and I have seen the lake, which rippled sun,<br>toss dimmed and purple in a sudden wind;<br>and let me laugh a moment at my heart<br>that thinks the summer-time must all be fair,<br>that thinks the good days always must be good:<br>yes let me laugh a moment -- may be weep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But no, but no, not laugh; for through my joy<br>I have been wise enough to know the while<br>some tears and some long hours are in all lives,<br>in every promised land some thorn plants grow,<br>some tangling weeds as well as laden vines:<br>and no, not weep; for is not my land fair,<br>my land of promise flushed with fruit and bloom?<br>and who would weep for fear of scattered thorns?<br>and very thorns bear oftentimes sweet fruits.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh the black storm that breaks across the lake<br>ruffles the surface, leaves the deeps at rest -- <br>deep in our hearts there always will be rest:<br>oh summer storms fall sudden as they rose,<br>the peaceful lake forgets them while they die -- <br>our hearts will always have it summer time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All rest, all summer time. My love, my love,<br>I know it will be so; you are so good,<br>and I, near you, shall grow at last like you;<br>and you are tender, patient -- oh I know<br>you will bear with me, help me, smile to me,<br>and let me make you happy easily;<br>and I, what happiness could I have more<br>than that dear labour of a happy wife?<br>I would not have another. Is it wrong,<br>and is it selfish that I cannot wish,<br>that I, who yet so love the clasping hand<br>and innocent fond eyes of little ones,<br>I cannot wish that which I sometimes read<br>is women's dearest wish hid in their love,<br>to press a baby creature to my breast?<br>Oh is it wrong? I would be all for him,<br>not even children coming 'twixt us two<br>to call me from his service to serve them;<br>and maybe they would steal too much of love,<br>for, since I cannot love him now enough,<br>what would my heart be halved? or would it grow?<br>But he perhaps would love me something less,<br>finding me not so always at his side.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Together always, that was what he said;<br>together always. Oh dear coming days!<br>O dear dear present days that pass too fast,<br>although they bring such rainbow morrows on!<br>that pass so fast, and yet, I know not why,<br>seem always to encompass so much time.<br>And I should fear I were too happy now,<br>and making this poor world too much my Heaven,<br>but that I feel God nearer and it seems<br>as if I had learned His love better too.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So late already! The sun dropping down,<br>and under him the first long line of red -- <br>my truant should be here again by now,<br>is come maybe. I will not seek him, I;<br>he would be vain and think I cared too much;<br>I will wait here, and he shall seek for me,<br>and I will carelessly -- Oh his dear step -- <br>he sees me, he is coming; my own love!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Augusta+Davies+Webster">Augusta Davies Webster</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=349978" data-title="The Happiest Girl in the World de Augusta Davies Webster" data-description="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; ..."></div> </div> </div>
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