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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=413306" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story - Part V.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Said the high hill, in the morning: 'Look on me--<br>'Behold, sweet earth, sweet sister sky, behold<br>'The red flames on my peaks, and how my pines<br>'Are cressets of pure gold; my quarried scars<br>'Of black crevase and shadow-fill'd canon,<br>'Are trac'd in silver mist. How on my breast<br>'Hang the soft purple fringes of the night;<br>'Close to my shoulder droops the weary moon,<br>'Dove-pale, into the crimson surf the sun<br>'Drives up before his prow; and blackly stands<br>'On my slim, loftiest peak, an eagle, with<br>'His angry eyes set sunward, while his cry<br>'Falls fiercely back from all my ruddy heights;<br>'And his bald eaglets, in their bare, broad nest,<br>'Shrill pipe their angry echoes: ''Sun, arise,<br>''And show me that pale dove, beside her nest,<br>''Which I shall strike with piercing beak and tear<br>''With iron talons for my hungry young.''<br>And that mild dove, secure for yet a space,<br>Half waken'd, turns her ring'd and glossy neck<br>To watch dawn's ruby pulsing on her breast,<br>And see the first bright golden motes slip down<br>The gnarl'd trunks about her leaf-deep nest,<br>Nor sees nor fears the eagle on the peak.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Aye, lassie, sing--I'll smoke my pipe the while,<br>'And let it be a simple, bonnie song,<br>'Such as an old, plain man can gather in<br>'His dulling ear, and feel it slipping thro'<br>'The cold, dark, stony places of his heart.'<br>'Yes, sing, sweet Kate,' said Alfred in her ear;<br>'I often heard you singing in my dreams<br>'When I was far away the winter past.'<br>So Katie on the moonlit window lean'd,<br>And in the airy silver of her voice<br>Sang of the tender, blue 'Forget-me-not.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Could every blossom find a voice,<br>And sing a strain to me;<br>I know where I would place my choice,<br>Which my delight should be.<br>I would not choose the lily tall,<br>The rose from musky grot;<br>But I would still my minstrel call<br>The blue 'Forget-me-not!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I on mossy bank would lie<br>Of brooklet, ripp'ling clear;<br>And she of the sweet azure eye,<br>Close at my list'ning ear,<br>Should sing into my soul a strain<br>Might never be forgot--<br>So rich with joy, so rich with pain<br>The blue 'Forget-me-not!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, ev'ry blossom hath a tale<br>With silent grace to tell,<br>From rose that reddens to the gale<br>To modest heather bell;<br>But O, the flow'r in ev'ry heart<br>That finds a sacred spot<br>To bloom, with azure leaves apart,<br>Is the 'Forget-me-not!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Love plucks it from the mosses green<br>When parting hours are nigh,<br>And places it loves palms between,<br>With many an ardent sigh;<br>And bluely up from grassy graves<br>In some lov'd churchyard spot,<br>It glances tenderly and waves,<br>The dear 'Forget-me-not!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And with the faint last cadence, stole a glance<br>At Malcolm's soften'd face--a bird-soft touch<br>Let flutter on the rugged silver snarls<br>Of his thick locks, and laid her tender lips<br>A second on the iron of his hand.<br>'And did you ever meet,' he sudden ask'd,<br>Of Alfred, sitting pallid in the shade,<br>'Out by yon unco place, a lad,--a lad<br>'Nam'd Maxwell Gordon; tall, and straight, and strong;<br>'About my size, I take it, when a lad?'<br>And Katie at the sound of Max's name,<br>First spoken for such space by Malcolm's lips,<br>Trembl'd and started, and let down her brow,<br>Hiding its sudden rose on Malcolm's arm.<br>'Max Gordon? Yes. Was he a friend of yours?'<br>'No friend of mine, but of the lassie's here--<br>'How comes he on? I wager he's a drone,<br>'And never will put honey in the hive.'<br>'No drone,' said Alfred, laughing; 'when I left<br>'He and his axe were quarr'ling with the woods<br>'And making forests reel--love steels a lover's arm.'<br>O, blush that stole from Katie's swelling heart,<br>And with its hot rose brought the happy dew<br>Into her hidden eyes. 'Aye, aye! is that the way?'<br>Said Malcolm smiling. 'Who may be his love?'<br>'In that he is a somewhat simple soul,<br>'Why, I suppose he loves--' he paused, and Kate<br>Look'd up with two 'forget-me-nots' for eyes,<br>With eager jewels in their centres set<br>Of happy, happy tears, and Alfred's heart<br>Became a closer marble than before.<br>'--Why I suppose he loves--his lawful wife.'<br>'His wife! his wife!' said Malcolm, in a maze,<br>And laid his heavy hand on Katie's head;<br>'Did you play me false, my little lass?<br>'Speak and I'll pardon! Katie, lassie, what?'<br>'He has a wife,' said Alfred, 'lithe and bronz'd,<br>'An Indian woman, comelier than her kind;<br>'And on her knee a child with yellow locks,<br>'And lake-like eyes of mystic Indian brown.<br>'And so you knew him? He is doing well.'<br>'False, false!' said Katie, lifting up her head.<br>'O, you know not the Max my father means!'<br>'He came from yonder farm-house on the slope.'<br>'Some other Max--we speak not of the same.'<br>'He has a red mark on his temple set.'<br>'It matters not--'tis not the Max we know.'<br>'He wears a turquoise ring slung round his neck.'<br>'And many wear them--they are common stones.'<br>'His mother's ring--her name was Helen Wynde.'<br>'And there be many Helens who have sons.'<br>'O Katie, credit me--it is the man.'<br>'O not the man! Why, you have never told<br>'Us of the true soul that the true Max has;<br>'The Max we know has such a soul, I know.'<br>'How know you that, my foolish little lass?'<br>Said Malcolm, a storm of anger bound<br>Within his heart, like Samson with green withs--<br>'Belike it is the false young cur we know!'<br>'No, no,' said Katie, simply, and low-voic'd;<br>'If he were traitor I must needs be false,<br>'For long ago love melted our two hearts.<br>'And time has moulded those two hearts in one,<br>'And he is true since I am faithful still.'<br>She rose and parted, trembling as she went,<br>Feeling the following steel of Alfred's eyes,<br>And with the icy hand of scorn'd mistrust<br>Searching about the pulses of her heart--<br>Feeling for Max's image in her breast.<br>'To-night she conquers Doubt; to-morrow's noon<br>'His following soldiers sap the golden wall,<br>'And I shall enter and possess the fort,'<br>Said Alfred, in his mind. 'O Katie, child,<br>'Wilt thou be Nemesis, with yellow hair,<br>'To rend my breast? for I do feel a pulse<br>'Stir when I look into thy pure-barb'd eyes--<br>'O, am I breeding that false thing, a heart?<br>'Making my breast all tender for the fangs<br>'Of sharp Remorse to plunge their hot fire in.<br>'I am a certain dullard! Let me feel<br>'But one faint goad, fine as a needle's point,<br>'And it shall be the spur in my soul's side<br>'To urge the madd'ning thing across the jags<br>'And cliffs of life, into the soft embrace<br>'Of that cold mistress, who is constant too,<br>'And never flings her lovers from her arms--<br>'Not Death, for she is still a fruitful wife,<br>'Her spouse the Dead, and their cold marriage yields<br>'A million children, born of mould'ring flesh--<br>'So Death and Flesh live on--immortal they!<br>'I mean the blank-ey'd queen whose wassail bowl<br>'Is brimm'd from Lethe, and whose porch is red<br>'With poppies, as it waits the panting soul--<br>'She, she alone is great! No scepter'd slave<br>'Bowing to blind creative giants, she;<br>'No forces seize her in their strong, mad hands,<br>'Nor say, ''Do this--be that!'' Were there a God,<br>'His only mocker, she, great Nothingness!<br>'And to her, close of kin, yet lover too,<br>'Flies this large nothing that we call the soul.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Doth true Love lonely grow?<br>Ah, no! ah, no!<br>Ah, were it only so--<br>That it alone might show<br>Its ruddy rose upon its sapful tree,<br>Then, then in dewy morn,<br>Joy might his brow adorn<br>With Love's young rose as fair and glad as he.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But with Love's rose doth blow<br>Ah, woe! ah, woe!<br>Truth with its leaves of snow,<br>And Pain and Pity grow<br>With Love's sweet roses on its sapful tree!<br>Love's rose buds not alone,<br>But still, but still doth own<br>A thousand blossoms cypress-hued to see!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Isabella+Valancy+Crawford">Isabella Valancy Crawford</a><div class=q>
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'Behold, sweet earth, sweet sister sky, behold
'The red flames on my peaks, and how my pines
'Are cressets of pure gold; my quarried scars
'Of black crevase and shadow-fill'd canon,
'Are trac'd in ..."></div>
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