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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420565" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Marguerite</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">MASSACHUSETTS BAY, 1760.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE robins sang in the orchard, the buds into<br>blossoms grew;<br>Little of human sorrow the buds and the robins<br>knew!<br>Sick, in an alien household, the poor French<br>neutral lay;<br>Into her lonesome garret fell the light of the April<br>day,<br>Through the dusty window, curtained by the spider's<br>warp and woof,<br>On the loose-laid floor of hemlock, on oaken ribs<br>of roof,<br>The bedquilt's faded patchwork, the teacups on the<br>stand,<br>The wheel with flaxen tangle, as it dropped from<br>her sick hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What to her was the song of the robin, or warm<br>morning light,<br>As she lay in the trance of the dying, heedless of<br>sound or sight?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Done was the work of her bands, she had eaten her<br>bitter bread;<br>The world of the alien people lay behind her dim<br>and dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But her soul went back to its child-time; she saw<br>the sun o'erflow<br>With gold the Basin of Minas, and set over<br>Gaspereau;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The low, bare flats at ebb-tide, the rush of the sea<br>at flood,<br>Through inlet and creek and river, from dike to<br>upland wood;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The gulls in the red of morning, the fish-hawk's<br>rise and fall,<br>The drift of the fog in moonshine, over the dark<br>coast-wall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She saw the face of her mother, she heard the song<br>she sang;<br>And far off, faintly, slowly, the bell for vespers<br>rang.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By her bed the hard-faced mistress sat, smoothing<br>the wrinkled sheet,<br>Peering into the face, so helpless, and feeling the<br>ice-cold feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With a vague remorse atoning for her greed and<br>long abuse,<br>By care no longer heeded and pity too late for use.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Up the stairs of the garret softly the son of the<br>mistress stepped,<br>Leaned over the head-board, covering his face with<br>his hands, and wept.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Outspake the mother, who watched him sharply,<br>with brow a-frown<br>'What! love you the Papist, the beggar, the<br>charge of the town?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Be she Papist or beggar who lies here, I know<br>and God knows<br>I love her, and fain would go with her wherever<br>she goes!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'O mother! that sweet face came pleading, for<br>love so athirst.<br>You saw but the town-charge; I knew her God's<br>angel at first.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shaking her gray head, the mistress hushed down<br>a bitter cry;<br>And awed by the silence and shadow of death<br>drawing nigh,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She murmured a psalm of the Bible; but closer<br>the young girl pressed,<br>With the last of her life in her fingers, the cross<br>to her breast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'My son, come away,' cried the mother, her voice<br>cruel grown.<br>'She is joined to her idols, like Ephraim; let her<br>alone!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But he knelt with his hand on her forehead, his<br>lips to her ear,<br>And he called back the soul that was passing<br>'Marguerite, do you hear?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She paused on the threshold of Heaven; love, pity,<br>surprise,<br>Wistful, tender, lit up for an instant the cloud of<br>her eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With his heart on his lips he kissed her, but never<br>her cheek grew red,<br>And the words the living long for he spake in the<br>ear of the dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the robins sang in the orchard, where buds to<br>blossoms grew;<br>Of the folded hands and the still face never the<br>robins knew!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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THE robins sang in the orchard, the buds into
blossoms grew;
Little of human sorrow the buds and the robins
knew!
Sick, in an alien household, the poor French
neutral lay;
Into her lonesome garret fell the light of the Ap..."></div>
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