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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=448090" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Jude</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When you tell mama<br>you are going to do something great<br>she looks at you<br>as though you were a window<br>she were trying to see through,<br>and says she hopes you will be good<br>instead of great.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When you are five years old<br>you spend the day in the Gardens.<br>The grass is greener than cabbages,<br>and orange lilies<br>stand up very straight<br>and will not curtsey to the sun<br>when the wind tells them.<br>Only pansies bow down very low.<br>Pansies make little purple cushions<br>for queen bees to stand on.<br>Bees<br>have brown silk hair on their bodies.<br>If you are careful<br>they will let you stroke them.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The trees over the marble man<br>catch up all the sunbeams<br>so the shadows have it their way—<br>the shadows swallow him up<br>like a blue shark.<br>When you scoop a sunbeam up on your palm<br>and offer it to the marble man,<br>he does not notice…<br>he looks into his stone beard.<br>… When you do something great<br>people give you a stone face,<br>so you do not care any more<br>when the sun throws gold on you<br>through leaf-holes the wind makes<br>in green bushes….<br>This thought makes me very sad.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Jude has eyes like tobacco<br>with yellow specks on it<br>and his hair is red as a red orange.<br>Jude and I<br>have made a garden in the field<br>that no one knows about.<br>We creep in and out<br>through a little place<br>where the barbed wire is down.<br>We lie in the long grass<br>and crush dandelions<br>between our two cheeks<br>till the milk comes out on our faces.<br>We hold each other tight<br>and the wind tip-toes all over us<br>and pelts us with thistle-down.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Jude isn’t afraid of shadows—<br>not even of the ones that have eyes in them.<br>And he can look in the face of the sun<br>without blinking at all.<br>Hush! don’t say sun so loud.<br>The sun gets angry when you stare at him.<br>If you peek in his glory-windows<br>he spreads into a great white flame<br>like God out of his Burning Bush…<br>till you put your hands up on your face<br>and tremble like a drop of rain upon a flower<br>that some one throws into the fire…<br>and then<br>the sun makes himself small,<br>the sun swings down out of the sky—<br>littler’n a star,<br>little as a spark<br>little as a fierce red spider<br>on a burning thread…<br>and then<br>the light goes out…<br>shivers into blackened bits….<br>You hold on to a wall that whirls around<br>and the gate is a black hole.<br>You grope your way in like a toad<br>that’s blinded by a stone…<br>and mama puts on cold wet rags<br>that get hot soon….<br>Hush! don’t let’s talk about the sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When you pass by the ditch where Janie is<br>You run very fast<br>and look at the other side.<br>Jude says Janie did love me<br>only she couldn’t forgive me,<br>and that you can love people very much<br>and never, never, never forgive them….<br>so we poked a stick in the bottle-green water.<br>But only weeds came up<br>and an old top with the paint washed off.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Jude and I<br>wave to the new moon<br>curled right up like one gold hair<br>on the bald-head sandhill.<br>Mama peeps out the window and smiles.<br>She thinks<br>I am playing with myself…<br>Run, Jude, run with the wind—<br>but hold my hand tight<br>or the wind,<br>looking for some one to play with,<br>will take me away from you!<br>Wind with no one to play with<br>cooees the orange-trees—<br>stay-at-home orange trees,<br>have to nurse oranges,<br>greeny-gold.<br>Wind shouts to the grass—<br>run-away-grass<br>tugs at its roots,<br>but the earth holds tight<br>and the grass falls down<br>and wind boos over it.<br>Wind whistles the bees—<br>bees too busy<br>with taking home stuff out of flowers<br>won’t look back—<br>bees always going somewhere.<br>Only Jude and I—<br>heads over shoulders<br>watching all roads at one time—<br>run with the wind,<br>going to nowhere.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Jude and I<br>were weeding our garden<br>when we heard his whip—<br>must have been a new whip<br>to cut off dandelion-heads at one swing….<br>He was the kind of boy you knew when you had Celia….<br>with nice clothes on and curls<br>crawling about his collar<br>like little golden slugs,<br>and his man was leading his horse.<br>I wish I hadn’t run to meet him….<br>If you hadn’t run to meet him<br>he mightn’t have trod on your garden and said:<br>Get out of my field you dirty little beggar…<br>he mightn’t have struck you with his whip….<br>How the daisies stared….<br>I hate daisies—<br>stupid white faces—<br>skinny necks<br>craning over the grass!<br>I said It is not your field,<br>and he struck me again.<br>But he didn’t make me run.<br>His hand<br>smelled of sweet soap…<br>he couldn’t shake me off,<br>but his man did….<br>Funny—how the sky fell down<br>and turned over and over<br>like a blue carpet rolling you up,<br>and the grass caught at your face—<br>it couldn’t have been spiteful—<br>it must have been saving itself.<br>Hot road… silly wind playing with your hair….<br>The road smelled of horses.<br>I only got up<br>when I heard a dray.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mama has sung ba ba black sheep,<br>and put a chair with a cloth on it<br>between me and the light.<br>But the clock keeps saying:<br>Dirty little beggar,<br>dirty little beggar….<br>Some day<br>I will get that boy.<br>I will pull off his arms and legs<br>and put him in a box<br>and hide the box<br>under the bed….<br>I wonder<br>will he buzz<br>when I take him out to look at his body<br>that will have no arms to whip me?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mama drew my cot to the window<br>so I can look at the stars.<br>I will not look at the stars.<br>There is a black chimney<br>throwing up sparks<br>and one tall flame<br>like gold hair in a blaze….<br>I know now<br>what I shall do….<br>I will set fire to him<br>and he will burn up into a tall flame—<br>he will scream into the sky<br>and sparks will fly out of him—<br>he will burn and burn…<br>and his blazing hair<br>shall light up the world.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Before he hit me—<br>I knew he was going to—<br>I thought about Jude….<br>I thought if he’d fight…<br>but he shriveled all up…<br>he lay down like a fear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mama never knew about Jude.<br>You always wanted to tell her,<br>but somehow you never did.<br>You were afraid she’d smile<br>and say he wasn’t real—<br>that he was only a little dream-boy,<br>because the grass didn’t fall down under his feet….<br>He is fading now….<br>He is just lines… like a drawing….<br>You can see mama in between.<br>When she moves<br>she rubs some of him out.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lola+Ridge">Lola Ridge</a><div class=q>
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<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=448090" data-title="Jude de Lola Ridge" data-description="When you tell mama
you are going to do something great
she looks at you
as though you were a window
she were trying to see through,
and says she hopes you will be good
instead of great.



When you are five years old
you spend the day in the Garde..."></div>
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