|
By Cloyd Mann Criswell Submitted by Lolly Gaggin Date: 2004 Mar 10 Comment on this Work [[2004.03.10.02.41.19314]] |
|
"What is the thing your eyes hold loveliest In these, our fields and shores? I'll bring it home." With tenderness, awaiting her request, He stood. The dooryard dogwood was a foam Of wind-tipped flowers, catching at her breath, But these she did not mention, trying hard To meet his eagerness. "Come flood, or death By thunderbolt," he laughed, "I'll heap the yard With everything you ask for. Name it now." She made no answer, yet a little smile Marked for him her compliance. Then, the bough Tilted its stiffened beauty like a pile Of snowy cloud above them. "Ah, I know," He cried, "Your heart is set on something far Beyond our present means. Is that not so?" "I want you and the dogwood as you are, April forever. Can you heap that here?" And while she watched, the boy went out of him. "I think I understand your wifely fear," And reaching up, he shook a weighted limb. So, like the blossoms, quiet settled there. "I will not run away to bring you gifts." He spoke less lightly. "Boys can never bear The undramatic thing. Their rich blood lifts Their spirits higher than their hands, but men May learn where such as you will teach, How life is spent at try and try again To keep white-blowing loveliness in reach." |