Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/148

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.

POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND

My Katie's letters told me that she kept her promise true,
But now, for very hopelessness, my own to her were few;
And stern is the pride of New England.


But still she trusted in me, though sick with hope deferred;
No more among the village choir her voice was sweetest heard;
For when the wild northeaster of the fourth long winter blew,
So thin her frame with pining, the cold wind pierced her through;
And chill are the blasts of New England.


At last my fortunes bettered, on the far Pacific shore,
And I thought to see old Windham and my patient love once more;
When a kinsman's letter reached me: "Come at once, or come too late!
Your Katie's strength is failing; if you love her, do not wait:
Come back to the elms of New England."


O, it wrung my heart with sorrow! I left all else behind,
And straight for dear New England I speeded like the wind.
The day and night were blended till I reached my boyhood's home,
And the old cliffs seemed to mock me that I had not sooner come;
And gray are the rocks of New England.


I could not think 't was Katie, who sat before me there
Reading her Bible—'t was my gift—and pillowed in her chair.
A ring, with all my letters, lay on a little stand,—
She could no longer wear it, so frail her poor, white hand!
But strong is the love of New England.


118