Karlene

Word of a little one born in the West,--How like a sea-bird it comes from the sea,Out of the league-weary waters' unrestBlown with white wings, for a token, to me!

Blown with a skriel and a flurry of plumes(Sea-spray and flight-rapture whirled in a gleam!)Here for a sign of the comrade that loomsLarge in the mist of my love as I dream.

He with the heart of an old violin,Vibrant at every least stir in the place,Lyric of woods where the thrushes begin,Wave-questing wanderer, still for a space,--

What will the child of his be (so I muse),Wood-flower, sea-flower, star-flower rare?Worlds here to choose from, and which will she choose,She whose first world is an armsweep of air?

Baby Karlene, you are wondering nowWhy you can't reach the great moon that you seeJust at your hand on the edge of the boughThat waves in the window-pane--how can it be?

All your world yet hardly lies out of reachOf ten little fingers and ten little toes.You are a seed for the sky there to teach(And the sun and the wind and the rain) as it grows.

Just a green leaf piercing up to the day,Pale fleck of June to come, just to be seenThrough the rough crumble of rubble and clayLifting its loveliness, dawn-child, Karlene!

Fragile as fairycraft, dew-dream of love,--Never a clod that has marred the slim stalk,Never a stone but its frail fingers move,Bent on the blue sky and nothing can balk!

Blue sky and wind-laughters, that is thy dream.Ah the brave days when thy leafage shall tossHigh where gold noondays and sunsets a-streamMix with its moving and kiss it across.

There the great clouds shall go lazily by,Coo! thee with shadows and dazzle with shine,Drench thee with rain-guerdons, bless thee with sky,Till all the knowledge of earth shall be thine.

Wind from the ice-floe and wind from the palm,Wind from the mountains and wind from the lea--How they will sing thee of tempest and calm!How they will lure thee with tales of the sea!

What will you be in that summer, Karlene?Apple-tree, cherry-tree, lily, or corn?Red rose or yellow rose, gray leaf or green?Which will you choose now the year's at its morn?

Somewhere even now in thy heart is the will,--"I shall be Golden Rod, slender and tall--I shall be Pond Lily, secret and still--I shall be Sweetbriar, Queen of them all--

"I shall give shade for the weary to rest--I shall grow flax for the naked to wear--Figs for a feast and all comers to guest--Wreaths that girls twine in the laugh of their hair--

"Ivy for scholars and myrtle for lovers,Laurel for conquerors, poets, and kings--Broad-spreading beech-boughs whose benison coversClamor of bird-notes and flutter of wings--

"I shall rise tall as an elm in my grace--I shall be clothed as catalpa is clad--Poets shall crown me with lyrics of praise--Lovers for lure of my blossoms go mad!"

Which shall it be, baby? Guess you at all?Only I know in the lull of the yearYou have said now where your choosing shall fall,Only you have not yet heard yourself, dear.

So, like a mocking-bird, up in the trees,I watching wondering where you have grown,Borrow a note from a birdfellow's glees,Fittest to sing you, and make it my own.

Only I know as I wonder, Karlene,Singing up here where you think me a star,Heaven's still above me, and some one sereneLaughs in the blue sky and knows what you are.

Good-morning, Karlene. It's a veryFine beautiful world we are in.Well, you do look as ripe as a berry;And, pardon me, such a real chin!

And may I--Ah, thank you; the pleasureIs mine; just one kiss by your ear!--May I introduce myself as yourMost dutiful godfather, dear?

I have fumed, like champagne that is fizzy,To pay my respects at your door.But the publishers keep one so busy.Forgive my not calling before!

Karlene, you're a very small ladyTo venture so far all alone;Especially into so shadyA place as this planet has grown.

When I now, my dear, was at your age,When nobody tried to be rich,But lived on high thinking and porridge(And didn't know t' other from which!),

For a girl to go out unattendedWas considered "not only unwiseAnd improper--" Our grandmothers endedBy lifting to heaven their eyes.

And yet even now, though it's shockingTo slander these wonderful years,I dare say an inch of black stockingCould set all the world by the ears.

Black, mind you, not blue! It's a trifle;But trifling in stockings won't do;For love has an eye like a rifle(His bandage is slipping askew).

But there! You are simply too charming.No doubt you'll be modern enough(Though the speed of the world is alarming)To win with a delicate bluff,

As we say when we're raking the chips in,On a hand that was not over strong--But I see you are pursing your lips in;Perhaps I am prating too long.

Anyhow you'll be learned in isms,And talk pterodactyls in French,And know polyhedrons from prisms,--Though you may not know how to retrench.

You will fall out of love with digammaTo fall in again with Delsarte;You will make a new Syriac grammar,And know all the popes off by heart.

What Socrates said to XantippeWhen the lash of her tongue made him grieve;What makes the banana peel slippy;And what the snake whispered to Eve;

The music that Nero had played him,When Rome was touched off with a match;Why the king let the lady upbraid himFor burning her buns in a batch;

Why Hebrew is written left-handed;And what Venus did with her arms;What the Conqueror said when he landed;The acres in Horace's farms;

The use of hirundo and passer:All this you will probe to the pithAs a freshman at Wellesley or VassarOr Bryn Mawr--though I prefer Smith.

You will solve every riddle in Browning;And learn how to paddle and swim;And save other people from drowning;And play basket ball in the gym.

But you'll scorn to know why there's a tax onAll reading that isn't a bore,When Mallarme's filtered through SaxonAnd the Symbolists come to the fore.

All winter you'll read mathematics(Oh, you'll be a terrible "prod"),And in June, at the Senior Dramatics,You will play like a star. But it's odd,

Since you'll quote every cadence in KiplingAnd Arnold (of course I mean Matt),If you don't make a bard of some striplingBefore he knows where he is at.

I am sure you'll be lovely as Trilby,The loveliest bud of the year;But remember, Karlene, I shall still beYour doting old godfather, dear.

When you hear Archimedes' conundrum,Like enough you'll be wanting to tryWhether one little girl contra mundumCan't lift the old thing with a pry!

You will turn up your nose at poor "Thy will,"With a haughty agnostical sniff,Till you find the imperative "I will"Has a future conditional "if."

And then you will come to your senses,And find out why women were made;And men too; and why there are fencesAll round the whole lot where you strayed,

While you wore yourself down to a shadowYet failed to discover your sphere;For you'll see Adam down in the meadowAnd think what a goosey you were!

And then when your classmates are singingOnce more for good-by the old glees,And the round painted lanterns are swingingAnd sputtering out in the trees,

When everything stales and withersExcept the great stars up above,Your heartstrings will all go to smithers,You'll just be one crumple of love.

And Adam will be such a duffer(Dear fellow, I mean), he'll contrive,Till you make him, to not make him suffer,The happiest mortal alive.

Oh, it makes me too ill to continue,Imagining how it will beWhen some dapper youth comes to win youAnd smiles condescension on me!

I shall loathe his immaculate breeding,And advise you in time to refuse.To think he will share in your reading,And even unbutton your shoes!

And yet when for that precious laddieYour hair is all crinkled and curled,I guess you'll be just like your daddy,The dearest old soul in the world!