Path Flower

Olive Tilford Dargan

A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,
 A lark o'er Golder's lane,
As I the April pathway trod
 Bound west for Willesden.

At foot each tiny blade grew big
 And taller stood to hear,
And every leaf on every twig
 Was like a little ear.

As I too paused, and both ways tried
 To catch the rippling rain, --
So still, a hare kept at my side
 His tussock of disdain, --

Behind me close I heard a step,
 A soft pit-pat surprise,
And looking round my eyes fell deep
 Into sweet other eyes;

The eyes like wells, where sun lies too,
 So clear and trustful brown,
Without a bubble warning you
 That here's a place to drown.

"How many miles?"  Her broken shoes
 Had told of more than one.
She answered like a dreaming Muse,
 "I came from Islington."

"So long a tramp?"  Two gentle nods,
 Then seemed to lift a wing,
And words fell soft as willow-buds,
 "I came to find the Spring."

A timid voice, yet not afraid
 In ways so sweet to roam,
As it with honey bees had played
 And could no more go home.

Her home! I saw the human lair,
 I heard the huckster's bawl,
I stifled with the thickened air
 Of bickering mart and stall.

Without a tuppence for a ride,
 Her feet had set her free.
Her rags, that decency defied,
 Seemed new with liberty.

But she was frail.  Who would might note
 The trail of hungering
That for an hour she had forgot
 In wonder of the Spring.

So shriven by her joy she glowed
 It seemed a sin to chat.
(A tea-shop snuggled off the road;
 Why did I think of that?)

Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept, --
 But she was passing on,
And I but muddled, "You'll accept
 A penny for a bun?"

Then up her little throat a spray
 Of rose climbed for it must;
A wilding lost till safe it lay
 Hid by her curls of rust;

And I saw modesties at fence
 With pride that bore no name;
So old it was she knew not whence
 It sudden woke and came;

But that which shone of all most clear
 Was startled, sadder thought
That I should give her back the fear
 Of life she had forgot.

And I blushed for the world we'd made,
 Putting God's hand aside,
Till for the want of sun and shade
 His little children died;

And blushed that I who every year
 With Spring went up and down,
Must greet a soul that ached for her
 With "penny for a bun!"

Struck as a thief in holy place
 Whose sin upon him cries,
I watched the flowers leave her face,
 The song go from her eyes.

Then she, sweet heart, she saw my rout,
 And of her charity
A hand of grace put softly out
 And took the coin from me.

A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,
 A lark o'er Golder's lane;
But I, alone, still glooming stood,
 And April plucked in vain;

Till living words rang in my ears
 And sudden music played:
~Out of such sacred thirst as hers
 The world shall be remade.~

Afar she turned her head and smiled
 As might have smiled the Spring,
And humble as a wondering child
 I watched her vanishing.

From: Rittenhouse, Jessie B.
The Second Book of Modern Verse (1919).

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This collection assembled by Jone Johnson Lewis.
Collection © 1999-2002 Jone Johnson Lewis.

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