English Poetry III: From Tennyson to Whitman.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
James Russell Lowell
807. The Courtin
G
Fur ’z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,
All silence an’ all glisten.
An’ peeked in thru’ the winder,
An’ there sot Huldy all alone,
’ith no one nigh to hender.
With half a cord o’ wood in—
There war n’t no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin’.
Towards the pootiest, bless her,
An’ leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
An’ in amongst ’em rusted
The ole queen’s-arm the gran’ther Young
Fetched back f’om Concord busted.
Seemed warm f’om floor to ceilin’,
An’ she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin’.
On sech a blessed cretur,
A dogrose blushin’ to a brook
Ain’t modester nor sweeter.
Clear grit an’ human natur’,
None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.
Hed squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,
Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—
All is, he couldn’t love ’em.
All crinkly like curled maple,
The side she breshed felt full o’ sun
Ez a south slope in Ap’il.
Ez hisn in the choir;
My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,
She knowed the Lord was nigher.
When her new meetin’-bunnet
Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair
O’ blue eyes sot upun it.
She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.
A-raspin’ on the scraper,—
All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,
His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
Ez though she wished him furder,
An’ on her apples kep’ to work,
Parin’ away like murder.
‘Wal … no … I come dasignin”—
‘To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es
Agin to-morror’s i’nin’.’
Or don’t, ’ould be persumin’;
Mebby to mean yes an’ say no
Comes nateral to women.
Then stood a spell on t’other,
An’ on which one he felt the wust
He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.
Says she, ‘Think likely, Mister:’
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An’ … Wal, he up an’ kist her.
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips
An’ teary roun’ the lashes.
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.
Too tight for all expressin’,
Tell mother see how metters stood,
An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy,
An’ all I know is they was cried
In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.