But I have,
And I'm off now to practise with my notions.
And I'm off now to practise with my notions.
Lascelle Abercrombie
You'ld be as wise
Blowing the bellows at a pile of stone
As loving one that never lived for you.
It isn't just to make a wind you blow,
But to turn red fire into white quivering heat.
Whatever she's after, 'tis not love, my girl:
I know what love is. But perhaps she saw
The poor lad living? Even had speech with him?
_Katrina_.
Not she; Mary has never known a lad
I did not know as well. We've shared our lives
As if we had been sisters, and I'm sure
She's never been in love before.
_Jean_.
Before?
Don't talk such sentimental nonsense--
_Katrina_.
Why,
If Love-at-first-sight can mean anything,
Surely 'tis this: there's some one in the world
Whom, if you come across him, you must love,
And you could no more pass his face unmoved
Than the year could go backwards. Well, suppose
He dies just ere you meet him; and he dead,
Ay, or his head alone, is given your eyes,
It is enough: he is the man for you,
All as if he were quick and signalling
His heart to you in smiles.
_Jean_.
Believe me, dear,
You've no more notion of the thing called Love
Than a grig has of talking.
But I have,
And I'm off now to practise with my notions.
_Katrina_.
Now which is the real love,--hers or Mary's?
VI
_Before Dawn, At the Scottish Gate_.
_Mary_.
Beloved, beloved! --O forgive me
That all these days questioning I have been,
Struggled with doubts. Your power over me,
That here slipt through the nets death caught you in,
Lighted on me so greatly that my heart
Could scarcely carry the amazement. Now
I am awake and seeing; and I come
To save you from this post of ignominy.
A ladder I have filched and thro' the streets
Borne it, on shoulders little used to weight.
You'll say that I should not have bruised myself? --
But it is good, and an ease for me, to have
Some ache of body. --Now if there's any chink
In death, surely my love will reach to thee,
Surely thou wilt be ware of how I go
Henceforth through life utterly thine. And yet
Pardon what now I say, for I must say it.
I cannot thank thee, my dear murder'd lad,
For mastering me so. What other girls
Might say in blessing on their sweethearts' heads,
How can I say?
Blowing the bellows at a pile of stone
As loving one that never lived for you.
It isn't just to make a wind you blow,
But to turn red fire into white quivering heat.
Whatever she's after, 'tis not love, my girl:
I know what love is. But perhaps she saw
The poor lad living? Even had speech with him?
_Katrina_.
Not she; Mary has never known a lad
I did not know as well. We've shared our lives
As if we had been sisters, and I'm sure
She's never been in love before.
_Jean_.
Before?
Don't talk such sentimental nonsense--
_Katrina_.
Why,
If Love-at-first-sight can mean anything,
Surely 'tis this: there's some one in the world
Whom, if you come across him, you must love,
And you could no more pass his face unmoved
Than the year could go backwards. Well, suppose
He dies just ere you meet him; and he dead,
Ay, or his head alone, is given your eyes,
It is enough: he is the man for you,
All as if he were quick and signalling
His heart to you in smiles.
_Jean_.
Believe me, dear,
You've no more notion of the thing called Love
Than a grig has of talking.
But I have,
And I'm off now to practise with my notions.
_Katrina_.
Now which is the real love,--hers or Mary's?
VI
_Before Dawn, At the Scottish Gate_.
_Mary_.
Beloved, beloved! --O forgive me
That all these days questioning I have been,
Struggled with doubts. Your power over me,
That here slipt through the nets death caught you in,
Lighted on me so greatly that my heart
Could scarcely carry the amazement. Now
I am awake and seeing; and I come
To save you from this post of ignominy.
A ladder I have filched and thro' the streets
Borne it, on shoulders little used to weight.
You'll say that I should not have bruised myself? --
But it is good, and an ease for me, to have
Some ache of body. --Now if there's any chink
In death, surely my love will reach to thee,
Surely thou wilt be ware of how I go
Henceforth through life utterly thine. And yet
Pardon what now I say, for I must say it.
I cannot thank thee, my dear murder'd lad,
For mastering me so. What other girls
Might say in blessing on their sweethearts' heads,
How can I say?
