Marjory Darrow

by Bliss Carman

From The Independent, New York, Sept. 1st, 1892.


 

 

MARJORY DARROW


 

MARJORY DARROW was twenty year,
            With the perfect cheek of cream and tan,
With the earth-brown eyes and the corn-gold hair.
            When the thrushes’ song began.

            Clear, clear,

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            Dawn in the dew,
            Dawn in the silvery dew!
            Reap, reap!
            Gold in the dawn,
            Clear . . . .

Marjory Darrow walked at dusk

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            Of an August day in the Northern year;
While far in the hills awoke the cry
            Her heart stood still to hear.

            Far, far,
            Under the dawn,

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            Old in the far of the dawn,
            Weep, weep!
             Deep in the dew,
            Far, how far!

Marjory Darrow’s brows were cool.

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            While the blue martins preened and purled
About their doorways in the sun,
            She mused upon the world.

            Sphere, sphere,
            Sphere of the dawn,

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            Sphere of the dawn in the dew,
            Leap, leap!
            Fold in the dew, sphere,
            Spheral, sphere!

Marjory Darrow’s rebel mouth!

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            There lurked the story, proud and sad,
That braced the battle gear of war
            When the young world was glad.

            Star, star,
            New to the dawn,

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            New in the old of the dawn,
            Peep, peep!
            Ware of the dawn,
            Star, new star!

Marjory Darrow’s heart was hot,

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            Burning among the roses pale;
For the wells of joy must not run low,
            Nor the springs of being fail.

            Here, here,
             Down in the dew,

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            Far in the silvery dew,
            Keep, keep!
            Old in the dawn
            Here . . . .

Marjory Darrow’s arms were lithe,

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            And strong the beat of the blood therein;
For love is a seraph dour and blind
            Leading his mortal kin.

            Dear, dear,
            Dearer than dawn,

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            Two with the scar of the dawn,
            Sweep, sweep,
            Through the drear of the dawn
            Year on year.

Marjory Darrow’s eyes were wet,

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            And the world was light as the dust of spring;
While far away in the aching hills
            She heard the thrushes sing.

            Near, near,
            Near is the dew,

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            Near is the cold of the dew.
            Creep, creep,
            Cold, for the dew
            Is near, near!

Marjory Darrow loved too well;

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            But if death walked in the garden there
The blood-red poppies held their peace,
            Nodding as if aware.

            Fear, fear,
            Under the dawn!

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            Under the cold of the dew,
            Sleep, sleep!
            Far in the dawn
            Fear no fear!

Then sleep crept into the bones of the wind,

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            With always his one more field to roam;
And like a hunter out of the hills
            The scarlet sun went home.

            Sheer, sheer,
            Sheer in the blue,

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            Far in the sweep of the blue,
            Deep, deep!
            Gone, thou art gone,
            Dear . . . .