Father read another one after that about a bonfire, which, although she did not quite understand it all, always made Helen tremble with excitement. Henry did not understand any of it and did not try to. It never bothered him now when he did not understand the poems Father read to Helen. He just stopped listening and played with his puppy’s ear, and lost himself in the warm, soft heaviness of the puppy’s little sprawling body on his knees. Sometimes he put his face lovingly down on the little dog’s head, his heart melting with tenderness. He needed no poetry out of a book.
“It will have roared first and mixed sparks with stars,
And sweeping round it with a flaming sword,
Made the dim trees stand back in wider circles.”
“Oh,” cried Helen, loving the sound of the words as Henry loved his puppy, “isn’t that just scrumptious!”
“The breezes were so spent with winter blowing
They seemed to fail the bluebirds under them
Short of the perch their languid flight was towards;
And my flame made a pinnacle to heaven.”
“Oh, Father,” said Helen, wriggling on her chair with delight, “isn’t it too lovely!” And then, in a passion of longing, “Oh, I wish I could write like that!”