Why, no,—she had never taken so much pains with me.
Then she would let me see the inside of it?
She would think of it.
Just as we parted, she took a little key from her pocket and handed it to me.—This unlocks my naughty book,—she said,—you shall see it. I am not afraid of you.
I don't know whether the last words exactly pleased me. At any rate, I took the book and hurried with it to my room. I opened it, and saw, in a few glances, that I held the heart of Iris in my hand.
—I have no verses for you this month, except these few lines suggested by the season.
Midsummer.
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Here! sweep these foolish leaves away,— I will not crush my brains to-day!— Look! are the southern curtains drawn? Fetch me a fan, and so begone! Not that,—the palm-tree's rustling leaf Brought from a parching coral-reef! Its breath is heated;—I would swing The broad gray plumes,—the eagle's wing. I hate these roses' feverish blood!— Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud, A long-stemmed lily from the lake, Cold as a coiling water-snake. Rain me sweet odors on the air, And wheel me up my Indian chair, And spread some book not overwise Flat out before my sleepy eyes. —Who knows it not,—this dead recoil Of weary fibres stretched with toil,— The pulse that flutters faint and low When Summer's seething breezes blow? O Nature! bare thy loving breast And give thy child one hour of rest,— One little hour to lie unseen Beneath thy scarf of leafy green! So, curtained by a singing pine, Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine, Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay In sweeter music dies away. |