FullReads

Child-heart!–mild heart!–
Ho, my little wild heart!–
Come up here to me out o’ the dark,
Or let me come to you!

So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be.
With never one maturer heart for friend
And comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathy
And love might lend it comfort to the end,–
Whose yearnings, aches and stings.
Over poor little things
Were pitiful as ever any Child-heart.

Child-heart!–mild heart!–
Ho, my little wild heart!–
Come up here to me out o’ the dark,
Or let me come to you!

Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad–
Being so young, nor knowing, as we know.
The fact from fantasy, the good from bad,
The joy from woe, the–all that hurts us so!
What wonder then that thus
It hides away from us?–
So weak a little thing is any Child-heart!

Child-heart!–mild heart!–
Ho, my little wild heart!–
Come up here to me out o’ the dark,
Or let me come to you!

Nay, little Child-heart, you have never need
To fear us,–we are weaker far than you–
Tis we who should be fearful–we indeed
Should hide us, too, as darkly as you do,–
Safe, as yourself, withdrawn,
Hearing the World roar on
Too willful, woful, awful for the Child-heart!

Child-heart!–mild heart!–
Ho, my little wild heart!–
Come up here to me out o’ the dark,
Or let me come to you!

The clock chats on confidingly; a rose
Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws
A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine
And shadow, like a Persian-loom design,
Across the homemade carpet–fades,–and then
The dear old colors are themselves again.
Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere–
The bluebird’s and the robin’s trill are there,
Their sweet liquidity diluted some
By dewy orchard spaces they have come:
Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway–
The Mover-wagons’ rumble, and the neigh
Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat
Of sheep and low of cattle through the street–
A Nation’s thoroughfare of hopes and fears,
First blazed by the heroic pioneers
Who gave up old-home idols and set face
Toward the unbroken West, to found a race
And tame a wilderness now mightier than
All peoples and all tracts American.
Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:–
In mild remoteness falls the household din
Of porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thump
Of churning; and the “glung-glung” of the pump,
With sudden pad and skurry of bare feet
Of little outlaws, in from field or street:
The clang of kettle,–rasp of damper-ring
And bang of cookstove-door–and everything
That jingles in a busy kitchen lifts
Its individual wrangling voice and drifts
In sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery tone
Of music hungry ear has ever known
In wildest famished yearning and conceit
Of youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!–
The zest of hunger still incited on
To childish desperation by long-drawn
Breaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stew
And blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too,
Filling the sense with zestful rumors of
The dear old-fashioned dinners children love:
Redolent savorings of home-cured meats,
Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beets
And parsnips–rarest composite entire
That ever pushed a mortal child’s desire
To madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharp
Horseradish–tang that sets the lips awarp
And watery, anticipating all
The cloyed sweets of the glorious festival.–
Still add the cinnamony, spicy scents
Of clove, nutmeg, and myriad condiments
In like-alluring whiffs that prophesy
Of sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie–
The swooning-sweet aroma haunting all
The house–upstairs and down–porch, parlor, hall
And sitting-room–invading even where
The Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air,
And pauses in his pruning of the trees
To note the sun minutely and to–sneeze.