Echo and the Ferry.Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven;He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stoodThey had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven!A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh! a girl was no good!”So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood.It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl—only seven!At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out.The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue-birds flashed about,And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven?I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven—eleven!So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered;And under and over the branches those little birds twittered,While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven.A pity—a very great pity. One should be eleven.But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet,And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old.Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold.Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter;And then some one else—oh! how softly!—came after, came afterWith laughter—with laughter came after.And no one was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call,That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall.But this was the country—perhaps it was close under heaven;Oh! nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even.I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of thisLight, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all.Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver:She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small,Then flashed down her hole like a dart—like a dart from the quiver.And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss.—So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiverAnd whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tallWhite branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall—A little low wall—and looked over, and there was the river,The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river,Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow;But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow,And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft—very low.“The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river,“To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river—the river.I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky,The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under.But at last—in a day or two namely—Eleven and IWere very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder.He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of beeThat had learned how to laugh; could it laugh in one’s ear and then fly,And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”—he whispered it low—“Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see.And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he;But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder.Yet I that had money—a shilling, a whole silver shilling—We might cross if I thought I could spend it.” “Oh! yes, I was willing”—And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry,And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merryWhen they called for the ferry; but, oh! she was very—was verySwift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried,“Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry—the ferry!”By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide—she replied,And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, “You man of the ferry,You man of—you man of the ferry!”“Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling;Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast.Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassedAll measure her doubling—so close, then so far away falling,Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware,And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there),Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair.We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead;In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead;By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested, in brown;Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown.So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call.The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over wall.Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy moundAnd looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her roundMight have come in to hide there. But, no; every oak-carven seatWas empty. We saw the great Bible—old, old, very old.And the parson’s great prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beatOf the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear goldOf a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and playOn the low chancel step and the railing; and Oliver said,“Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wedShe stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown;And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small Seven:“Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?”All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven;“You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can neverLast on till you’re tall.” And in whispers—because it was oldAnd holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk.Neither heard nor beheld, but about us—inwhispers we spoke.Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,While bleating of flocks and birds’ piping made sweeter the land.And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry,“O Katie!” O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on then!” “For see,The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”—“by the tree.”“By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry;“Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”—“the ferry.”“You man of the ferry—”“You man of—you man of—the ferry.”Ay, here—it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old;All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told.Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my whiteTo that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon?Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over—passed on?Will the grave parson bless us? Hark! hark! in the dim failing lightI hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry,Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!”“And, Katie.” “And, Katie.” “Art out with the glow-worms to-night,My Katie?” “My Katie!” For gladness I break into laughterAnd tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years;Again, some one else—oh, how softly!—with laughter comes after,Comes after—with laughter comes after.—Jean Ingelow.
Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven;He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stoodThey had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven!A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh! a girl was no good!”So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood.It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl—only seven!At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out.The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue-birds flashed about,And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven?I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven—eleven!So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered;And under and over the branches those little birds twittered,While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven.A pity—a very great pity. One should be eleven.But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet,And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old.Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold.Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter;And then some one else—oh! how softly!—came after, came afterWith laughter—with laughter came after.And no one was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call,That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall.But this was the country—perhaps it was close under heaven;Oh! nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even.I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of thisLight, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all.Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver:She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small,Then flashed down her hole like a dart—like a dart from the quiver.And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss.—So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiverAnd whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tallWhite branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall—A little low wall—and looked over, and there was the river,The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river,Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow;But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow,And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft—very low.“The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river,“To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river—the river.I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky,The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under.But at last—in a day or two namely—Eleven and IWere very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder.He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of beeThat had learned how to laugh; could it laugh in one’s ear and then fly,And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”—he whispered it low—“Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see.And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he;But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder.Yet I that had money—a shilling, a whole silver shilling—We might cross if I thought I could spend it.” “Oh! yes, I was willing”—And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry,And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merryWhen they called for the ferry; but, oh! she was very—was verySwift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried,“Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry—the ferry!”By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide—she replied,And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, “You man of the ferry,You man of—you man of the ferry!”“Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling;Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast.Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassedAll measure her doubling—so close, then so far away falling,Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware,And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there),Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair.We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead;In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead;By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested, in brown;Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown.So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call.The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over wall.Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy moundAnd looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her roundMight have come in to hide there. But, no; every oak-carven seatWas empty. We saw the great Bible—old, old, very old.And the parson’s great prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beatOf the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear goldOf a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and playOn the low chancel step and the railing; and Oliver said,“Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wedShe stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown;And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small Seven:“Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?”All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven;“You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can neverLast on till you’re tall.” And in whispers—because it was oldAnd holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk.Neither heard nor beheld, but about us—inwhispers we spoke.Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,While bleating of flocks and birds’ piping made sweeter the land.And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry,“O Katie!” O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on then!” “For see,The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”—“by the tree.”“By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry;“Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”—“the ferry.”“You man of the ferry—”“You man of—you man of—the ferry.”Ay, here—it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old;All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told.Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my whiteTo that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon?Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over—passed on?Will the grave parson bless us? Hark! hark! in the dim failing lightI hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry,Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!”“And, Katie.” “And, Katie.” “Art out with the glow-worms to-night,My Katie?” “My Katie!” For gladness I break into laughterAnd tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years;Again, some one else—oh, how softly!—with laughter comes after,Comes after—with laughter comes after.—Jean Ingelow.
Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven;He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stoodThey had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven!A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh! a girl was no good!”So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood.It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl—only seven!At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out.The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue-birds flashed about,And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven?I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven—eleven!So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered;And under and over the branches those little birds twittered,While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven.A pity—a very great pity. One should be eleven.But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet,And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old.Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold.Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter;And then some one else—oh! how softly!—came after, came afterWith laughter—with laughter came after.And no one was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call,That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall.But this was the country—perhaps it was close under heaven;Oh! nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even.I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of thisLight, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all.Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver:She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small,Then flashed down her hole like a dart—like a dart from the quiver.And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss.—So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiverAnd whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tallWhite branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall—A little low wall—and looked over, and there was the river,The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river,Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow;But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow,And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft—very low.“The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river,“To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river—the river.I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky,The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under.But at last—in a day or two namely—Eleven and IWere very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder.He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of beeThat had learned how to laugh; could it laugh in one’s ear and then fly,And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”—he whispered it low—“Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see.And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he;But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder.Yet I that had money—a shilling, a whole silver shilling—We might cross if I thought I could spend it.” “Oh! yes, I was willing”—And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry,And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merryWhen they called for the ferry; but, oh! she was very—was verySwift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried,“Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry—the ferry!”By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide—she replied,And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, “You man of the ferry,You man of—you man of the ferry!”“Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling;Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast.Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassedAll measure her doubling—so close, then so far away falling,Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware,And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there),Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair.We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead;In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead;By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested, in brown;Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown.So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call.The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over wall.Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy moundAnd looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her roundMight have come in to hide there. But, no; every oak-carven seatWas empty. We saw the great Bible—old, old, very old.And the parson’s great prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beatOf the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear goldOf a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and playOn the low chancel step and the railing; and Oliver said,“Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wedShe stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown;And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small Seven:“Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?”All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven;“You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can neverLast on till you’re tall.” And in whispers—because it was oldAnd holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk.Neither heard nor beheld, but about us—inwhispers we spoke.Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,While bleating of flocks and birds’ piping made sweeter the land.And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry,“O Katie!” O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on then!” “For see,The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”—“by the tree.”“By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry;“Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”—“the ferry.”“You man of the ferry—”“You man of—you man of—the ferry.”Ay, here—it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old;All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told.Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my whiteTo that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon?Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over—passed on?Will the grave parson bless us? Hark! hark! in the dim failing lightI hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry,Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!”“And, Katie.” “And, Katie.” “Art out with the glow-worms to-night,My Katie?” “My Katie!” For gladness I break into laughterAnd tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years;Again, some one else—oh, how softly!—with laughter comes after,Comes after—with laughter comes after.—Jean Ingelow.
Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven;
He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood
They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven!
A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh! a girl was no good!”
So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood.
It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl—only seven!
At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out.
The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue-birds flashed about,
And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven?
I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven—eleven!
So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered;And under and over the branches those little birds twittered,While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven.A pity—a very great pity. One should be eleven.But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet,And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old.Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold.Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter;And then some one else—oh! how softly!—came after, came afterWith laughter—with laughter came after.
So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,
And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered;
And under and over the branches those little birds twittered,
While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven.
A pity—a very great pity. One should be eleven.
But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet,
And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old.
Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold.
Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter;
And then some one else—oh! how softly!—came after, came after
With laughter—with laughter came after.
And no one was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call,That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall.But this was the country—perhaps it was close under heaven;Oh! nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even.I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of thisLight, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all.Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver:She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small,Then flashed down her hole like a dart—like a dart from the quiver.And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss.
And no one was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call,
That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall.
But this was the country—perhaps it was close under heaven;
Oh! nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even.
I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this
Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all.
Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver:
She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small,
Then flashed down her hole like a dart—like a dart from the quiver.
And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss.
—So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiverAnd whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tallWhite branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall—A little low wall—and looked over, and there was the river,The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river,Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow;But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow,And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft—very low.“The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river,“To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river—the river.I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky,The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under.But at last—in a day or two namely—Eleven and IWere very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder.He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of beeThat had learned how to laugh; could it laugh in one’s ear and then fly,And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”—he whispered it low—“Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see.And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he;But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder.Yet I that had money—a shilling, a whole silver shilling—We might cross if I thought I could spend it.” “Oh! yes, I was willing”—And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry,And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merryWhen they called for the ferry; but, oh! she was very—was verySwift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried,“Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry—the ferry!”By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide—she replied,And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, “You man of the ferry,You man of—you man of the ferry!”
—So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver
And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall
White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall—
A little low wall—and looked over, and there was the river,
The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river,
Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow;
But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow,
And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft—very low.
“The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river,
“To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river—the river.
I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky,
The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under.
But at last—in a day or two namely—Eleven and I
Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder.
He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of bee
That had learned how to laugh; could it laugh in one’s ear and then fly,
And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”—he whispered it low—
“Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see.
And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he;
But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder.
Yet I that had money—a shilling, a whole silver shilling—
We might cross if I thought I could spend it.” “Oh! yes, I was willing”—
And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry,
And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry
When they called for the ferry; but, oh! she was very—was very
Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried,
“Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry—the ferry!”
By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide—she replied,
And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, “You man of the ferry,
You man of—you man of the ferry!”
“Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling;Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast.Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassedAll measure her doubling—so close, then so far away falling,Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware,And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there),Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair.We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead;In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead;By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested, in brown;Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown.
“Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling;
Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast.
Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassed
All measure her doubling—so close, then so far away falling,
Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware,
And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there),
Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair.
We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead;
In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead;
By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested, in brown;
Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown.
So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call.The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over wall.Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy moundAnd looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her roundMight have come in to hide there. But, no; every oak-carven seatWas empty. We saw the great Bible—old, old, very old.And the parson’s great prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beatOf the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear goldOf a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and playOn the low chancel step and the railing; and Oliver said,“Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wedShe stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown;And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small Seven:“Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?”All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven;“You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can neverLast on till you’re tall.” And in whispers—because it was oldAnd holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk.Neither heard nor beheld, but about us—inwhispers we spoke.Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,While bleating of flocks and birds’ piping made sweeter the land.And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry,“O Katie!” O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on then!” “For see,The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”—“by the tree.”“By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry;“Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”—“the ferry.”“You man of the ferry—”“You man of—you man of—the ferry.”
So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call.
The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over wall.
Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy mound
And looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round
Might have come in to hide there. But, no; every oak-carven seat
Was empty. We saw the great Bible—old, old, very old.
And the parson’s great prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat
Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold
Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and play
On the low chancel step and the railing; and Oliver said,
“Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed
She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown;
And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small Seven:
“Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?”
All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven;
“You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never
Last on till you’re tall.” And in whispers—because it was old
And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,
Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk.
Neither heard nor beheld, but about us—inwhispers we spoke.
Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,
While bleating of flocks and birds’ piping made sweeter the land.
And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry,
“O Katie!” O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on then!” “For see,
The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”—“by the tree.”
“By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry;
“Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”—“the ferry.”
“You man of the ferry—”
“You man of—you man of—the ferry.”
Ay, here—it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old;All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told.Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my whiteTo that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon?Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over—passed on?Will the grave parson bless us? Hark! hark! in the dim failing lightI hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry,Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!”“And, Katie.” “And, Katie.” “Art out with the glow-worms to-night,My Katie?” “My Katie!” For gladness I break into laughterAnd tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years;Again, some one else—oh, how softly!—with laughter comes after,Comes after—with laughter comes after.—Jean Ingelow.
Ay, here—it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old;
All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told.
Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white
To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon?
Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over—passed on?
Will the grave parson bless us? Hark! hark! in the dim failing light
I hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry,
Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!”
“And, Katie.” “And, Katie.” “Art out with the glow-worms to-night,
My Katie?” “My Katie!” For gladness I break into laughter
And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years;
Again, some one else—oh, how softly!—with laughter comes after,
Comes after—with laughter comes after.
—Jean Ingelow.