Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/148

POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND My Katie's letters told me that she kept her promise true,

But now, for very hopelessness, my own to her were few;

And stern is the pride of New England.

But still she trusted in me, though sick with hope deferred;

No more among the village choir her voice was sweetest heard;

For when the wild northeaster of the fourth long winter blew,

So thin her frame with pining, the cold wind pierced her through;

And chill are the blasts of New England.

At last my fortunes bettered, on the far Pacific shore,

And I thought to see old Windham and my patient love once more;

When a kinsman's letter reached me: "Come at once, or come too late!

Your Katie's strength is failing; if you love her, do not wait:

Come back to the elms of New England."

O, it wrung my heart with sorrow! I left all else behind,

And straight for dear New England I speeded like the wind.

The day and night were blended till I reached my boyhood's home,

And the old cliffs seemed to mock me that I had not sooner come;

And gray are the rocks of New England.

I could not think 't was Katie, who sat before me there

Reading her Bible—'t was my gift—and pillowed in her chair.

A ring, with all my letters, lay on a little stand,—

She could no longer wear it, so frail her poor, white hand!

But strong is the love of New England.

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