47
Somewhere, a leaf on the one great tree, that up from old time
Growing, contains in itself the whole of the virtue and life of
Bygone days, drawing now to itself all kindreds and nations,
And must have for itself the whole world for its root and branches.
No, I belong to the tree, I shall not decay in the shadow;
Yes, I feel the life-juices of all the world and the ages
Coming to me as to you, more slowly no doubt and poorer,
You are more near, but then you will help to convey them to me.
No, don’t smile, Philip, now, so scornfully!—While you look so
Scornful and strong, I feel as if I were standing and trembling,
Fancying the burn in the dark a wide and rushing river.
And I feel coming into me from you, or perhaps from elsewhere,
Strong contemptuous resolve; I forget, and I bound as across it.
But after all you know, it may be a dangerous river.
Oh, if it were so, Elspie, he said, I can carry you over.
Nay, she replied, you would tire of having me for a burthen.
O sweet burthen, he said, and are you not light as a feather ?
But it is deep, very likely, she said, over head and ears too.
O let us try, he answered, the waters themselves will support us,
Yea, very ripples and waves will form to a boat underneath us;
There is a boat, he said, and a name is written upon it,
Love, he said, and kissed her.—
But I will read your books, though,
Said she, you'll leave me some, Philip.
Not I, replied he, a volume.
This is the way with you all, I perceive, high and low together.
Women must read,—as if they didn't know all beforehand:
Weary of plying the pump we turn to the running water,
And the running spring will needs have a pump built on it.
Weary and sick of our books we come to repose in your eye-sight,
As to the woodland and water, the freshness and beauty of Nature,
Lo, you will talk, forsooth, of the things we are sick to death of
What, she said, and if I have let you become my sweetheart,
I am to read no books! but you may go your ways then,
And I will read, she said, with my father at home as I used to.
If you must have it, he said, I myself will read them to you.
Well, she said, but no, I will read to myself, when I choose it;
What, you suppose we never read anything here in our Highlands,
Bella and I with the father in all our winter evenings.
But we must go, Mr. Philip—
