“‘Sail onward, ships—white wings, sail on,
Till past the horizon’s purple bar
You drift from sight.—In flush of dawn
Sail on, and ’neath the evening star’—
Trash—trash—and yet there’s a picture in it—
‘Lap softly, purple waves. I dream,
And dreams are sweet—I’ll wake no more’—
Ah, but you’ll have to wake if you want to accomplish anything. Girl, you’ve used purple twice in the same poem.
‘Buttercups in a golden frenzy’—
‘a golden frenzy’—girl, I see the wind shaking the buttercups.
‘From the purple gates of the west I come’—
You’re too fond of purple, Emily.”
“It’s such a lovely word,” said Emily.
“‘Dreams that seem too bright to die’—
Seem but never are, Emily—
‘The luring voice of the echo, fame’—
So you’ve heard it, too? It is a lure and for most of us only an echo. And that’s the last of the lot.”
Mr. Carpenter swept the little sheets aside, folded his arms on the desk, and looked over his glasses at Emily.
Emily looked back at him mutely, nervelessly. All the life seemed to have been drained out of her body and concentrated in her eyes.
“Ten good lines out of four hundred, Emily—comparatively good, that is—and all the rest balderdash—balderdash, Emily.”
“I—suppose so,” said Emily faintly.
