The heir of Rookwood.
221
Save that Maud sat within the oriel window
Broidering in gold; that Marian with her mother
On the old oaken settle, wrought for ever
The self-same tapestries—or so it seemed—
That Ernestine liked best the little footstool,
And sat there winding many-coloured wools,
Or weaving them through canvas: to my eye
They ever looked alike. They were all fair,
Grave, gentle, unimpassioned. I did weary
To see them at their broideries day on day.
Broidering in gold; that Marian with her mother
On the old oaken settle, wrought for ever
The self-same tapestries—or so it seemed—
That Ernestine liked best the little footstool,
And sat there winding many-coloured wools,
Or weaving them through canvas: to my eye
They ever looked alike. They were all fair,
Grave, gentle, unimpassioned. I did weary
To see them at their broideries day on day.
For me—I had no pulse that, fast or slow,
Kept time with theirs. My sadness and my joy
Alike outstrode them. At my wilder moods
My father stared and swore; my mother's eyes
Filled with calm wonder, and my sisters three
Copied her, life-like. Was it strange I grew
Petulant, rude, morose—my urgent need
Of love, caresses and sustaining words
Left unsupplied? For I, fair Rookwood's heir,
Could scarcely drag my shapeless limbs the length
Of her broad halls.
Kept time with theirs. My sadness and my joy
Alike outstrode them. At my wilder moods
My father stared and swore; my mother's eyes
Filled with calm wonder, and my sisters three
Copied her, life-like. Was it strange I grew
Petulant, rude, morose—my urgent need
Of love, caresses and sustaining words
Left unsupplied? For I, fair Rookwood's heir,
Could scarcely drag my shapeless limbs the length
Of her broad halls.
