The heir of Rookwood.
223
With a short sigh. His eye was like a hound's,
Earnest and steady, and for ever seemed
Hunting my maimed form.
But with childhood went
Part of my sickness. I might wander free
Through the green valleys, lawns and woods that graced
My fair inheritance. The garden chair
That had been wont to draw me, day by day,
Through dull familiar paths, reserved its aid
For weary moments, till my halting step
On the firm sod grew firmer, till my lips
Drank the bright air like wine.
The love that found
No peers to share its wealth, looked' lower now.
A full heart asks not if the cup it crowns
Be gold or clay. I turned to brutes, to birds,
Even to flowers. The high-bred hound that paced
Grave at my side, the merlin that I tamed,
The dove I carried in my breast, the rose
With white wax buds, that from my window sill
Swung outward to the light—all these I kept
With a girl's care.
Earnest and steady, and for ever seemed
Hunting my maimed form.
But with childhood went
Part of my sickness. I might wander free
Through the green valleys, lawns and woods that graced
My fair inheritance. The garden chair
That had been wont to draw me, day by day,
Through dull familiar paths, reserved its aid
For weary moments, till my halting step
On the firm sod grew firmer, till my lips
Drank the bright air like wine.
The love that found
No peers to share its wealth, looked' lower now.
A full heart asks not if the cup it crowns
Be gold or clay. I turned to brutes, to birds,
Even to flowers. The high-bred hound that paced
Grave at my side, the merlin that I tamed,
The dove I carried in my breast, the rose
With white wax buds, that from my window sill
Swung outward to the light—all these I kept
With a girl's care.
