Little maid Margaret and I, all in the sweet May weather, roamed merrily and peacefully the island slopes together. The sun was midway in the west that golden afternoon. The sparrow sat above his nest and sang his friendly tune. The sky was clear; the sea was calm. The wind blew from the south and touched us with a breath of balm and kissed her happy mouth. The joyful, smiling little maid, her pretty hand in mine— "Look, Thea, at the flowers," she said. "See how the eye-brights shine." Scattered like pearls all milky fair where'er our feet were set, they glimmered, swayed by gentle air, for little Margaret. And here the crowfoot's gold was spilled, and there the violet its cream-white buds with fragrance filled— and all for Margaret. I took a grassy path that led into a rocky dell. "Come, and I'll show you, dear," I said, "Sir William Pepperrell's well." In the deep shadow of the rock the placid water hid, and seemed the sky above to mock arums and ferns, amid. "Is this Sir William Pepperrell's well? But Thea, who was he?" "A nobleman, the records tell, a lord of high degree." "And did he live here?" "Sometimes, yes. Yonder his house stood, dear. By all the scattered stones, you'd guess a dwelling once stood here. There lie the doorsteps large and square where feet went out and in long years ago. A broken stair; and here, the walls begin." "How long ago did they live here?" gravely the small maid spoke. "And tell me, did you know them, Thea— Sir William Pepperrell's folk?" "A hundred years they have been dead. No dear, we never met!" "But Thea, you're so old," she said, "You know you might forget... I'm only six. I'm very new; I can't remember much." She clasped me as she nearer drew with light and gentle touch. "Tell me, where are they now?" asked she. (Oh question, ages old.) "That, Margaret, is a mystery no mortal has been told. Here stood the house; there lies the well, and nothing more we know except that history's pages tell they lived here long ago." With serious eyes she gazed at me and for a moment's space a shadow of perplexity flitted across her face. Then, dancing down the sunlit way she gathered bud and bell, and 'mid its ferns, forgotten lay Sir William Pepperrell's well. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NETHERLANDS by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE TO CHLOE; AN APOLOGY FOR GOING INTO THE COUNTRY by JOHN WOLCOTT THE SHRINE OF VENUS by ANTIPATER OF SIDON TWILIGHT ON THE DESERT by ETHEL FRANCES BARNARD THE LONG TRUCE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE SAILING LIST by BERTON BRALEY |