WHEN we travel back in summer to the old house by the sea, Where long ago my mother lived, a little girl like me, I have the strangest notion that she still is waiting there, A small child in a pinafore with ribbon on her hair. I hear her in the garden when I go to pick a rose; She follows me along the path on dancing tipsy toes; I hear her in the hayloft when the hay is slippery -- sweet -- A rustle and a scurry and a sound of scampering feet; Yet though I sit as still as still, she never comes to me, The funny little laughing girl my mother used to be. Sometimes I nearly catch her as she dodges here and there, Her white dress flutters round a tree and flashes up a stair; Sometimes I almost put my hand upon her apron strings -- Then, just before my fingers close, she's gone again like wings. A sudden laugh, a scrap of song, a footfall on the lawn, And yet, no matter how I run, forever up and gone! A fairy or a firefly could hardly flit so fast. When we come home in summer, I have given up at last. I lay my cheek on mother's. If there's only one for me, I'd rather have her, anyway, than the girl she used to be. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FROGS: HYMN OF THE INITIATES by ARISTOPHANES THIERRY AND THEODORET by FRANCIS BEAUMONT HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 43 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. I ACCEPT YOU by EDWARD CARPENTER PARIS BY DAY by EDOUARD JOACHIM CORBIERE THE GRAND SEIGNEUR by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND A LOOKING-GLASS FOR LANDLORDS by ROWLAND EYLES EGERTON-WARBURTON |