Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, IF AND IF, by ALICE CARY



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

IF AND IF, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: If I were a painter, I could paint
Last Line: I never shall paint it, nor you ever see.
Subject(s): Paintings & Painters


IF I were a painter, I could paint
The dwarfed and straggling wood,
And the hill-side where the meeting-house
With the wooden belfry stood,
A dozen steps from the door, -- alone,
On four square pillars of rough gray stone.

We school-boys used to write our names
With our finger-tips each day
In th' dust o' th' cross-beams, -- once it shone,
I have heard the old folks say,
(Praising the time past, as old folks will,)
Like a pillar o' fire on the side o' th' hill.

I could paint the lonesome lime-kilns,
And the lime-burners, wild and proud,
Their red sleeves gleaming in the smoke
Like a rainbow in a cloud, --
Their huts by the brook, and their mimicking crew --
Making believe to be lime-burners too!

I could paint the brawny wood-cutter,
With the patches at his knees, --
He's been asleep these twenty years,
Among his friends, the trees:
The day that he died, the best oak o' the wood
Came up by the roots, and he lies where it stood.

I could paint the blacksmith's dingy shop, --
Its sign, a pillar of smoke;
The farm-horse halt, the rough-haired colt,
And the jade with her neck in a yoke;
The pony that made to himself a law,
And would n't go under the saddle, nor draw!

The poor old mare at the door-post,
With joints as stiff as its pegs, --
Her one white eye, and her neck awry, --
Trembling the flies from her legs,
And the thriftless farmer that used to stand
And curry her ribs with a kindly hand.

I could paint his quaint old-fashioned house,
With its windows, square and small,
And the seams of clay running every way
Between the stones o' the wall:
The roof, with furrows of mosses green,
And new bright shingles set between.

The oven, bulging big behind,
And the narrow porch before,
And the weather-cock for ornament
On the pole beside the door;
And th' row of milk-pans, shining bright
As silver, in the summer light.

And I could paint his girls and boys,
Each and every one,
Hepzibah sweet, with her little bare feet,
And Shubal, the stalwart son,
And wife and mother, with homespun gown,
And roses beginning to shade into brown.

I could paint the garden, with its paths
Cut smooth, and running straight, --
The gray sage bed, the poppies red,
And the lady-grass at the gate, --
The black warped slab with its hive of bees,
In the corner, under the apple-trees.

I could paint the fields, in the middle hush
Of winter, bleak and bare,
Some snow like a lamb that is caught in a bush,
Hanging here and there, --
The mildewed haystacks, all a-lop,
And the old dead stub with the crow at the top.

The cow, with a board across her eyes,
And her udder dry as dust,
Her hide so brown, her horn turned down,
And her nose the color of rust, --
The walnut-tree so stiff and high,
With its black bark twisted all awry.

The hill-side, and the small space set
With broken palings round, --
The long loose grass, and the little grave
With the head-stone on the ground,
And the willow, like the spirit of grace
Bending tenderly over the place.

The miller's face, half smile, half frown,
Were a picture I could paint,
And the mill, with gable steep and brown,
And dripping wheel aslant, --
The weather-beaten door, set wide,
And the heaps of meal-bags either side.

The timbers cracked to gaping seams,
The swallows' clay-built nests,
And the rows of doves that sit on the beams
With plump and glossy breasts, --
The bear by his post sitting upright to eat,
With half of his clumsy legs in his feet.

I could paint the mill-stream, cut in two
By the heat o' the summer skies,
And the sand-bar, with its long brown back,
And round and bubbly eyes,
And the bridge, that hung so high o'er the tide,
Creaking and swinging from side to side.

The miller's pretty little wife,
In the cottage that she loves, --
Her hand so white, and her step so light,
And her eyes as brown as th' dove's,
Her tiny waist, and belt of blue,
And her hair that almost dazzles you.

I could paint the White-Hawk tavern, flanked
With broken and wind-warped sheds,
And the rock where the black clouds used to sit,
And trim their watery heads
With little sprinkles of shining light,
Night and morning, morning and night.

The road, where slow and wearily,
The dusty teamster came, --
The sign on its post and the round-faced host,
And the high arched door, aflame
With trumpet-flowers, -- the well-sweep, high,
And the flowing water-trough, close by.

If I were a painter, and if my hand
Were cunning, as it is not,
I could paint you a picture that would stand
When all the rest were forgot;
But why should I tell you what it would be?
I never shall paint it, nor you ever see.





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