Lesbia Harford

Here you will find the Poem Do you remember still the little song of poet Lesbia Harford

Do you remember still the little song

Do you remember still the little song 
I mumbled on the hill at Aura, how 
I told you it was made for Katie's sake 
When I was fresh from school and loving her 
With all the strength of girlhood? And you said 
You liked my song, although I didn't know 
How it began at first and gabbled then 
In a half voice, because I was too shy 
To speak aloud, much less to speak them out ? 
Words I had joined myself ? in the full voice 
And with the lilt of proper poetry. 
You could have hardly heard me. Here's the girl, 
The little girl from school you never knew. 
She made this song. Read what you couldn't hear. 
How bright the windows are 
When the dear sun shineth. 
They strive to reflect the sun, 
To be bright like the sun, 
To give heat like the sun. 
My heart too has its chosen one 
And so to shine designeth. 
The windows on the opposite hill that day 
Shone bright at sunset too and made me think 
Of the old patter I had half forgot, 
Do you remember? I remind you now, 
Who wandered yesterday for half an hour 
Into St Francis, where I thought of you 
And how I would be glad to love you well 
If I but knew the way. The rhyme came back 
Teasing me till I knew I hated it. 
I couldn't take that way of loving you. 
That was the girl's way. Hear the woman now. 
Out of my thinking in the lonely church 
And the day's labour in a friendly room 
Tumbled a song this morning you will like. 
I love my love 
But I could not be 
Good for his sake. 
That frightens me. 
Nor could I do 
Such things as I should 
Just for the sake 
Of being good. 
Deeds are too great 
To serve my whim, 
Be ways of loving 
Myself or him. 
Whether my deeds 
Are good or ill 
They're done for their own, 
Not love's sake, still. 
I didn't know it till the song was done 
But that's Ramiro in a nutshell, eh, 
With his contempt for individual souls 
And setting of the deed above the man. 
Perhaps I like him better than I thought, 
Or would like, if he'd give me leave to scorn 
Chameleon, adjectival good and ill 
And set the deed so far above the man 
As to be out of reach of morals too. 
There you and I join issue once again.