Two Poems by Rosamund Marriott Watson
So your boys are going to Paris? That’s how I lost my
Lonely? Ah yes, but I know it, the old are always alone.
You remember my boys, Euphrasie? No? Was it before
Each, when his turn came, kissed me, and cried; but they
How I longed for them, always, vainly and thought of them,
early and late;
I would start and look round in the pasture if any one clicked
But a greater sorrow fell on me: my Marie, with eyes so
Grew restless, poor bird! in the home-nest — she must seek
her fortune too.
And, once the desire is on them, ’tis a fever, they cannot stay;
And Marie, my poor little Marie! well, I missed her one
bright spring day.
‘Twas then that my heart broke, ‘Phrasie, for my children
gay and tall.
For fair, vile, glittering Paris had taken them all.
Yet the good God is merciful always; I live, and I have no
Only the old dumb longing for the children home again.
Still I watch the road to the city, up the glistening sun-set
But they never come back, Euphrasie — never come back!
(After L. Van Beethoven)
“Avec que si, a-vec que la, a-vec que la marmotte.”
The way is dark before us as we go,
And cold the mountain wind;
The little flying feathers of the snow
Float round us soft and blind.
Now shut you close those little twinkling eyes,
Safe in my coat, asleep; —
I shall know surest where the river lies,
And where the drifts are deep.
Sleep, little prying one — ’tis cold and still,
Naught but the dark to see —
Yet golden-bright behind yon crest of hill
The village lights may be.
Soft on the snow my naked feet fall light,
Swift as the brown owls fly; —
Now never fear but we shall sup to-night.
My Marmot, you and I.
About the Author:
Rosamund Marriott Watson (1860 – 1911) was a British poet.