Poems (Kennedy)/Old Letters
For works with similar titles, see Old Letters.
OLD LETTERS
IN a chest in the shadowy attic, Tied with a ribbon once blueI found them, these close-written letters. Like an Ariadne clewThey lead me back through the spring-times Where the phantom shadows dance,Through daffodil-gold and lure of rose To the heart of an old romance.
In a window shaft of the sunlight That falls like a golden flail,I spread out the yellowing pages, Unwinding the dim old tale.Here first he recalls how he met her, And subtly you guess the endThough with wonderful circumspection He has signed himself "your friend."
But the careful friendship he offers Is but a mask for his heart,For I feel already the stage is set And Cupid is playing his part. So I read on, breathless with interest, Turning the torn leaves backAnd find—(O Plato, Plato, you rascal!) "Ever your true lover, Jack."
In this he upbraids her for teasing, Confesses the theft of her glove,And then in a passion of pleading: "Belinda, I love you! I love!"And then—Ah, what came between them, What sad misfortune befell?For here in the last of the letters He is bidding Belinda "farewell."
Ah, I'll never piece out the whole story, For no more letters are here,And—Is grandpa out there in the garden Calling: "Belinda, my dear!"And listen—is that fluting treble My grandma answering backLike a dove to its love-mate calling: "Coming, my sweetheart Jack!"
I fold up the yellowing pages With a feeling of odd regret—Just to think that my staid little grandma Was once such a gay coquette!For in the meeting down in the garden I read with a single glanceThe story from where the letters broke off— The end of the old romance.