Poems (Kennedy)/Old Letters

by Sara Beaumont Kennedy

For works with similar titles, see Old Letters.

OLD LETTERS

IN a chest in the shadowy attic,
 Tied with a ribbon once blue
I found them, these close-written letters.
 Like an Ariadne clew
They 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 end
Though 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 back
And 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 back
Like 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 glance
The story from where the letters broke off—
 The end of the old romance.