Poems (Probyn)/Soapsuds

by May Probyn

SOAPSUDS.

With apple-trees on either hand,
Before the tub I saw her stand,—
The sunlights caught her as I came,
And eddied round her like a flame,
And loud the finches shrilled her name.
Her arms were bare from wrist to shoulder
 For plying, plashing in the water;
So cool her lilac gown did fold her,
 All kilted up to make 1t shorter,
  Where both her little shoes peeped out,
  And twinkled when she tripped about.
Down in the border, at her feet,
 Mint and marjoram were growing,—
Among her hair, in the ripples sweet,
 One great daisy-moon was blowing,—
And as I came I heard her singing,
Where she stood the clothes a-wringing,
High aloft her round arms flinging,
With the soapsuds drifting, clinging—
 (Oh, the rosemary and rue
 That within her garden grew!)
   Singing—
     Wringing—
  Bare arms flinging—
All the way I heard her singing—
 "Lovers meet—and lovers part—
 Where's the need to break one's heart?"

Her arms were white as milky curds;
Her speech was like the song of birds;
Her eyes were grey as mountain lakes
Where dream of shadow stirs and breaks.
Her gown was print—her name was Sally—
 Her summer years were barely twenty—
She dropped the soap to glance and dally,
 And then the dimples came in plenty!
I praised her fingers, dripping sweet,
Where warmth and whiteness seemed to meet—
I made her blush, and made her pout,
And watched her wring her linen out.
  Oh, to meet her in the valley,
  Snatch her hand, and call her Sally!

  Oh, to find her on the hill,
  Kiss, and call her Sally still!
  Oh, to clasp her quite alone,
  And call her Sally of one's own!
Thyme and marjoram were sweet,
 All the lavender was blowing—
Through the honeysuckled heat
 Bees were coming, bees were going—
 Half she turned from me unwilling,
 Snow of soapsuds downward spilling,—
 Linnet-like she took to trilling,
 High across the borders shrilling—
   (Oh, the thyme, with flowers half shed,
   Blowing in her garden-bed!)
     Trilling—
      Shrilling—
    Soapsuds spilling—
 Merrily she tuned her trilling—
   "Lovers meet—and lovers part—
   Where's the need to break one's heart?"

 I came more near—I called her Sally—
 She blushed like bloom in orchard alley;
 Her arms she leaned upon the tub—
 Forgot to rinse, forgot to rub—
"Lovers meet and part," she said,
"Some to weep, and some to wed;
Yesterday 'twas Colin came,
Kissed me while I cried 'for shame!'—
Next 'tis Lubin, or 'tis you—
Where's the need to make ado?"
"Nay," I said, "not so for me!
 Not so I dreamed of love and Sally!
The leaping dimples seemed to flee,
 The flitting rose-leaves seemed to rally,
   And she spoke a little slowly,
   With a touch of melancholy,
"Colin kissed me yesterday!
 If you go—nay, I'll not sorrow!
Drop my hand, and wend your way—
 Lubin's sure to come to-morrow!"

 Turned I then, and wandered back,
 Past the shrivelled bean-pod stack,
 Through the grey-green apple-boughs,
 And the clover-cropping cows.
   Summer thistledowns were flying—
   Seemed to me I heard her sighing,
   Seemed to hear her half-replying—
   Wondered if she could be crying,
   Linen all neglected lying—?
 Stopped I there, and looked a second—
  I but heard the rose-leaves fall;
 Had she called, or had she beckoned—!
  But she made no sign at all.
 I but saw her tripping by,
 Where the clothes-line stretched on high,
 And stand a-tiptoe 'gainst the sky,
 Hanging out the things to dry.
   (Oh, the mint and marigold!
   Oh, the savours manifold!
   Marjoram, and thyme, and tansy,
   Pimpernel, and pink, and pansy—
   All within her garden growing,
       Blowing,
        Growing,
      All a-blowing—
   Oh, the lavender that bloomed,
   And the big brown bees that boomed!)
Still I seemed to hear her sighing,
Hanging out the clothes for drying,
Sending storms of soapsuds flying,
  Half replying,
  Half denying,
Was it song, or was it sighing?
  (Oh, the fennel! oh, the rue!
  Both within her garden grew—)
"Lovers meet—and lovers part—
Where's the need to break one's heart?