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Pine,
Rose and Fleur de Lis
by
Susie Frances Harrison
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THE
BALL AND THE STAR
(AS
ONE SPEAKS)
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Do
I hold my life in my hand
To make or to mar,
To prize or let fall,
To round to the perfect ball,
To mould to the matchless star?
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5 |
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Here has rolled to my halting feet,
From the nursery stair,
From the children’s nest,
A rubber thing that is drest
With gaudy patchwork air.
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10 |
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Its colours I may not admire;
Bright red and bright green
Are not to my taste,
And their vulgar is not effaced
By the line of yellow between.
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15 |
Still, ’tis a ball, and that’s much,
Made fit to bound,
Made fit to stay
On a table that is away
From the edge—or upon the ground,
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20 |
Even it, a ball, will fall,
That’s nought of a fault
As I see, in the ball,
But in the putter—in all
That becomes a ball, to vault,
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25 |
To roll and rebound, how full,
How round it must be!
How smooth, without trace
Of ragged and jagged rough on its face,
To rebound so swiftly, so perfectly!
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30 |
It does its work well, no doubt.
Ah! yes, but then
It is well made,
Of its work not a whit afraid,
Though only fashioned by men.
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35 |
Only fashioned by men, I think
What do I know?
What does it matter?
Upstairs, a more divine clatter,
Hiding, hunting, the children go.
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40 |
The truant toy has been missed;
With ecstacy—
Mothers know how
A child with an innocent brow,
And eyes o’erbrimming with glee,
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45 |
Will gather to him the ball;
The vulgar yellow,
The glaring green,
Will cosily, safely lie between
The pinky fists of the little fellow.
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50 |
“Wanted,” the ball is. Has its place.
The little hands
Are quick and kind,
And the little eyes are seldom blind,
’Tis a little child who understands
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55 |
That the ball has rolled and rolled and rolled
Far from its home,
From the nursery stair,
Far from the innocent upper air—
Even a rubber thing will roam.
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60 |
What does it suffer in roaming? Not it.
It will return
Just as it came,
Not a whit broken, marred or lame;
The ball you see, has nothing to learn,
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65 |
Nothing to spend and nothing to save,
Nothing to give,
Except some day
Its round and beautiful life away.
How long ere that be? Might it not live
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70 |
Forever with care on a shelf somewhere,
Where pins are not,
And needles gay,
For ever and ever are out of the way?—
What was the other wandering thought?
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75 |
Oh! here, this morning on my sleeve,
Appeared a star,
With a wonderful law
In its wonderful points, with not a flaw
In its beauty although it fell so far.
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80 |
It breathed for a moment, then died.
While I stood at the door
And counted its rays
It died at the strength of my gaze.
From a snow-star, so much and no more!
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85 |
Perfect the ball and the star,
Each in its day,
Each in its end.
I shall never mend! I shall never mend!
I, imperfect, will go away.
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90 |
Do I hold my life in my hand,
To make or to mar,
To prize or let fall,
To round to the matchless ball,
To mould to the radiant star?
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95 |
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