My Nook
By Nora May French
Oh, half way up the hill it was, where one might
sit leaf-hidden,
And stare across the canyoned depths to distant
miles of blue;
Upon the little path to it no foot might step unbidden.
It was my nook, and mine alone, and not another
knew.
And when my doll was sawdust, or my little hopes
were fated,
Or all my world was shaken by a little idol"s fall,
Up to my dear retreat I"d climb, with grief or anger
weighted,
And, hands behind fern-pillowed head, straightway
forget it all.
With tears yet damp upon my cheeks I"d fall to
castle-building
(The careless linnets fluttered near a little maid
so still),
And all the gorgeous tints I knew, and all the
wealth of gilding,
Were lavished on the future that I summoned
there at will.
"When one is small one finds it good to run and cry
alone,
But I shall laugh to think that once I found my
world so hollow—
I shall not need this little nook," I thought,
"when I am grown."
Now heart whose voice I drown by day to hear in
hours of waking,
Now eyes whose tears must burn the more because
they may not flow,
From sight of face or sound of speech if I could
bear your aching,
And bury it deep-hidden in the ferns of long ago!
But oh! The pensive little ghost among her visions
sitting
Would view her weeping Future with so piteous
surprise!
No, I must leave her in her nook to dream her
dreams unwitting—
I could not take my trouble there, I could not
meet her eyes.
Footnote: "My Nook" was written at age 16.