Catharine

We children every morn would wait

For Catharine, at the garden gate;

Behind school-time, her sunny hair

Would melt the master’s frown of care,

What time his hand but threatened pain,

Shaking aloft his awful cane;

So here one summer’s morn we wait

For Catharine at the garden gate.

To Dave I say—“There’s sure to be

Some coral isle unknown at sea,

And—if I see it first—’tis mine!

But I’ll give it to Catharine.”

“When she grows up,” says Dave to me,

“Some ruler in a far countree,

Where every voice but his is dumb,

Owner of pearls, and gold, and gum,

Will build for her a shining throne,

Higher than his, and near his own;

And he, who would not list before,

Will listen to Catharine, and adore

Her face and form; and,” Dave went on—

When came a man there pale and wan,

Whose face was dark and wet though kind,

He, coming there, seemed like a wind

Whose breath is rain, yet will not stop

To give the parchèd flowers a drop:

“Go, children, to your school,” he said

“And tell the master Catharine’s dead.”