A letter came by post yestereve.
all the long way from Buckland.
sunlit upon rag-edge
~To the Squire~
Under the Hill.
That is me, now.
though I would not have it so.
The Squire -
the Squire is not in to-day
(and his unopened correspondence finds a dark resting place in the safety of my waistcoat) .
The garden curves before me,
in the slow drowse of autumn.
Beneath the round
of my window,
a soft riot of colour....
bees touching and humming
against fragrant antique stems.
These, too, all the long way from Buckland came.
In the pony cart,
with a lad
from my garden there.
with the sun-laced lavender,
and the little grey-stone bench
(and the forest-bright-frog who lived in a hollow
beneath its leg),
and the roses,
in the sun.
These from which she took her name.
In Uncle's study...
(the Squire's study now, though he is not disposed to enter it today)
in Uncle's study there stays a book of aged green leather,
its cover laced by flowered runes.
Inside, like a river,
run the names of my family.
Mine is the last.
But, above mine,
twined to the trailings of this fragile flower,
drawn stumbling by a childish hand,
and in the margin,
writ as steady as could be:
(for it was only last year I discovered
what her name might mean):
Primula: Firstling of Spring.
Like all else in the World, I shall wait upon the Spring.