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DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE:
Dorothy on the Daffodils
Why yes, of course I saw them first, but I
See everything before he does, not just
The yellow jonquils swaying in chorus
Across Lake Windermere. I see all sorts
Of things that he does not observe—the tufts
Of lambs’ wool stuck to the fence post—or clouds
So soft and sweet one almost smells the air
They drift across in the rosy morning--
A peasant girl in satin shoes tossed out
Like turnip peels by some matron who rules
A manor house. The world is so alive
With sights that take one’s breath away and tear
One’s heart to tatters with both joy and pain.
He is more tranquil than I am, and he
Prefers to contemplate rather than rush
Heart first into each moment’s ecstasies.
My notebook is for him—to nudge his thoughts.
“Oh, William,” I’ll remark, “The redbreast sings
So sweetly in the sycamore.” “Do make
A note of that, dear sister,” he replies.
I am so dear to him he never calls
My name without the preface “dear.” It is
My title, truly, since Mrs. will not
Be mine. William could never manage a
Household without my help. Dove Cottage is
Our home, and it is I who stoke the fire
And set the breakfast kettle on the hob.
I hear the gray darlings cooing high in
The eaves, and rise in damp and cold to make
The morning golden for dear William and
His precious poetry. I pack the pork
And mustard in the basket for noontime
Rambles past chirping riverbanks to meet
Beloved Samuel and talk away
The afternoon amid the soaring larks
And lilacs scenting the twilight as soft
Shadows fall like a bridal veil over
The sacred faces of the primroses
Before the gray again enfolds the hushed
And wordless world in its embrace. I am
The one who follows his most certain steps
To our stone home and lights the fire again
And brings the fragrant tea, glistening like stones--
Like river pebbles in his cup. “Your scones
Are peerless, dear sister,” he says to me
When settled with his pipe and his well-worn
Volume of Milton on his knee. “And no
Housewife in Grasmere could rival your tarts.”
Why, then, does he contrive to marry her?
He thinks he pleases me by choosing one
Who was my childhood friend. Mary is sweet
Indeed, but how can I convey to him
How plain and uneventful is her mind?
And with dear Caroline, his love-child back
In France, the issue of his foolish youth,
What need has he of more children? They will
But intercept that spark that flickers in
His mind when I notice the sound of cows
Lowing softly through rolling fog, or small
Rabbits hiding among the ruined steps
Of the old priory? If children were
About, there would be squeals to drown the dear
Shy doves, and mean little boots stomping on
The helpless moss. Where will tranquility
Be then? And when the time for penning lines
In recollection with our quiet thoughts
That hover in the dusk like whispers of
Our mother, dead these decades now, but still
Humming amid our sibling dreams?
And yet, my happiness is nothing next
To his. My notebooks and the daily flow
Of scones and cakes and tea, like water in
The River Wye, are all for him. Above
My rocky bed I babble on, that he
May hear the prophet’s voice amid the din
And clamor of our current’s rush, that he
May hark the bard proclaim a choir among
The dancing daffodils.
See everything before he does, not just
The yellow jonquils swaying in chorus
Across Lake Windermere. I see all sorts
Of things that he does not observe—the tufts
Of lambs’ wool stuck to the fence post—or clouds
So soft and sweet one almost smells the air
They drift across in the rosy morning--
A peasant girl in satin shoes tossed out
Like turnip peels by some matron who rules
A manor house. The world is so alive
With sights that take one’s breath away and tear
One’s heart to tatters with both joy and pain.
He is more tranquil than I am, and he
Prefers to contemplate rather than rush
Heart first into each moment’s ecstasies.
My notebook is for him—to nudge his thoughts.
“Oh, William,” I’ll remark, “The redbreast sings
So sweetly in the sycamore.” “Do make
A note of that, dear sister,” he replies.
I am so dear to him he never calls
My name without the preface “dear.” It is
My title, truly, since Mrs. will not
Be mine. William could never manage a
Household without my help. Dove Cottage is
Our home, and it is I who stoke the fire
And set the breakfast kettle on the hob.
I hear the gray darlings cooing high in
The eaves, and rise in damp and cold to make
The morning golden for dear William and
His precious poetry. I pack the pork
And mustard in the basket for noontime
Rambles past chirping riverbanks to meet
Beloved Samuel and talk away
The afternoon amid the soaring larks
And lilacs scenting the twilight as soft
Shadows fall like a bridal veil over
The sacred faces of the primroses
Before the gray again enfolds the hushed
And wordless world in its embrace. I am
The one who follows his most certain steps
To our stone home and lights the fire again
And brings the fragrant tea, glistening like stones--
Like river pebbles in his cup. “Your scones
Are peerless, dear sister,” he says to me
When settled with his pipe and his well-worn
Volume of Milton on his knee. “And no
Housewife in Grasmere could rival your tarts.”
Why, then, does he contrive to marry her?
He thinks he pleases me by choosing one
Who was my childhood friend. Mary is sweet
Indeed, but how can I convey to him
How plain and uneventful is her mind?
And with dear Caroline, his love-child back
In France, the issue of his foolish youth,
What need has he of more children? They will
But intercept that spark that flickers in
His mind when I notice the sound of cows
Lowing softly through rolling fog, or small
Rabbits hiding among the ruined steps
Of the old priory? If children were
About, there would be squeals to drown the dear
Shy doves, and mean little boots stomping on
The helpless moss. Where will tranquility
Be then? And when the time for penning lines
In recollection with our quiet thoughts
That hover in the dusk like whispers of
Our mother, dead these decades now, but still
Humming amid our sibling dreams?
And yet, my happiness is nothing next
To his. My notebooks and the daily flow
Of scones and cakes and tea, like water in
The River Wye, are all for him. Above
My rocky bed I babble on, that he
May hear the prophet’s voice amid the din
And clamor of our current’s rush, that he
May hark the bard proclaim a choir among
The dancing daffodils.
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