Ars Poetica

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Untitled Victor Hugo

From her earliest years, this was her thing To come into my room a while each morning. I’d wait, as for a sunbeam to appear. She’d march in, say ‘Good morning, little father’, Sit down on my bed, take up my pen, Open my books, muddle my papers, laughing, Then like a bird of passage she’d be gone And I, with clearer head, begin again My interrupted work, often to find Some zany arabesque she’d left behind Among my manuscripts, a sketch she’d traced, And then, blank pages that her hands had creased. Somehow, my best lines fell between those folds. She loved God, flowers, starry skies, green fields. Before she was a woman, she was spirit And from her clear eyes her bright soul shone out. She quizzed me constantly, upon all things. Ah, but the warm glow of those winter evenings When we’d talk language, grammar, history, Their mother near, four children at my knee, A few friends by the hearth and much to say – That was a life to which content came easy. And now to think that she is dead! God help me, For I, when she was sad, was never happy. I took no joy in joyous balls and parties If parting I’d seen shadow in her eyes.