Sea Lavender

My Puritan Grandmother! — I see her now, With placid brow, Always so sure "That no things but the right things shall endure !" Sombrely neat, so orderly and prim, Always a little grim. Austere but kind. . . . Smooth-banded hair and smoothly-banded mind.

But let me whisper it to you today — I know it now — That deep in her there was a flame at play. Beneath that brow The blue-grey eyes sought beauty, found it too Most often by the ocean's passionate blue.

Her sea-beach treasures — shells and coloured weed Gathered and hoarded with glad human greed — They warm my heart today with insight new.

How vividly I see her, frail and old, A tiny, black-clothed figure on the beach, Compactly wrapped against the sea-wind's cold, Patiently waiting till waves let her reach Some sandy strip, where purple, amber, green, Her lacy sea-weed treasures could be seen.

(She pressed and mounted them — frail tangled things ! Handled by her, fit to trim fairies' wings.)

So I recall her, Searching salt-sea pools For Beauty's shadow.

All her rigid rules, And cold austereness with a storm-tossed child, Melt into airs of evenings, warm and mild.

And I find revelation, sweet indeed In her dear treasures of sea shells and weed.