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222
A New England Girlhood, Outlined from Memory (Beverly, MA)
·
Lucy Larcom
56
To
stand
up
there
and
be
one
of
the
choir,
seemed
to
me
very
little
short
of
promotion
to
the
ranks
of
cherubim
and
seraphim.
I
quite
envied
that
tall,
pretty
sister
of
mine.
I
was
sure
that
I
should
open
my
mouth
wide,
if
I
could
only
be
in
her
place.
Alas!
the
years
proved
that,
much
as
I
loved
the
hymns,
there
was
no
music
in
me
to
give
them
voice,
except
to
very
indulgent
ears.
Some
of
us
must
wait
for
the
best
human
gifts
until
we
come
to
heavenly
places.
Our
natural
desire
for
musical
utterance
is
perhaps
a
prophecy
that
in
a
perfect
world
we
shall
all
know
how
to
sing.
But
it
is
something
to
feel
music,
if
we
cannot
make
it.
That,
in
itself,
is
a
kind
of
unconscious
singing.
As
I
think
back
to
my
childhood,
it
seems
to
me
as
if
the
air
was
full
of
hymns,
as
it
was
of
the
fragrance
of
clover-blossoms,
and
the
songs
of
bluebirds
and
robins,
and
the
deep
undertone
of
the
sea.
And
the
purity,
the
calmness,
and
the
coolness
of
the
dear
old
Sabbath
days
seems
lingering
yet
in
the
words
of
those
familiar
hymns,
whenever
I
bear
them
sung.
Their
melody
penetrates
deep
into
my
life,
assuming
me
that
I
have
not
left
the
green
pastures
and
the
still
waters
of
my
childhood
very
far
behind
me.
There
is
something
at
the
heart
of
a
true
song
or
hymn
which
keeps
the
heart
young
that
listens.
It
is
like
a
breeze
from
the
eternal
hills;
like
the
west
wind
of
spring,
never
by
a
breath
less
balmy
and
clear
for
having
poured
life
into
the
old
generations
of
earth
for
thousands
of
years;
a
spiritual
freshness,
which
has
nothing
to
do
with
time
or
decay.
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