The Village Wifes Lament | Page 6

is my native land!
They say you never love so dear?As when you are to part;?I know, to see my land so clear?Cut me to the heart.?What vain regrets to have lov'd so ill?What was our all!?What idle vows to love her still?Though she should fall!
At stroke of noon my love came in?Sharpset for his food;?To see him was right sense to win,?And feel safe and good.?I was asham'd my fears to tell?Lest he should think,?"I thought I knew this woman well--?But what makes her shrink?"
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The summer went her gracious way?Of sun and lingering eves;?I did my share to win the hay,?The corn stood in sheaves?Ere August month was fairly come;?And when it was here?I knew I carried in my womb?The harvest of my dear.
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When I was sure I sat down quiet?In the deep shade,?And if my heart was all in riot?I was not afraid.?I did not think, nor say a pray'r,?But lookt straight before me,?And felt that Someone else stood there?With hands held o'er me.
I thought His peace blest my increase;?But then, as it seem'd,?A shadow made my joy to cease,?And the day was dimm'd.?I shiver'd as if one a knife?Should pull forth of the sheath.?I think just then the Lord of Life?Gave way to Him of Death.
As one bestead with gossamer-thread?I pluckt at my eyes?To catch again the glory shed,?The hope, the load, the prize;?But no more hands invisible?Held like a shade o'er me,?And there seem'd little enough to tell?My husband momently.
The long forenoon my thought I held,?And yet all thro' it?The wires all England over shrill'd,?And I never knew it!?In a high muse I nurst my news?All the forenoon,?While England braced her limbs and thews?To a marching tune.
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I serv'd my love, when he came home,?His meal; then on his knee?I told him what I might become,?And he kiss'd me;?Then said, "Indeed, there may be need?Of this little one,?For many a woman's heart must bleed?For wanting of a son.
"Since we awoke, the word is spoke,?And if 'tis still right?That English folk keep faith unbroke,?Then must England fight."?I could not look, nor think, nor ask?What himself would do,?But call'd to task my pride, to bask?In what had warm'd me thro'.
Oh, he was grave and self-possest?Under love's new crown!?He took me in his arms to rest,?And lay my head down?A moment on his shoulder; then?Went steady to his work.?I knew what fate soe'er call'd men?He was none to shirk.
Now I must play the helpful wife,?And my new pride?Be little worth to ease the strife?That vext me in the side;?For like a green and aching wound,?Like a throbbing vein?I felt this terror on the ground?Of young men slain.
The swooning summer sun sank low,?And all the dusty air?Held breathlessly beneath his glow,?So tir'd, so quiet and fair,?I would not think that men could live?In such glory a minute,?To hate and grudge, to slay and reive?Poor souls within it.
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I heard fond crying in my ears,?Fond and vain regret?For life as it had been ere tears?Made women's eyes wet;?I saw arise the host of stars?And listen'd to their song;?"O we have seen a thousand wars?And woe agelong!
"What are you men, what are you women?But a shifting sand??The tide of life is overbrimming--?God holds not His hand;?But all the evil with the good?To His mill is grist;?He serves his mood now with man's blood?Who serv'd it once with beast."
So sang the stars. That night our love?Burn'd at its holiest;?For aught we knew the same might prove?Our last in the nest.?But from the bed my passion pled,?O God, let us be!?If woman's anguish her bestead,?Then forsake not me!
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I dare not trace that watching space?Of days, too short, too long--?Too long to wear a patient face,?Too short to wear a strong.?I us'd to think I'd have him choose?His duty and begone;?And then, No, no, I dare not lose?Him ere he take his son!
Too long, too short the days to wait,?To plan and think and dread;?And happy we whose poor estate?Claims our work for our bread.?Each day I went to scour and scrub?As my mother us'd,?Or stood before the washing-tub?Where the linen sluiced.
And so my love with careful hand?And careful eye?Led his white flock about the land;?And I must sigh,?"There's no rebelling in a poor man's dwelling,?The roof stoops to the blast;?And no heart-swelling meets God's compelling,?And what is cast is cast!"
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But as the tide crawls to his full?Without your knowing,?Invading rock and filling pool,?Endlessly flowing;?Lo, while you sit and look at it,?Idle, little thinking,?The flood is brimming at your feet,?Lipping there and winking--
The very same the Great War grew;?Like a flowing tide?It spread its channels thro' and thro'?The quiet countryside.?One day you'd stop: a poster up,?And Lord, how it glared!?The next there'd be a very crop,?And not a body stared.
And then the lorries flung along?By ones and twos, and then?In snaky line some twenty strong,?Full of shouting men.?They