The Village Wifes Lament | Page 7

made me blench with noise and stench,?But more, I do believe,?To know them gaining inch by inch?The earth whereby we live.
So faded fast the painted past?Beneath the mist of war;?One could not think life had been cast?In sweet lines before.?There was no list in that red mist?For love or wholesome breath,?But making rage our staple grist?We ground the dust of death.
Our men held talk among themselves,?But said little to we;?And soon they went by tens and twelves?Soldiers to be.?I knew how 'twould be from the first,?I think my heart could tell;?I loved a man who never durst?Not do well.
ix
How young, how gay they marcht away,?All our village boys!?Leaving us women here to pray,?Drowning with their noise?Misdoubt and eager mother-love,?Hungry on the watch,?As if they went to race and shove?In a football match.
But my love chose in soberness?Another way, his own;?And God I bless that my distress?Came suddenly down.?A swift November night was falling?In a windless air;?I heard him indoors, heard him calling,?And went, and he was there.
x
He stood still, and his gaze?Was far off, and slow?And quiet the words he says:?"Nancy, I must go."
In my still heart's deep?I gloried in the trust?He handed me to keep,?In his quiet "I must."
No more we said that night,?But sat in the gloom;?We sat without candle-light?In our little room.
Handfast, like girl and boy,?There we sat on,?Hoarding our store of joy?Against he were gone.
Handfast, like boy and girl,?And my eyes they did fill;?But my heart was in a whirl?To have him there still.
'Twas when we were abed,?And I against his heart,?That I knew the great dread?It would be to part.
Old sayings, that sounded new,?Sweet, every broken word--?"My Nancy, sweet and true,?My pretty wild bird!"
I let him kiss me, but I?Lay quite still in his arm:?If I had started to cry?God only knew the harm!
And if he thought me cool?'Twould make an easier going;?But _if_ he thought me cool?'Twas not for want of knowing.
Towards the twilight gray?When my love was sleeping,?I sat upright to pray,?And heard the sparrows cheeping.
It was their fond love-twitter?That broke my prayer down,?Turn'd all my faith bitter,?To set it by their own.
Their love-life to begin,?And mine now--where??Their nest to win,?Mine soon to be bare!
I lookt forth from my bed?To the cold square of the light--?Unto God I said,?"Show me why men must fight,
"You, Who to each one say,?Love you one another;?You, Who bid women obey?Husbands, and sons their mother;
"You, Who of me require?To love what I cannot see,?Milk and a heart of fire?To nourish what may not be!
"Shall my milk be churn'd into gall,?Or my blood freeze at the fount,?And You make light of it all,?And my love of little account?"
Then as I held my throat,?God answer'd me by a bird,?One long flourishing note,?The bravest I ever heard;
And I turn'd where my love lay fast?In his wholesome sleep;?About him my arms I cast?And found grace to weep.
He would do what was right,?As I knew very well--?Yes, but who made them fight,?And turn'd our heaven to hell?
The more I listen the sighs,?The mourning and the dearth,?The deeper my heart cries?Over this wounded earth.
VI
i
May the good King?That guards like sheep?Kings and shepherds all?Send us quiet sleep!
Shepherds great and small?Has He in hold;?There need no danger?Threaten field or fold.
Lowly in a manger?That King was born?Of maid undefiled?On a winter's morn.
He lay a little child?On His mother's knee;?Three kings out of the East?Came Him to see.
On a mother's breast?Still did He lie:?Said one king to the other,?"Such once was I!"
Then said his brother,?"Even thus, I trow,?Once lay thy simplicity,?_But where is that now_?"
ii
How many a woman's eyes are worn,?Weeping a murder'd son!?How many wish none they had borne?To do as theirs have done!?Who dares to see a mask of hate?And snarling on the face?Which she had pray'd to consecrate?To honour for a space?
This high-flusht lad whom she has known?Since as a new-born child?He lay as soft as thistle-down,?Or like an angel smil'd;?Whom she has seen, a sturdy imp?Tumble bare-breecht at play,?Or nurst to health when, quiet and limp,?Short-breath'd and flusht he lay;
Or shockhead boy, aburst with joy,?Or gawky, ill-at-ease,?All hot and coy, a hobbledehoy?With laces round his knees--?But hers, her own, with eyes that trust?Hers for his better part--?Ah, tiger-lust of War that thrust?A hand to snatch that heart!
She hides her woe, and helps him go,?She sits at home to pray;?He tells her when he met the foe,?But nothing of the way.?She never knows the way, and who?Would know it if she could,?What in his fever-heat he do?Of rage and dust and blood?
The lads go by, the colours fly,?Drums rattle, bugles bray;?We only cry, Let mine not die--?No thought for whom he slay.?But woman bares a martyr breast,?And herself points the flame:?Her son, a hero or a beast,?Will never be the same.
iii
When forth my love to duty went?I sought my old home,?My few months' joy over