The Village Wifes Lament | Page 8

and spent,?And lean years to come.?My mother blinkt her patient eyes;?She said, It was to be.?Was I less temperate or more wise?To question her decree?
Was it for this, our clasp and kiss??For this end and no other?That I was shapt to have increase,?And call'd to be mother??Did God make o'er the power to soar?On men, that they should sink??Did He outpour a flood of war?And leave us on the brink?
Was't so He wove the robe of Love,?To mock the lovely earth??Sees He, above, creation move?To death, not birth??Go, thou dear head, for God is dead,?And Death is our Lord:?Between us, red, lies in the bed?War, like a naked sword.
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O failing heart, accept your part,?And thank the Lord, Who bound?Your labour daily to the mart,?Your service to the ground!?Take to the mart your stricken heart,?Tho' the chaffer graze it;?Shrink not altho' the quick flesh smart--?But meet pain and praise it!
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He came to see me once again,?Stiffen'd in his new buff:?A few short hours compact of strain,?Too hasty for love;?For Love can never be confin'd,?But asks eternity.?To nurse the lov'd one in the mind?The bond must first be free.
And he, he now serv'd otherwhere?And could not be the same;?To all the world my love was there?And answer'd to his name;?But not to me, oh, not to me?The kisses of his lips?Were as of old, but guardedly,?Like sunlight in eclipse.
The moment came, I held him close,?But had no word to say--?Good-bye, sweetheart, Good-bye, Blush Rose:?'Twas his old way.?Then in a hush which seem'd to rock?Me like a leaf about,?I heard the pulsing of the clock,?Counting my dear life out.
And I am here, and you are, where??While the long hours go by,?And on my eyes the glaze of care,?And in my heart a cry.?Bury my heart deep in the grave?Where all its grace is hid:?What other service should I have?Than tend my lovely dead?
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Then waiting, watching, judging news,?Then terror in the night--?I used to start up with the dews?All over me of fright.?I dream'd of him on stormy seas;?Then, in a woodland bare,?I saw my love on hands and knees,?With blood upon his hair.
Along the limits of the wood,?A green bank full of holes,?With lichen'd stumps which lean'd or stood?Like crazy channel-poles:?'Twas there I saw my love's drawn face,?A face of paper-white,?Wherein just for a choking space?His eyes shone burning bright;
Then faded, and an eyeless man?He crawled along the wood,?And from his hair a black line ran?And broaden'd into blood.?It was not horror of him wrong'd,?It was not pity mov'd me;?It was, those tortur'd eyes belong'd?To one who'd never lov'd me.
That was my love in face and shape,?That was my love in pain;?But something told me past escape?That not by him I'd lain.?I sat and star'd into the night,?And still most dreadfully?I saw those two eyes burning white?That never had seen me!
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Upon a wild March morn?My husband went to France;?The day my child was born?His word came to advance.
'Twas on that very day?When my life should be crown'd,?As I lay in, he lay?Broken upon the ground.
For my loss there was gain,?But his precious blood?Was shed to earth like rain?Within the shatter'd wood.
Missing, the paper said,?But my heart said, Nay.?Missing! My man had been dead?Before he went away!
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It never throve from the first,?Mother, she seem'd to fear it;?But her words were the worst:?"Nancy, you'll never rear it."
Yet he took to the breast?And I knew the great end?Of women, to give their best,?To spend and to spend.
But his great eyes stared?Till he seemed all eyes,?And more than I dared?Meet looks so wise.
Wondering and darkly blue,?Pondering and slow,?They would look you thro' and thro',?Then tire and let you go,
And fall back to vacancy,?As if the poor thing plain'd,?"Why was I not let be,?And what have I gain'd?"
'Twas more than I could bear,?I pray'd that he might die;?And God must have heard my prayer,?For he went with a little sigh:
A flutter, a murmur, a sigh?Lighter than dawn wind--?It was his soft Good-bye;?And all my life lay behind.
I wonder if they were wise,?Those three kings of the East?Who offer'd gifts of price?To the Child on a Girl's breast.
But if they were wise, their sons?Have other counsel than they:?The gifts they offer are guns,?And the children's parents they slay.
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He went before my load was quicken'd,?And I lay in alone.?He was not there when baby sicken'd,?Nor when it was gone.?I walkt with Mother to the church,?With Mother and Fan,?My hard eyes ever on the search--?Pity me who can!
The grief was bad enough to bear,?So dreadfully to wean it;?But to go home and leave it there,?And he had never seen it--!?It was a thing to thank God for?That home for me was none;?I knew before we reacht the door?That my home life was done.
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Now limpt or dragg'd about our street?The wounded men in blue,?Trailing the feet which had been fleet,?Or crutching one