The Village Wifes Lament | Page 4

thoughts that lurk in them who shirk?Their daily round to tread.?But she goes bold who feels the hold?And colour of her love?Laid on her task like water-gold?From the lit sky above.
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I rose with early morning light,?The meadows grey with rime,?To set the kitchen fire, and dight?The room for breakfast-time;?Or make the beds, or rinse and scour,?And all the while?A singing heart, a face aflower,?And secret smile.
So 'twas with me week in, week out,?And no more to be said;?A moment's look, a hint of doubt,?A half-turn of the head.?I had my hands as full as full,?And full of work was he--?But I learn'd in another school?After he'd lookt at me.
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In summer time of flowers and bees?And flies on the pane,?Before the sun could gild the trees?Or set afire the vane,?Down I must go upon my knees,?Or ply the showering mop;?Then feed the chicken, ducks and geese,?And milk the last drop.
On winter mornings dark and hard,?White from aching bed,?There were the huddled fowls in yard?All to be fed.?My frozen breath stream'd from my lips,?The cows were hid in steam;?I lost sense of my finger-tips?And milkt in a dream.
My drowsy cheek fast to her side,?The pail below my arm,?My thought leapt what might me betide,?And soon I was warm.?For that gave me a beating heart?And made me hot thro',?As when you reckon, with a start,?Someone speaks of you.
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And all my years of farm-service?There was no dismay,?But men and maids knew nought amiss?With their work or play;?But grew amain like tree or beast,?Labouring out their lives?Till sap and milk fill'd spine and breast,?And ripen'd men and wives.
What call had we to think of war,?We growing things??What need had we to reckon o'er?Misdoubts or threatenings??A soldier-lad in his red coat?Show'd up then as he past?Like a lamplighted fishing-boat?Lonely in the vast.
An aeroplane in middle sky?Might bring us to our doors,?To see her like a dragon-fly?Droning as she soars.?Long before you see her come?You can hear her throbbing,?Far, far away like a distant drum,?Near, like a thresher sobbing.
Ah, in those days of wonderment,?Wonder and delight,?No thought we spent what murder meant,?Horror in the night;?Or how a hidden dreadful plan?Like a fingering weed?Was growing up in the mind of man?From a fungus-seed!
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Out of the clear how shrewdly blows?The North-West wind!?Free as he goes, how brave he shows,?The sun seems blind!?The shadows fleet upon the grass?Where the kestrels hover--?What leagues of sorrow they must pass?Before they shroud my lover!
Half-naked now, confronting cold,?The tall trees shiver,?Each with its pool of pallid gold?Draining down to the river.?'Tis now when fret of winter wet?Warns the year she is old,?And she casts robe and coronet,?That I would loosen hold.
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Our lives creep on to change at last,?And change is sudden coming;?Rooted you see yourself and fast,?And then be sent roaming.?When I was come to twenty years,?Home for a spell,?Mother she brought a flush of tears?With what she had to tell.
There was a fine new place for me?Forty miles away--?And where my dream of what might be?One fine day??The farmer's wife she kiss'd me kindly?When I was paid;?But Ted and I said Goodbye blindly,?And no more said.
No word between us of the thought?That fill'd four years,?No fond look caught by eyes well taught,?Tho' thick with tears!?'Twas Goodbye, Nance, and Goodbye, Ted,?And just a clasp of the hand:?Maybe I'll write, he might have said?For me to understand.
But poor people have need to work?Whether merry or sad,?Whatever groping thought do lurk,?Whatever dreams they've had!?I went my way and he kept his,?I to the county town,?He in a row of cottages?Below the hump-backt down.
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A town-bred girl, her hair in curl?And apron edged with lace,?She took me in, my head awhirl,?To my new place.?And there the five of us must hive?In that warm shutter'd house,?And keep our honesty alive?With none to counsel us.
The master and the mistresses,?What were they but strangers??'Twas no part of their businesses?To think of servants' dangers.?They sneer at us, and we at them,?Life sunders where the stairs are:?But are the things that they condemn?In us much worse than theirs are?
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'Twas busy now I had to be,?And keep myself neat,?Dress in my new black gown by tea,?And streamer'd cap to it.?The brisk young men were plenty enough,?And talk about them plenty?Among us maids! No other stuff?Contents the tongue at twenty.
But Mother's words came back to me,?Told when I was little:?Mind you, the tongue's your only key,?And what it guards is brittle.?Love is the best; let go the rest,?But hold him by the wing?Until he's plumaged for the test--?Then let him soar and sing.
I took no harm of all their talk--?All talkt the same--?Tho' more than one askt me to walk?When my Sunday came;?But I held fast the dream I'd had?In the old farm,?And saw myself beside my lad,?My hand on his arm.
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A year went on, and twenty-one?Saw me discarded.?They laught at me for constancy?Ne'er to