What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do;Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.What would I give for words, if only words would come;But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb:O, merry friends, go your way, I have never a word to say.What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears,To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,To wash the stain ingrain and to make me clean again.
Underneath the growing grass,Underneath the living flowers,Deeper than the sound of showers:There we shall not count the hoursBy the shadows as they pass.Youth and health will be but vain,Beauty reckoned of no worth:There a very little girthCan hold round what once the earthSeemed too narrow to contain.
Winter is cold-hearted,Spring is yea and nay,Autumn is a weathercockBlown every way:Summer days for meWhen every leaf is on its tree;When Robin's not a beggar,And Jenny Wren's a bride,And larks hang singing, singing, singing,Over the wheat-fields wide,And anchored lilies ride,And the pendulum spiderSwings from side to side,And blue-black beetles transact business,And gnats fly in a host,And furry caterpillars hastenThat no time be lost,And moths grow fat and thrive,And ladybirds arrive.Before green apples blush,Before green nuts embrown,Why, one day in the countryIs worth a month in town;Is worth a day and a yearOf the dusty, musty, lag-last fashionThat days drone elsewhere.
I dwell alone,--I dwell alone, alone,Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,Gilded with flashing boatsThat bring no friend to me:O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,O love-pangs, let me be.Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stoneAnd spices bear to sea:Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,Love-promising, entreating,--Ah! sweet, but fleeting,--Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.Hush! the wind flags and fails,--Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand,--Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;Their songs wake singing echoes in my land,--They cannot hear me moan.One latest, solitary swallow fliesAcross the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost,Poor bird, shall it be lost?Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,With no kind eyesTo watch it while it dies,Unguessed, uncared for, free:Set free at last,The short pang past,In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,Some rent by thunder-strokes,Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze:Fair fall my fertile trees,That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.A spider's web blocks all mine avenue;He catches down and foolish painted flies,That spider wary and wise.Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dewBetwixt boughs green with sap,So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:I will not mar the web,Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.It shakes,--my trees shake; for a wind is rousedIn cavern where it housed:Each white and quivering sail,Of boats among the water leavesHollows and strains in the full-throated gale:Each maiden sings again,--Each languid maiden, whom the calmHad lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm,Miles down my river to the seaThey float and wane,Long miles away from me.Perhaps they say: "She grieves,Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower."Perhaps they say: "One hourMore, and we dance among the golden sheaves."Perhaps they say: "One hourMore, and we stand,Face to face, hand in hand;Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!"My trees are not in flower,I have no bower,And gusty creaks my tower,And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.
"There's a footstep coming: look out and see."--"The leaves are falling, the wind is calling;No one cometh across the lea."--"There's a footstep coming: O sister, look."--"The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes;No one cometh across the brook."--"But he promised that he would come:To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow,He must keep his word, and must come home."For he promised that he would come:His word was given; from earth or heaven,He must keep his word, and must come home."Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane;You can slumber, who need not numberHour after hour, in doubt and pain."I shall sit here awhile, and watch;Listening, hoping, for one hand gropingIn deep shadow to find the latch."After the dark, and before the light,One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping,Who had watched and wept the weary night.After the night, and before the day,One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping,--Watching, weeping for one away.There came a footstep climbing the stair;Some one standing out on the landingShook the door like a puff of air,--Shook the door, and in he passed.Did he enter? In the room centreStood her husband: the door shut fast."O Robin, but you are cold,--Chilled with the night-dew: so lily-white youLook like a stray lamb from our fold."O Robin, but you are late:Come and sit near me,--sit here and cheer me."--(Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)"Lay not down your head on my breast:I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold youIn the shelter that you love best."Feel not after my clasping hand:I am but a shadow, come from the meadowWhere many lie, but no tree can stand."We are trees which have shed their leaves:Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there;Only I grieve for my wife who grieves."I could rest if you would not moanHour after hour; I have no powerTo shut my ears where I lie alone."I could rest if you would not cry;But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping,--Watching, weeping so bitterly."--"Woe's me! woe's me! for this I have heard.O, night of sorrow!--O, black to-morrow!Is it thus that you keep your word?"O you who used so to shelter meWarm from the least wind,--why, now the east windIs warmer than you, whom I quake to see."O my husband of flesh and blood,For whom my mother I left, and brother,And all I had, accounting it good,"What do you do there, underground,In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow.What do you do there?--what have you found?"--"What I do there I must not tell;But I have plenty. Kind wife, content ye:It is well with us,--it is well."Tender hand hath made our nest;Our fear is ended, our hope is blendedWith present pleasure, and we have rest."--"O, but Robin, I'm fain to come,If your present days are so pleasant;For my days are so wearisome."Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake:Why should I tease you, who cannot please youAny more with the pains I take?"
I nursed it in my bosom while it lived,I hid it in my heart when it was dead;In joy I sat alone, even so I grievedAlone and nothing said.I shut the door to face the naked truth,I stood alone,--I faced the truth alone,Stripped bare of self-regard or forms or ruthTill first and last were shown.I took the perfect balances and weighed;No shaking of my hand disturbed the poise;Weighed, found it wanting: not a word I said,But silent made my choice.None know the choice I made; I make it still.None know the choice I made and broke my heart,Breaking mine idol: I have braced my willOnce, chosen for once my part.I broke it at a blow, I laid it cold,Crushed in my deep heart where it used to live.My heart dies inch by inch; the time grows old,Grows old in which I grieve.
I have a room whereinto no one entersSave I myself alone:There sits a blessed memory on a throne,There my life centres.While winter comes and goes--O tedious comer!--And while its nip-wind blows;While bloom the bloodless lily and warm roseOf lavish summer.If any should force entrance he might see thereOne buried yet not dead,Before whose face I no more bow my headOr bend my knee there;But often in my worn life's autumn weatherI watch there with clear eyes,And think how it will be in ParadiseWhen we're together.
I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest,Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast,For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.Two and two my guards behind, two and two before,Two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore;Me, poor dove, that must not coo,--eagle, that must not soar.All my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens growScented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blowThat are costly, out of season as the seasons go.All my walls are lost in mirrors, whereupon I traceSelf to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place,Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.Then I have an ivory chair high to sit upon,Almost like my father's chair, which is an ivory throne;There I sit uplift and upright, there I sit alone.Alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end;My father and my mother give me treasures, search and spend--O my father! O my mother! have you ne'er a friend?As I am a lofty princess, so my father isA lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties,Holding in his strong right hand world-kingdoms' balances.He has quarrelled with his neighbors, he has scourged his foes;Vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes,Long-descended valiant lords whom the vulture knows,On whose track the vulture swoops, when they ride in stateTo break the strength of armies and topple down the great:Each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate.My father counting up his strength sets down with equal penSo many head of cattle, head of horses, head of men;These for slaughter, these for labor, with the how and when.Some to work on roads, canals; some to man his ships;Some to smart in mines beneath sharp overseers' whips;Some to trap fur-beasts in lands where utmost winter nips.Once it came into my heart and whelmed me like a flood,That these too are men and women, human flesh and blood;Men with hearts and men with souls, though trodden down like mud.Our feasting was not glad that night, our music was not gay;On my mother's graceful head I marked a thread of gray,My father frowning at the fare seemed every dish to weigh.I sat beside them sole princess in my exalted place,My ladies and my gentlemen stood by me on the dais:A mirror showed me I look old and haggard in the face;It showed me that my ladies all are fair to gaze upon,Plump, plenteous-haired, to every one love's secret lore is known,They laugh by day, they sleep by night; ah me, what is a throne?The singing men and women sang that night as usual,The dancers danced in pairs and sets, but music had a fall,A melancholy windy fall as at a funeral.Amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept;My ladies loosed my golden chain; meantime I could have weptTo think of some in galling chains whether they waked or slept.I took my bath of scented milk, delicately waited on,They burned sweet things for my delight, cedar and cinnamon,They lit my shaded silver lamp and left me there alone.A day went by, a week went by. One day I heard it said:"Men are clamoring, women, children, clamoring to be fed;Men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread."So two whispered by my door, not thinking I could hear,Vulgar, naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear;Fit for cooping in the background, not to stalk so near.But I strained my utmost sense to catch this truth, and mark:"There are families out grazing like cattle in the park.""A pair of peasants must be saved even if we build an ark."A merry jest, a merry laugh, each strolled upon his way;One was my page, a lad I reared and bore with day by day;One was my youngest maid, as sweet and white as cream in May.Other footsteps followed softly with a weightier tramp;Voices said: "Picked soldiers have been summoned from the campTo quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp.""Howl and stamp?" one answered: "They made free to hurl a stoneAt the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown.""There's work, then, for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown.""One I saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head,Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread:Then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out he was dead.""After us the deluge," was retorted with a laugh:"If bread's the staff of life, they must walk without a staff.""While I've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the chaff."These passed. The king: stand up. Said my father with a smile:"Daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile,She's sad to-day, and who but you her sadness can beguile?"He too left me. Shall I touch my harp now while I wait(I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate),Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state;Or shall my woman stand and read some unimpassioned scene,There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between;Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the queen?Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command:"Charge!" a clash of steel: "Charge again, the rebels stand.Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand."There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher;A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire;I heard a cry for faggots, then I heard a yell for fire."Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread,You who sat to see us starve," one shrieking woman said:"Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head."Nay, this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth,I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith,I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath;With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand,I will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will standWhere they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give;I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live;I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive:Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and showThe lesson I have learned, which is death, is life, to know.I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.
Shall I forget on this side of the grave?I promise nothing: you must wait and seePatient and brave.(O my soul, watch with him and he with me.)Shall I forget in peace of Paradise?I promise nothing: follow, friend, and see,Faithful and wise.(O my soul, lead the way he walks with me.)
Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain,Ah, woe is me for glory that is past:Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last,Glory that at the last bringeth no gain!So saith the sinking heart; and so againIt shall say till the mighty angel-blastIs blown, making the sun and moon aghast,And showering down the stars like sudden rain.And evermore men shall go fearfully,Bending beneath their weight of heaviness;And ancient men shall lie down wearily,And strong men shall rise up in weariness;Yea, even the young shall answer sighingly,Saying one to another: How vain it is!
"Whose heart was breaking for a little love."
Down-stairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all:But in my solitary room aboveI turn my face in silence to the wall;My heart is breaking for a little love.Though winter frosts are done,And birds pair every one,And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown,I find no nest, while nests are in the grove:Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone,My heart that breaketh for a little love.While golden in the sunRivulets rise and run,While lilies bud, for springtide is begun.All love, are loved, save only I; their heartsBeat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof:They cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts,My heart is breaking for a little love.While beehives wake and whirr,And rabbit thins his fur,In living spring that sets the world astir.I deck myself with silks and jewelry,I plume myself like any mated dove:They praise my rustling show, and never seeMy heart is breaking for a little love.While sprouts green lavenderWith rosemary and myrrh,For in quick spring the sap is all astir.Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth,Perhaps some angels read it as they move,And cry one to another full of ruth,"Her heart is breaking for a little love."Though other things have birth,And leap and sing for mirth,When spring-time wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.Yet saith a saint: "Take patience for thy scathe";Yet saith an angel: "Wait, for thou shalt proveTrue best is last, true life is born of death,O thou, heart-broken for a little love!Then love shall fill thy girth,And love make fat thy dearth,When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth."
Life is not sweet. One day it will be sweetTo shut our eyes and die:Nor feel the wild-flowers blow, nor birds dart byWith flitting butterfly,Nor grass grow long above our heads and feet,Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high,Nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet,Nor mark the waxing wheat,Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat.Life is not good. One day it will be goodTo die, then live again;To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the waneOf shrunk leaves dropping in the wood,Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main,Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stoodRich ranks of golden grain,Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain:Asleep from risk, asleep from pain.
Did any bird come flyingAfter Adam and Eve,When the door was shut against themAnd they sat down to grieve?I think not Eve's peacockSplendid to see,And I think not Adam's eagle;But a dove may be.Did any beast come pushingThrough the thorny hedgeInto the thorny, thistly worldOut from Eden's edge?I think not a lion,Though his strength is such;But an innocent loving lambMay have done as much.If the dove preached from her boughAnd the lamb from his sod,The lamb and the doveWere preachers sent from God.
"While I sit at the door,Sick to gaze within,Mine eye weepeth soreFor sorrow and sin:As a tree my sin standsTo darken all lands;Death is the fruit it bore."How have Eden bowers grownWithout Adam to bend them!How have Eden flowers blown,Squandering their sweet breath,Without me to tend them!The Tree of Life was ours,Tree twelvefold-fruited,Most lofty tree that flowers,Most deeply rooted:I chose the Tree of Death."Hadst thou but said me nay,Adam, my brother,I might have pined away;I, but none other:God might have let thee staySafe in our garden,By putting me awayBeyond all pardon."I, Eve, sad motherOf all who must live,I, not another,Plucked bitterest fruit to giveMy friend, husband, lover.O wanton eyes run over!Who but I should grieve?--Cain hath slain his brother:Of all who must die mother,Miserable Eve!"Thus she sat weeping,Thus Eve, our mother,Where one lay sleepingSlain by his brother.Greatest and leastEach piteous beastTo hear her voiceForgot his joysAnd set aside his feast.The mouse paused in his walkAnd dropped his wheaten stalk;Grave cattle wagged their headsIn rumination;The eagle gave a cryFrom his cloud station;Larks on thyme bedsForbore to mount or sing;Bees drooped upon the wing;The raven perched on highForgot his ration;The conies in their rock,A feeble nation,Quaked sympathetical;The mocking-bird left off to mock;Huge camels knelt as ifIn deprecation;The kind hart's tears were falling;Chattered the wistful stork;Dove-voices with a dying fallCooed desolation,Answering grief by grief.Only the serpent in the dust,Wriggling and crawling,Grinned an evil grin, and thrustHis tongue out with its fork.
I loved my love from green of SpringUntil sere Autumn's fall;But now that leaves are witheringHow should one love at all?One heart's too smallFor hunger, cold, love, everything.I loved my love on sunny daysUntil late Summer's wane;But now that frost begins to glazeHow should one love again?Nay, love and painWalk wide apart in diverse ways.I loved my love,--alas to seeThat this should be, alas!I thought that this could scarcely be,Yet has it come to pass:Sweet sweet love was,Now bitter bitter grown to me.
The year stood at its equinoxAnd bluff the North was blowing,A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,Green hardy things were growing;I met a maid with shining locksWhere milky kine were lowing.She wore a kerchief on her neck,Her bare arm showed its dimple,Her apron spread without a speck,Her air was frank and simple.She milked into a wooden pailAnd sang a country ditty,An innocent fond lovers' tale,That was not wise nor witty,Pathetically rustical,Too pointless for the city.She kept in time without a beatAs true as church-bell ringers,Unless she tapped time with her feet,Or squeezed it with her fingers;Her clear unstudied notes were sweetAs many a practised singer's.I stood a minute out of sight,Stood silent for a minuteTo eye the pail, and creamy whiteThe frothing milk within it;To eye the comely milking maidHerself so fresh and creamy:"Good day to you," at last I said;She turned her head to see me:"Good day," she said, with lifted head;Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,And all the while she milked and milkedThe grave cow heavy-laden:I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked,But not a sweeter maiden;But not a sweeter, fresher maidThan this in homely cotton,Whose pleasant face and silky braidI have not yet forgotten.Seven springs have passed since then, as ICount with a sober sorrow;Seven springs have come and passed me by,And spring sets in to-morrow.I've half a mind to shake myselfFree just for once from London,To set my work upon the shelfAnd leave it done or undone;To run down by the early train,Whirl down with shriek and whistle,And feel the bluff North blow again,And mark the sprouting thistleSet up on waste patch of the laneIts green and tender bristle,And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,Crisp primrose leaves and others,And watch the lambs leap at their pranksAnd butt their patient mothers.Alas, one point in all my planMy serious thoughts demur to:Seven years have passed for maid and man,Seven years have passed for her too;Perhaps my rose is overblown,Not rosy or too rosy;Perhaps in farm-house of her ownSome husband keeps her cosey,Where I should show a face unknown.Good by, my wayside posy.
Somewhere or other there must surely beThe face not seen, the voice not heard,The heart that not yet--never yet--ah me!Made answer to my word.Somewhere or other, may be near or far;Past land and sea, clean out of sight;Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the starThat tracks her night by night.Somewhere or other, may be far or near;With just a wall, a hedge, between;With just the last leaves of the dying yearFallen on a turf grown green.
What can lambkins doAll the keen night through?Nestle by their woolly mother,The careful ewe.What can nestlings doIn the nightly dew?Sleep beneath their mother's wingTill day breaks anew.If in field or treeThere might only beSuch a warm soft sleeping-placeFound for me!
I WISH you were a pleasant wren,And I your small accepted mate;How we'd look down on toilsome men!We'd rise and go to bed at eightOr it may be not quite so late.Then you should see the nest I'd build,The wondrous nest for you and me;The outside rough, perhaps, but filledWith wool and down: ah, you should seeThe cosey nest that it would be.We'd have our change of hope and fear,Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet:I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,Or hop about on active feetAnd fetch you dainty bits to eat.We'd be so happy by the day,So safe and happy through the night,We both should feel, and I should say,It's all one season of delight,And we'll make merry whilst we may.Perhaps some day there'd be an eggWhen spring had blossomed from the snow:I'd stand triumphant on one leg;Like chanticleer I'd almost crowTo let our little neighbors know.Next you should sit and I would singThrough lengthening days of sunny spring:Till, if you wearied of the task,I'd sit; and you should spread your wingFrom bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.Fancy the breaking of the shell,The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,The untried proud paternal swell;And you with housewife-matron airEnacting choicer bills of fare.Fancy the embryo coats of down,The gradual feathers soft and sleek;Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,With virgin warblings in their beak,They too go forth to soar and seek.So would it last an April throughAnd early summer fresh with dew:Then should we part and live as twain,Love-time would bring me back to youAnd build our happy nest again.
O happy rose-bud bloomingUpon thy parent tree,--Nay, thou art too presuming;For soon the earth entombingThy faded charms shall be,And the chill damp consuming.O happy skylark springingUp to the broad blue sky,Too fearless in thy winging,Too gladsome in thy singing,Thou also soon shalt lieWhere no sweet notes are ringing.And through life's shine and showerWe shall have joy and pain;But in the summer bower,And at the morning hour,We still shall look in vainFor the same bird and flower.
"The iniquity of the fathers upon the children."
O the rose of keenest thorn!One hidden summer mornUnder the rose I was born.I do not guess his nameWho wrought my Mother's shame,And gave me life forlorn,But my Mother, Mother, Mother,I know her from all other.My Mother pale and mild,Fair as ever was seen,She was but scarce sixteen,Little more than a child,When I was bornTo work her scorn.With secret bitter throes,In a passion of secret woes,She bore me under the rose.One who my Mother nursedTook me from the first:--"O nurse, let me look uponThis babe that cost so dear;To-morrow she will be gone:Other mothers may keepTheir babes awake and asleep,But I must not keep her here."--Whether I know or guess,I know this not the less.So I was sent awayThat none might spy the truth:And my childhood waxed to youthAnd I left off childish play.I never cared to playWith the village boys and girls;And I think they thought me proud,I found so little to sayAnd kept so from the crowd:But I had the longest curls,And I had the largest eyes,And my teeth were small like pearls;The girls might flout and scout me,But the boys would hang about meIn sheepish mooning wise.Our one-street village stoodA long mile from the town,A mile of windy downAnd bleak one-sided wood,With not a single house.Our town itself was small,With just the common shops,And throve in its small way.Our neighboring gentry rearedThe good old-fashioned crops,And made old-fashioned boastsOf what John Bull would doIf Frenchman Frog appeared,And drank old-fashioned toasts,And made old-fashioned bowsTo my Lady at the Hall.My Lady at the HallIs grander than they all:Hers is the oldest nameIn all the neighborhood;But the race must die with herThough she's a lofty dame,For she's unmarried still.Poor people say she's goodAnd has an open handAs any in the land,And she's the comforterOf many sick and sad;My nurse once said to meThat everything she hadCame of my Lady's bounty:"Though she's greatest in the countyShe's humble to the poor,No beggar seeks her doorBut finds help presently.I pray both night and dayFor her, and you must pray:But she'll never feel distressIf needy folk can bless."I was a little maidWhen here we came to liveFrom somewhere by the sea.Men spoke a foreign tongueThere where we used to beWhen I was merry and young,Too young to feel afraid;The fisher-folk would giveA kind strange word to me,There by the foreign sea:I don't know where it was,But I remember stillOur cottage on a hill,And fields of flowering grassOn that fair foreign shore.I liked my old home best,But this was pleasant too:So here we made our nestAnd here I grew.And now and then my LadyIn riding past our doorWould nod to nurse and speak,Or stoop and pat my cheek;And I was always readyTo hold the field-gate wideFor my Lady to go through;My Lady in her veilSo seldom put aside,My Lady grave and pale.I often sat to wonderWho might my parents be,For I knew of something underMy simple-seeming state.Nurse never talked to meOf mother or of father,But watched me early and lateWith kind suspicious cares:Or not suspicious, ratherAnxious, as if she knewSome secret I might gatherAnd smart for unawares.Thus I grew.But Nurse waxed old and gray,Bent and weak with years.There came a certain dayThat she lay upon her bedShaking her palsied head,With words she gasped to sayWhich had to stay unsaid.Then with a jerking handHeld out so piteouslyShe gave a ring to meOf gold wrought curiously,A ring which she had wornSince the day that I was born,She once had said to me:I slipped it on my finger;Her eyes were keen to lingerOn my hand that slipped it on;Then she sighed one rattling sighAnd stared on with sightless eye:--The one who loved me was gone.How long I stayed aloneWith the corpse I never knew,For I fainted dead as stone:When I came to life once moreI was down upon the floor,With neighbors making adoTo bring me back to life.I heard the sexton's wifeSay: "Up, my lad, and runTo tell it at the Hall;She was my Lady's nurse,And done can't be undone.I'll watch by this poor lamb.I guess my Lady's purseIs always open to such:I'd run up on my crutchA cripple as I am,"(For cramps had vexed her much,)"Rather than this dear heartLack one to take her part."For days, day after day,On my weary bed I lay,Wishing the time would pass;O, so wishing that I wasLikely to pass away:For the one friend whom I knewWas dead, I knew no other,Neither father nor mother;And I, what should I do?One day the sexton's wifeSaid: "Rouse yourself, my dear:My Lady has driven downFrom the Hall into the town,And we think she's coming here.Cheer up, for life is life."But I would not look or speak,Would not cheer up at all.My tears were like to fall,So I turned round to the wallAnd hid my hollow cheek,Making as if I slept,As silent as a stone,And no one knew I wept.What was my Lady to me,The grand lady from the Hall?She might come, or stay away,I was sick at heart that day:The whole world seemed to beNothing, just nothing to me,For aught that I could see.Yet I listened where I lay:A bustle came below,A clear voice said: "I know;I will see her first alone,It may be less of a shockIf she's so weak to-day":--A light hand turned the lock,A light step crossed the floor,One sat beside my bed:But never a word she said.For me, my shyness grewEach moment more and more:So I said never a wordAnd neither looked nor stirred;I think she must have heardMy heart go pit-a-pat:Thus I lay, my Lady sat,More than a mortal hour(I counted one and twoBy the house-clock while I lay):I seemed to have no powerTo think of a thing to say,Or do what I ought to do,Or rouse myself to a choice.At last she said: "Margaret,Won't you even look at me?"A something in her voiceForced my tears to fall at last,Forced sobs from me thick and fast;Something not of the past,Yet stirring memory;A something new, and yetNot new, too sweet to last,Which I never can forget.I turned and stared at her:Her cheek showed hollow-pale;Her hair like mine was fair,A wonderful fall of hairThat screened her like a veil;But her height was statelier,Her eyes had depth more deep:I think they must have hadAlways a something sad,Unless they were asleep.While I stared, my Lady tookMy hand in her spare hand,Jewelled and soft and grand,And looked with a long long lookOf hunger in my face;As if she tried to traceFeatures she ought to know,And half hoped, half feared, to find.Whatever was in her mindShe heaved a sigh at last,And began to talk to me."Your nurse was my dear nurse,And her nursling's dear," said she:"No one told me a wordOf her getting worse and worse,Till her poor life was past"(Here my Lady's tears dropped fast):"I might have been with her,I might have promised and heard,But she had no comforter.She might have told me muchWhich now I shall never know,Never, never shall know."She sat by me sobbing so,And seemed so woe-begone,That I laid one hand uponHers with a timid touch,Scarce thinking what I did,Not knowing what to say:That moment her face was hidIn the pillow close by mine,Her arm was flung over me,She hugged me, sobbing soAs if her heart would break,And kissed me where I lay.After this she often cameTo bring me fruit or wine,Or sometimes hothouse flowers.And at nights I lay awakeOften and often thinkingWhat to do for her sake.Wet or dry it was the same:She would come in at all hours,Set me eating and drinking,And say I must grow strong;At last the day seemed longAnd home seemed scarcely homeIf she did not come.Well, I grew strong again:In time of primrosesI went to pluck them in the lane;In time of nestling birdsI heard them chirping round the house;And all the herdsWere out at grass when I grew strong,And days were waxen long,And there was work for beesAmong the May-bush boughs,And I had shot up tall,And life felt after allPleasant, and not so longWhen I grew strong.I was going to the HallTo be my Lady's maid:"Her little friend," she said to me,"Almost her child,"She said and smiled,Sighing painfully;Blushing, with a second flush,As if she blushed to blush.Friend, servant, child: just thisMy standing at the Hall;The other servants call me "Miss,"My Lady calls me "Margaret,"With her clear voice musical.She never chides when I forgetThis or that; she never chides.Except when people come to stay(And that's not often) at the Hall,I sit with her all dayAnd ride out when she rides.She sings to me and makes me sing;Sometimes I read to her,Sometimes we merely sit and talk.She noticed once my ringAnd made me tell its history:That evening in our garden walkShe said she should inferThe ring had been my father's first,Then my mother's, given for meTo the nurse who nursedMy mother in her misery,That so quite certainlySome one might know me, who--Then she was silent, and I too.I hate when people come:The women speak and stareAnd mean to be so civil.This one will stroke my hair,That one will pat my cheekAnd praise my Lady's kindness,Expecting me to speak;I like the proud ones bestWho sit as struck with blindness,As if I wasn't there.But if any gentlemanIs staying at the Hall(Though few come prying here),My Lady seems to fearSome downright dreadful evil,And makes me keep my roomAs closely as she can:So I hate when people come,It is so troublesome.In spite of all her care,Sometimes to keep aliveI sometimes do contriveTo get out in the groundsFor a whiff of wholesome air,Under the rose you know:It's charming to break bounds,Stolen waters are sweet,And what's the good of feetIf for days they mustn't go?Give me a longer tether,Or I may break from it.Now I have eyes and earsAnd just some little wit:"Almost my lady's child";I recollect she smiled,Sighed and blushed together;Then her story of the ringSounds not improbable,She told it me so wellIt seemed the actual thing:--O keep your counsel close,But I guess under the rose,In long past summer weatherWhen the world was blossoming,And the rose upon its thorn:I guess not who he wasFlawed honor like a glassAnd made my life forlorn;But my Mother, Mother, Mother,O, I know her from all other.My Lady, you might trustYour daughter with your fame.Trust me, I would not shameOur honorable name,For I have noble bloodThough I was bred in dustAnd brought up in the mud.I will not press my claim,Just leave me where you will:But you might trust your daughter,For blood is thicker than waterAnd you're my mother still.So my Lady holds her ownWith condescending grace,And fills her lofty placeWith an untroubled faceAs a queen may fill a throne.While I could hint a tale(But then I am her child)Would make her quail;Would set her in the dust,Lorn with no comforter,Her glorious hair defiledAnd ashes on her cheek:The decent world would thrustIts finger out at her,Not much displeased I thinkTo make a nine days' stir;The decent world would sinkIts voice to speak of her.Now this is what I meanTo do, no more, no less:Never to speak, or showBare sign of what I know.Let the blot pass unseen;Yea, let her never guessI hold the tangled clewShe huddles out of view.Friend, servant, almost child,So be it and nothing moreOn this side of the grave.Mother, in Paradise,You'll see with clearer eyes;Perhaps in this world evenWhen you are like to dieAnd face to face with HeavenYou'll drop for once the lie:But you must drop the mask, not I.My Lady promisesTwo hundred pounds with meWhenever I may wedA man she can approve:And since besides her bountyI'm fairest in the county(For so I've heard it said,Though I don't vouch for this),Her promised pounds may moveSome honest man to seeMy virtues and my beauties;Perhaps the rising grazier,Or temperance publican,May claim my wifely duties.Meanwhile I wait their leisureAnd grace-bestowing pleasure,I wait the happy man;But if I hold my headAnd pitch my expectationsJust higher than their level,They must fall back on patience:I may not mean to wed,Yet I'll be civil.Now sometimes in a dreamMy heart goes out of meTo build and scheme,Till I sob after things that seemSo pleasant in a dream:A home such as I seeMy blessed neighbors live inWith father and with mother,All proud of one another,Named by one common name,From baby in the budTo full-blown workman father;It's little short of Heaven.I'd give my gentle bloodTo wash my special shameAnd drown my private grudge;I'd toil and moil much ratherThe dingiest cottage drudgeWhose mother need not blush,Than live here like a ladyAnd see my Mother flushAnd hear her voice unsteadySometimes, yet never dareAsk to share her care.Of course the servants sneerBehind my back at me;Of course the village girls,Who envy me my curlsAnd gowns and idleness,Take comfort in a jeer;Of course the ladies guessJust so much of my historyAs points the emphatic stressWith which they laud my Lady;The gentlemen who catchA casual glimpse of meAnd turn again to see,Their valets on the watchTo speak a word with me,All know and sting me wild;Till I am almost readyTo wish that I were dead,No faces more to see,No more words to be said,My Mother safe at lastDisburdened of her child,And the past past."All equal before God,"--Our Rector has it so,And sundry sleepers nod:It may be so; I knowAll are not equal here,And when the sleepers wakeThey make a difference."All equal in the grave,"--That shows an obvious sense:Yet something which I craveNot death itself brings near;How should death half atoneFor all my past; or makeThe name I bear my own?I love my dear old NurseWho loved me without gains;I love my mistress even,Friend, Mother, what you will:But I could almost curseMy Father for his pains;And sometimes at my prayer,Kneeling in sight of Heaven,I almost curse him still:Why did he set his snareTo catch at unawareMy Mother's foolish youth;Load me with shame that's hers,And her with something worse,A lifelong lie for truth?I think my mind is fixedOn one point and made up:To accept my lot unmixed;Never to drug the cupBut drink it by myself.I'll not be wooed for pelf;I'll not blot out my shameWith any man's good name;But nameless as I stand,My hand is my own hand,And nameless as I cameI go to the dark land."All equal in the grave,"--I bide my time till then:"All equal before God,"--To-day I feel His rod,To-morrow He may save:Amen.