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And if she goes to make a call
Or out to take a walk
We leave our work when she returns
We had not dreamed these things were so
Her speech is as a thousand eyes
God wove a web of loveliness,
They shine around our simple earth
With golden shadowings,
And every common thing they touch
There's nothing poor and nothing small
They are the hands of living faith
They are as fair as bloom or air,
And I am rich who learned from her
How beautiful they are.
Anna Hempstead Branch
MOTHER AND POET
DEAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the
Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast
And are wanting a great song for Italy free,
Let none look at me!
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman men
But this woman, this, who is agoniz'd here, -The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong
as you pressed
And I proud, by that test.
What art's for a woman? To hold on
Both darlings; to feel all their arms round her throat,
Cling, strangle a little, to sew by de
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat;
To dream and to doat..
To teach them. . . . It stings there! I made them indeed
Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt,
That a country's a thing men should die for at need.
I prated of liberty, rights, and about
And when their eyes flashed... O my beautiful eyes! . .
I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the
Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise
When one sits quite alone! Then one
weeps, then one kneels!
God, how the house feels!