« AnteriorContinuar »
And if she goes to make a call
a Or out to take a walk We leave our work when she returns
And run to hear her talk.
We had not dreamed these things were so
Of sorrow and of mirth.
Through which we see the earth.
God wove a web of loveliness,
Of clouds and stars and birds, But made not anything at all
So beautiful as words.
They shine around our simple earth
With golden shadowings, And
every common thing they touch Is exquisite with wings.
There's nothing poor and nothing small
But is made fair with them. They are the hands of living faith
That touch the garment's hem.
They are as fair as bloom or air,
They shine like any star,
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
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 Forever instead.
What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her
breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile
at the pain ?
as you pressed
What art's for a woman? To hold on
her knees Both darlings; to feel all their arms
round her throat, Cling, strangle a little, to sew by de
grees 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 The tyrant cast out.
And when their eyes flashed ...0 my
beautiful eyes! . . I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the
wheels 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 !