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 sea. 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 said ; But this woman, this, who is agoniz'd here, - The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead. a 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 ? 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 her knees Both darlings; to feel all their arms round her throat, Cling, strangle a little, to sew by de grees little coat; 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. O 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! |