Chapter II: Part TWO: Departure

It’s little I care what path I take, And where it leads it’s little I care; But out of this house, lest my heart break, I must go, and off somewhere.

It’s little I know what’s in my heart, What’s in my mind it’s little I know, But there’s that in me must up and start, And it’s little I care where my feet go.

I wish I could walk for a day and a night, And find me at dawn in a desolate place With never the rut of a road in sight, Nor the roof of a house, nor the eyes of a face.

I wish I could walk till my blood should spout, And drop me, never to stir again, On a shore that is wide, for the tide is out, And the weedy rocks are bare to the rain.

But dump or dock, where the path I take Brings up, it’s little enough I care; And it’s little I’d mind the fuss they’ll make, Huddled dead in a ditch somewhere.

_“Is something the matter, dear,” she said,_ _“That you sit at your work so silently?”_ _“No, mother, no, ’twas a knot in my thread._ _There goes the kettle, I’ll make the tea.”_

THE RETURN FROM TOWN

As I sat down by Saddle Stream
To bathe my dusty feet there,
A boy was standing on the bridge
Any girl would meet there.

As I went over Woody Knob
And dipped into the hollow,
A youth was coming up the hill
Any maid would follow.

Then in I turned at my own gate,--
And nothing to be sad for--
To such a man as any wife
Would pass a pretty lad for.

A VISIT TO THE ASYLUM

Once from a big, big building, When I was small, small, The queer folk in the windows Would smile at me and call.

And in the hard wee gardens Such pleasant men would hoe: “Sir, may we touch the little girl’s hair?”-- It was so red, you know.

They cut me colored asters With shears so sharp and neat, They brought me grapes and plums and pears And pretty cakes to eat.

And out of all the windows, No matter where we went, The merriest eyes would follow me And make me compliment.

There were a thousand windows, All latticed up and down. And up to all the windows, When we went back to town,

The queer folk put their faces, As gentle as could be; “Come again, little girl!” they called, and I Called back, “You come see me!”

THE SPRING AND THE FALL

In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The trees were black where the bark was wet. I see them yet, in the spring of the year. He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach That was out of the way and hard to reach.

In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The rooks went up with a raucous trill. I hear them still, in the fall of the year. He laughed at all I dared to praise, And broke my heart, in little ways.

Year be springing or year be falling, The bark will drip and the birds be calling. There’s much that’s fine to see and hear In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year. ’Tis not love’s going hurts my days, But that it went in little ways.

THE CURSE

Oh, lay my ashes on the wind That blows across the sea. And I shall meet a fisherman Out of Capri,

And he will say, seeing me, “What a strange thing! Like a fish’s scale or a Butterfly’s wing.”

Oh, lay my ashes on the wind That blows away the fog. And I shall meet a farmer boy Leaping through the bog,

And he will say, seeing me, “What a strange thing! Like a peat-ash or a Butterfly’s wing.”

And I shall blow to your house And, sucked against the pane, See you take your sewing up And lay it down again.

And you will say, seeing me, “What a strange thing! Like a plum petal or a Butterfly’s wing.”

And none at all will know me That knew me well before. But I will settle at the root That climbs about your door,

And fishermen and farmers May see me and forget, But I’ll be a bitter berry In your brewing yet.

KEEN

Weep him dead and mourn as you may,
Me, I sing as I must:
Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble
What would have sunk to dust!

Blessed be Death, that took my love
And buried him in the sea,
Where never a lie nor a bitter word
Will out of his mouth at me.

This I have to hold to my heart,
This to take by the hand:
Sweet we were for a summer month
As the sun on the dry white sand;

Mild we were for a summer month
As the wind from over the weirs.
And blessed be Death, that hushed with salt
The harsh and slovenly years!

Who builds her a house with love for timber
Builds her a house of foam.
And I’d rather be bride to a lad gone down
Than widow to one safe home.

THE BETROTHAL

Oh, come, my lad, or go, my lad, And love me if you like. I shall not hear the door shut Nor the knocker strike.

Oh, bring me gifts or beg me gifts, And wed me if you will. I’d make a man a good wife, Sensible and still.

And why should I be cold, my lad, And why should you repine, Because I love a dark head That never will be mine?

I might as well be easing you As lie alone in bed And waste the night in wanting A cruel dark head.

You might as well be calling yours What never will be his, And one of us be happy. There’s few enough as is.

HUMORESQUE

“Heaven bless the babe!” they said. “What queer books she must have read!” (Love, by whom I was beguiled, Grant I may not bear a child.)

“Little does she guess to-day What the world may be!” they say. (Snow, drift deep and cover Till the spring my murdered lover.)

THE POND

In this pond of placid water,
Half a hundred years ago,
So they say, a farmer’s daughter,
Jilted by her farmer beau,

Waded out among the rushes,
Scattering the blue dragon-flies;
That dried stick the ripple washes
Marks the spot, I should surmise.

Think, so near the public highway,
Well frequented even then!
Can you not conceive the sly way,--
Hearing wheels or seeing men

Passing on the road above,--
With a gesture feigned and silly,
Ere she drowned herself for love,
She would reach to pluck a lily?

THE BALLAD OF THE HARP-WEAVER

“Son,” said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
“You’ve need of clothes to cover you,
And not a rag have I.

“There’s nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with
Nor thread to take stitches.

“There’s nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman’s head
Nobody will buy,”
And she began to cry.

That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
“Son,” she said, “the sight of you
Makes your mother’s blood crawl,--

“Little skinny shoulder-blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you’ll get a jacket from
God above knows.

“It’s lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy’s in the ground,
And can’t see the way I let
His son go around!”
And she made a queer sound.

That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I’d not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.

I couldn’t go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.

“Son,” said my mother,
“Come, climb into my lap,
And I’ll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap.”

And, oh, but we were silly
For half an hour or more,
Me with my long legs
Dragging on the floor,

A-rock-rock-rocking
To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For half an hour’s time!

But there was I, a great boy,
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?

Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.

A wind with a wolf’s head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat upon the floor.

All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn’t break,
And the harp with a woman’s head
Nobody would take,
For song or pity’s sake.

The night before Christmas
I cried with the cold,
I cried myself to sleep
Like a two-year-old.

And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love in her eyes.

I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn’t tell where,

Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman’s head
Leaned against her shoulder.

Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.

Many bright threads,
From where I couldn’t see,
Were running through the harp-strings
Rapidly,

And gold threads whistling
Through my mother’s hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.

She wove a child’s jacket,
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one.

She wove a red cloak
So regal to see,
“She’s made it for a king’s son,”
I said, “and not for me.”
But I knew it was for me.

She wove a pair of breeches
Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
And a little cocked hat.

She wove a pair of mittens,
She wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
In the still, cold house.

She sang as she worked,
And the harp-strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
And the thread never broke.
And when I awoke,--

There sat my mother
With the harp against her shoulder,
Looking nineteen
And not a day older,

A smile about her lips,
And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp-strings
Frozen dead.

And piled up beside her
And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king’s son,
Just my size.