Chapter V: Part FIVE: Sonnets From an Ungrafted Tree

V-I SO SHE CAME BACK

So SHE came back into his house again And watched beside his bed until he died, Loving him not at all. The winter rain Splashed in the painted butter-tub outside, Where once her red geraniums had stood, Where still their rotted stalks were to be seen; The thin log snapped; and she went out for wood, Bareheaded, running the few steps between The house and shed; there, from the sodden eaves Blown back and forth on ragged ends of twine, Saw the dejected creeping-jinny vine, (And one, big-aproned, blithe, with stiff blue sleeves Rolled to the shoulder that warm day in spring, Who planted seeds, musing ahead to their far blossoming).

V-II THE LAST WHITE SAWDUST

The last white sawdust on the floor was grown Gray as the first, so long had he been ill; The axe was nodding in the block; fresh-blown And foreign came the rain across the sill, But on the roof so steadily it drummed She could not think a time it might not be-- In hazy summer, when the hot air hummed With mowing, and locusts rising raspingly, When that small bird with iridescent wings And long incredible sudden silver tongue Had just flashed (and yet may be not!) among The dwarf nasturtiums--when no sagging springs Of shower were in the whole bright sky, somehow Upon this roof the rain would drum as it was drumming now.

V-III SHE FILLED HER ARMS WITH WOOD

She filled her arms with wood, and set her chin Forward, to hold the highest stick in place, No less afraid than she had always been Of spiders up her arms and on her face, But too impatient for a careful search Or a less heavy loading, from the heap Selecting hastily small sticks of birch, For their curled bark, that instantly will leap Into a blaze, nor thinking to return Some day, distracted, as of old, to find Smooth, heavy, round, green logs with a wet, gray rind Only, and knotty chunks that will not burn, (That day when dust is on the wood-box floor, And some old catalogue, and a brown, shriveled apple core).

V-IV THE WHITE BARK WRITHED

The white bark writhed and sputtered like a fish Upon the coals, exuding odorous smoke. She knelt and blew, in a surging desolate wish For comfort; and the sleeping ashes woke And scattered to the hearth, but no thin fire Broke suddenly, the wood was wet with rain. Then, softly stepping forth from her desire, (Being mindful of like passion hurled in vain Upon a similar task, in other days) She thrust her breath against the stubborn coal, Bringing to bear upon its hilt the whole Of her still body... there sprang a little blaze... A pack of hounds, the flame swept up the flue!-- And the blue night stood flattened against the window, staring through.

V-V THE WAGON STOPPED BEFORE THE HOUSE

A wagon stopped before the house; she heard The heavy oilskins of the grocer’s man Slapping against his legs. Of a sudden whirred Her heart like a frightened partridge, and she ran And slid the bolt, leaving his entrance free; Then in the cellar way till he was gone Hid, breathless, praying that he might not see The chair sway she had laid her hand upon In passing. Sour and damp from that dark vault Arose to her the well-remembered chill; She saw the narrow wooden stairway still Plunging into the earth, and the thin salt Crusting the crocks; until she knew him far, So stood, with listening eyes upon the empty doughnut jar.

V-VI THEN CAUTIOUSLY SHE PUSHED

Then cautiously she pushed the cellar door And stepped into the kitchen--saw the track Of muddy rubber boots across the floor, The many paper parcels in a stack Upon the dresser; with accustomed care Removed the twine and put the wrappings by, Folded, and the bags flat, that with an air Of ease had been whipped open skillfully, To the gape of children. Treacherously dear And simple was the dull, familiar task. And so it was she came at length to ask: How came the soda there? The sugar here? Then the dream broke. Silent, she brought the mop, And forced the trade-slip on the nail that held his razor strop.

V-VII ONE WAY THERE WAS

One way there was of muting in the mind A little while the ever-clamorous care; And there was rapture, of a decent kind, In making mean and ugly objects fair: Soft-sooted kettle-bottoms, that had been Time after time set in above the fire, Faucets, and candlesticks, corroded green, To mine again from quarry; to attire The shelves in paper petticoats, and tack New oilcloth in the ringed-and-rotten’s place, Polish the stove till you could see your face, And after nightfall rear an aching back In a changed kitchen, bright as a new pin, An advertisement, far too fine to cook a supper in.

V-VIII SHE LET THEM LEAVE THEIR JELLIES

She let them leave their jellies at the door And go away, reluctant, down the walk. She heard them talking as they passed before The blind, but could not quite make out their talk For noise in the room--the sudden heavy fall And roll of a charred log, and the roused shower Of snapping sparks; then sharply from the wall The unforgivable crowing of the hour. One instant set ajar, her quiet ear Was stormed and forced by the full rout of day: The rasp of a saw, the fussy cluck and bray Of hens, the wheeze of a pump, she needs must hear; She inescapably must endure to feel Across her teeth the grinding of a backing wagon wheel.

V-IX NOT OVER-KIND NOR OVER-QUICK

Not over-kind nor over-quick in study Nor skilled in sports nor beautiful was he, Who had come into her life when anybody Would have been welcome, so in need was she. They had become acquainted in this way: He flashed a mirror in her eyes at school; By which he was distinguished; from that day They went about together, as a rule. She told, in secret and with whispering, How he had flashed a mirror in her eyes; And as she told, it struck her with surprise That this was not so wonderful a thing. But what’s the odds?--It’s pretty nice to know You’ve got a friend to keep you company everywhere you go.

V-X SHE HAD FORGOTTEN

She had forgotten how the August night Was level as a lake beneath the moon, In which she swam a little, losing sight Of shore; and how the boy, that was at noon Simple enough, not different from the rest, Wore now a pleasant mystery as he went, Which seemed to her an honest enough test Whether she loved him, and she was content. So loud, so loud the million crickets’ choir . . . So sweet the night, so long-drawn-out and late . . . And if the man were not her spirit’s mate, Why was her body sluggish with desire? Stark on the open field the moonlight fell, But the oak tree’s shadow was deep and black and secret as a well.

V-XI IT CAME INTO HER MIND

It came into her mind, seeing how the snow Was gone, and the brown grass exposed again, And clothes-pins, and an apron--long ago, In some white storm that sifted through the pane And sent her forth reluctantly at last To gather in, before the line gave way, Garments, board-stiff, that galloped on the blast Clashing like angel armies in a fray, An apron long ago in such a night Blown down and buried in the deepening drift, To lie till April thawed it back to sight, Forgotten, quaint and novel as a gift-- It struck her, as she pulled and pried and tore, That here was spring, and the whole year to be lived through once more.

V-XII TENDERLY, IN THOSE TIMES

Tenderly, in those times, as though she fed An ailing child--with sturdy propping up Of its small, feverish body in the bed, And steadying of its hands about the cup-- She gave her husband of her body’s strength, Thinking of men, what helpless things they were, Until he turned and fell asleep at length, And stealthily stirred the night and spoke to her. Familiar, at such moments, like a friend, Whistled far off the long, mysterious train, And she could see in her mind’s vision plain The magic World, where cities stood on end . . . Remote from where she lay--and yet--between, Save for something asleep beside her, only the window screen.

V-XIII FROM THE WAN DREAM

From the wan dream that was her waking day, Wherein she journeyed, borne along the ground Without her own volition in some way, Or fleeing, motionless, with feet fast bound, Or running silent through a silent house Sharply remembered from an earlier dream, Upstairs, down other stairs, fearful to rouse, Regarding him, the wide and empty scream Of a strange sleeper on a malignant bed, And all the time not certain if it were Herself so doing or some one like to her, From this wan dream that was her daily bread, Sometimes, at night, incredulous, she would wake-- A child, blowing bubbles that the chairs and carpet did not break!

V-XIV SHE HAD A HORROR

She had a horror he would die at night. And sometimes when the light began to fade She could not keep from noticing how white The birches looked--and then she would be afraid, Even with a lamp, to go about the house And lock the windows; and as night wore on Toward morning, if a dog howled, or a mouse Squeaked in the floor, long after it was gone Her flesh would sit awry on her. By day She would forget somewhat, and it would seem A silly thing to go with just this dream And get a neighbor to come at night and stay. But it would strike her sometimes, making the tea: _She had kept that kettle boiling all night long, for_ _company._

V-XV THERE WAS UPON THE SILL

There was upon the sill a pencil mark, Vital with shadow when the sun stood still At noon, but now, because the day was dark, It was a pencil mark upon the sill. And the mute clock, maintaining ever the same Dead moment, blank and vacant of itself, Was a pink shepherdess, a picture frame, A shell marked Souvenir, there on the shelf. Whence it occurred to her that _he_ might be, The mainspring being broken in his mind, A clock himself, if one were so inclined, That stood at twenty minutes after three-- The reason being for this, it might be said, That things in death were neither clocks nor people, but only dead.

V-XVI THE DOCTOR ASKED HER

The doctor asked her what she wanted done With him, that could not lie there many days. And she was shocked to see how life goes on Even after death, in irritating ways; And mused how if he had not died at all ’Twould have been easier--then there need not be The stiff disorder of a funeral Everywhere, and the hideous industry, And crowds of people calling her by name And questioning her, she’d never seen before, But only watching by his bed once more And sitting silent if a knocking came . . . She said at length, feeling the doctor’s eyes, “I don’t know what you do exactly when a person dies.”

V-XVII GAZING UPON HIM NOW

Gazing upon him now, severe and dead, It seemed a curious thing that she had lain Beside him many a night in that cold bed, And that had been which would not be again. From his desirous body the great heat Was gone at last, it seemed, and the taut nerves Loosened forever. Formally the sheet Set forth for her to-day those heavy curves And lengths familiar as the bedroom door. She was as one that enters, sly, and proud, To where her husband speaks before a crowd, And sees a man she never saw before-- The man who eats his victuals at her side, Small, and absurd, and hers: for once, not hers, unclassified.

THE END