Poems for Wife

Thou hast benighted me; thy setThis eve of blackness did beget,Who wast my day (tho’ overcastBefore thou hadst thy noontide past):And I remember must in tearsThou scarce hadst seen so many yearsAs day tells hours. By thy clear sunMy love and fortune first did run;But thou wilt never more appearFolded within my hemisphere,Since both thy light and motion,Like a fled star, is fall’n and gone,And ’twixt me and my soul’s dear wishThe earth now interposèd is.... I could allow thee for a timeTo darken me and my sad clime;Were it a month, a year, or ten,I would thy exile live till then,And all that space my mirth adjourn--So thou wouldst promise to return,And putting off thy ashy shroudAt length disperse this sorrow’s cloud. But woe is me! the longest dateToo narrow is to calculateThese empty hopes: never shall IBe so much blest as to descryA glimpse of thee, till that day comeWhich shall the earth to cinders doom,And a fierce fever must calcineThe body of this world--like thine,My little world! That fit of fireOnce off, our bodies shall aspireTo our souls’ bliss: then we shall riseAnd view ourselves with clearer eyesIn that calm region where no nightCan hide us from each other’s sight. Meantime thou hast her, earth: much goodMay my harm do thee! Since it stoodWith Heaven’s will I might not callHer longer mine, I give thee allMy short-lived right and interestIn her whom living I loved best.Be kind to her, and prithee lookThou write into thy Doomsday bookEach parcel of this rarityWhich in thy casket shrined doth lie,As thou wilt answer Him that lent--Not gave--thee my dear monument.So close the ground, and ’bout her shadeBlack curtains draw: my bride is laid. Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bedNever to be disquieted!My last good-night! Thou wilt not wakeTill I thy fate shall overtake:Till age, or grief, or sickness mustMarry my body to that dustIt so much loves; and fill the roomMy heart keeps empty in thy tomb.Stay for me there: I will not failTo meet thee in that hollow vale.And think not much of my delay:I am already on the way,And follow thee with all the speedDesire can make, or sorrows breed.Each minute is a short degreeAnd every hour a step towards thee.... ’Tis true--with shame and grief I yield--Thou, like the van, first took’st the field;And gotten hast the victoryIn thus adventuring to dieBefore me, whose more years might craveA just precedence in the grave.But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,Beats my approach, tells thee I come;And slow howe’er my marches beI shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go onAnd wait my dissolutionWith hope and comfort. Dear--forgiveThe crime--I am content to liveDivided, with but half a heart,Till we shall meet and never part.

Though the world for this commend thee,-- Though it smile upon the blow,Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be foundThan the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, O, yet thyself deceived not: Love may sink by slow decay;But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thy own its life retaineth,-- Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;And the undying thought which paineth Is--that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead;Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow,Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed,Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore mayst see,Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know;All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Wither, yet with thee they go.Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow,Bows to thee,--by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now;

But 't is done; all words are idle,-- Words from me are vainer still;But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well!--thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie,Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die.

Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eatHis cream and curds, as doth a king his meat,And blither, too:For kings have often fears when they do sup,Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:

To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween,As is a king in dalliance with a queen;More wanton, too:For kings have many griefs, affects to move,Where shepherds have no greater grief than love:

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as soundAs doth the king upon his bed of down;More sounder, too:For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:

Thus, with his wife, he spends the year as blitheAs doth the king at every tide or sithe,And blither, too:For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,Where shepherds laugh and love upon the land:Ah then, ah then,Since country loves such sweet desires do gain,What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

What comfort in a mine of gold,What pleasure in a royal life,If the heart within lay dead and cold,If I could not wed my Irish wife?

I knew the law forbade the banns;I knew my king abhorred her race;Who never bent before their clansMust bow before their ladies' grace.Take all my forfeited domain,I cannot wage with kinsmen strife:Take knightly gear and noble name,And I will keep my Irish wife.

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes,My heaven by day, my stars by night;And twin-like truth and fondness liesWithin her swelling bosom white.My Irish wife has golden hair,Apollo's harp had once such strings,Apollo's self might pause to hearHer bird-like carol when she sings.

I would not give my Irish wifeFor all the dames of the Saxon land;I would not give my Irish wifeFor the Queen of France's hand;For she to me is dearerThan castles strong, or lands, or life:In death I would be near her,And rise beside my Irish wife.

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, Which wholly consists of lines like these.

She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She gave up mending her father's breeks, And let the cat roll in her best chemise.

She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.

Her sheep followed her as their tails did them (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And this song is considered a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown;For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town.My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockins pearly blue;It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot;Gie little Kate her button gown And Jock his Sunday coat;And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw;It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been long awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop Been fed this month and mair;Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare;And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw,For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech. His breath like caller air;His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair--And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!

If Colin's weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave:And gin I live to keep him sae, I'm blest aboon the lave:And will I see his face again, And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!

For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa.

‘I wish the wind may never cease. Nor fashes in the flood,Till my three sons come hame to me, In earthly flesh and blood!’

It fell about the Martinmas, When nights are lang and mirk,The carline wife’s three sons came hame, And their hats were o’ the birk.

It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh;But at the gates o’ Paradise That birk grew fair eneugh.

‘Blow up the fire, my maidens! Bring water from the well!For a’ my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well.’

And she has made to them a bed, She’s made it large and wide;And she’s ta’en her mantle her about, Sat down at the bedside.

Up then crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray;The eldest to the youngest said. ‘’Tis time we were away.’

The cock he hadna craw’d but once, And clapp’d his wings at a’,When the youngest to the eldest said, ‘Brother, we must awa’.

‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin’ worm doth chide;Gin we be miss’d out o’ our place, A sair pain we maun bide.’

‘Lie still, lie still but a little wee while, Lie still but if we may;Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes, She’ll go mad ere it be day.’

‘Fare ye weel, my mother dear! Fareweel to barn and byre!And fare ye weel, the bonny lass That kindles my mother’s fire!’

I filched her missive, conned it, Learnt that heWould lodge with her ere he came home to me.

To reach the port before her, And, unscanned, There wait to intercept them Soon I planned:That, in her stead, I might before him stand.

So purposed, so effected; At the inn Assigned, I found her hidden:— O that sinShould bear what she bore when I entered in!

Her heavy lids grew laden With despairs, Her lips made soundless movements Unawares,While I peered at the chamber hired as theirs.

And as beside its doorway, Deadly hued, One inside, one withoutside We two stood,He came—my husband—as she knew he would.

No pleasurable triumph Was that sight! The ghastly disappointment Broke them quite.What love was theirs, to move them with such might!

“Madam, forgive me!” said she, Sorrow bent, “A child—I soon shall bear him . . . Yes—I meantTo tell you—that he won me ere he went.”

Then, as it were, within me Something snapped, As if my soul had largened: Conscience-capped,I saw myself the snarer—them the trapped.

“My hate dies, and I promise, Grace-beguiled,” I said, “to care for you, be Reconciled;And cherish, and take interest in the child.”

Without more words I pressed him Through the door Within which she stood, powerless To say more,And closed it on them, and downstairward bore.

“He joins his wife—my sister,” I, below, Remarked in going—lightly— Even as thoughAll had come right, and we had arranged it so . . .

As I, my road retracing, Left them free, The night alone embracing Childless me,I held I had not stirred God wrothfully.

Till she freshed to the pink and brownThat were hers on the night when first they met,When she was the charm of the idle townAnd he the pick of the club-fire set . . . His eyes grew wet,

And he stretched his arms: “Stay—rest!—”He cried. “Abide with me so, my own!”But his arms closed in on his hard bare breast;She had vanished with all he had looked upon Of her beauty: gone.

He clothed, and drew downstairs,But she was not in the house, he found;And he passed out under the leafy pairsOf the avenue elms, and searched around To the park-pale bound.

He mounted, and rode till nightTo the city to which she had long withdrawn,The vision he bore all day in his sightBeing her young self as pondered on In the dim of dawn.

“—The lady here long ago—Is she now here?—young—or such age as she is?”“—She is still here.”—“Thank God. Let her know;She’ll pardon a comer so late as this Whom she’d fain not miss.”

She received him—an ancient dame,Who hemmed, with features frozen and numb,“How strange!—I’d almost forgotten your name!—A call just now—is troublesome; Why did you come?”

Here will come market-men On the market-days, Here will clash now and then More such party assays.

And the balcony will fill When such times are renewed, And the throng in the street will thrill With to-day’s mettled mood; But she will no more stand In the sunshine there, With that wave of her white-gloved hand, And that chestnut hair.

January 1906.

What is the price of that red spark that caught me From a kind farm that never had a name?What is the price of that dead man they brought me? For other dead men do not look the same.

How should I pay for one poor graven steeple Whereon you shattered what you shall not know?How should I pay you, miserable people? How should I pay you everything you owe?

Unhappy, can I give you back your honour? Though I forgave, would any man forget?While all the great green land has trampled on her The treason and terror of the night we met.

Not any more in vengeance or in pardon An old wife bargains for a bean that's hers.You have no word to break: no heart to harden. Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.

For I know that thou art present, With love that seems to beA band to bind me willingly To heaven and to thee.At noon-day, when the tumult and The din of life is heard,When in life's battle each heart is With various passions stirred,I turn me from the blazonry, The fickleness of life,And think of thee in earnest thought, My dearest one-my wife!When the daylight hath departed, And shadows of the nightBring forth the stars, as beacons fair For angels in their flight,I think of thee as ever mine, Of thee as ever best,And turn my heart unto thine own, To seek its wonted rest.Thus ever thou art round my path, And doubly dear thou artWhen, with my lips pressed to thine own, I feel thy beating heart.And through the many joys and griefs, The lights and shades of life,It will be joy to call thee by The holy name of "wife!"I love thee for thy gentleness, I love thee for thy truth;I love thee for thy joyousness, Thy buoyancy of youthI love thee for thy soul that soars Above earth's sordid pelf;And last, not least, above these all, I love thee for thyself.Now come to me, my dearest, Place thy hand in mine own;Look in mine eyes, and see how deep My love for thee hath grown;And I will press thee to my heart, Will call thee "my dear wife,"And own that thou art all my joy And happiness of life.

My senses reel, and I almost despair,Thou comest to me and I'm cheered again;Thine own bright smile illuminates my way,And one by one the gathered clouds depart,Till not a shadow lies upon my path.Night, with its long and sombre shadows, treadsUpon the steps that morn and noon have trod;And, as our children gather round my knee,And lisp those evening prayers thy lips have taught,I cannot but believe that thou art near.But when they speak of "mother," when they say"'T is a long time since she hath left our side,"And when they ask, in their soft infant tones,When they again shall meet thee,--then I feelA sudden sadness o'er my spirit come:And when sleep holds them in its silken bandsI wander here, to this fair spot they callThy grave (as though this feeble earth could holdThee in its cold embrace), and weep and sigh;Yet, trusting, look above to yon bright sphere,And feel thou art not dead, but living there.It is not thou that fills this spot of earth,It is not thou o'er whom these branches wave,These blooming roses only mark the spotWhere but remaineth that thou couldst not wearAmid immortal scenes.Thou livest yet!Thy feet do tread the golden courts of heaven;Thy hands have touched the harps that angels use;Thy eyes have seen the glory of our Lord;Thy ears have listened to that song of praiseWhich angels utter, and which God accepts.