The Widow

The creeper on the gable nigh Was fired to more than red And when I came to halt thereby “Bright as my joy!” I said.

Of late days it had been her aim To meet me in the hall; Now at my footsteps no one came; And no one to my call.

Again I knocked; and tardily An inner step was heard, And I was shown her presence then With scarce an answering word.

She met me, and but barely took My proffered warm embrace; Preoccupation weighed her look, And hardened her sweet face.

“To-morrow—could you—would you call? Make brief your present stay? My child is ill—my one, my all!— And can’t be left to-day.”

And then she turns, and gives commands As I were out of sound, Or were no more to her and hers Than any neighbour round . . .

—As maid I wooed her; but one came And coaxed her heart away, And when in time he wedded her I deemed her gone for aye.

He won, I lost her; and my loss I bore I know not how; But I do think I suffered then Less wretchedness than now.

For Time, in taking him, had oped An unexpected door Of bliss for me, which grew to seem Far surer than before . . .

Her word is steadfast, and I know That plighted firm are we: But she has caught new love-calls since She smiled as maid on me!

AT A HASTY WEDDING (TRIOLET)

IF hours be years the twain are blest, For now they solace swift desire By bonds of every bond the best, If hours be years. The twain are blest Do eastern stars slope never west, Nor pallid ashes follow fire: If hours be years the twain are blest, For now they solace swift desire.