The Village Wife's Lament Part 4

As I stood at my open door I caught a flying word: Two strangers past, "Then that means war----"

That was what I heard.

'Twas ten o'clock, a summer's day, My love on the hill.

"Then that means war," I heard them say, And my heart stood still.

Life had been fair as I stood there, Eight weeks a bride; All of me laid warm and bare To my true love's side!

Oh, who should dream of dark to-morrows And lonely weeping Whose steadfast joys and pa.s.sing sorrows Lay in such a keeping?

There blew a chill wind from the hill Like a sea-breath; I s.h.i.+ver'd and a taint of ill Brought news of death.

I blinkt my eyes as who should try To see what is to fear; The sun still shone high in the sky, But no warmth there.

Then far away I saw the sea A rippling golden sheet, And courage flowed again in me-- What foe could break thro' it?

And all about the fields and hedges, There when I was born, The river slipping through the sedges, And the growing corn--

A land of quiet tilth and cote, Of little woods and streams, Of gentle skies and clouds afloat, And swift sun-gleams!

A land where knee-deep cattle keep, Chewing as they stand; Of hillsides murmurous with sheep-- That is my native land!

They say you never love so dear As when you are to part; I know, to see my land so clear Cut me to the heart.

What vain regrets to have lov'd so ill What was our all!

What idle vows to love her still Though she should fall!

At stroke of noon my love came in Sharpset for his food; To see him was right sense to win, And feel safe and good.

I was asham'd my fears to tell Lest he should think, "I thought I knew this woman well-- But what makes her shrink?"

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The summer went her gracious way Of sun and lingering eves; I did my share to win the hay, The corn stood in sheaves Ere August month was fairly come; And when it was here I knew I carried in my womb The harvest of my dear.

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When I was sure I sat down quiet In the deep shade, And if my heart was all in riot I was not afraid.

I did not think, nor say a pray'r, But lookt straight before me, And felt that Someone else stood there With hands held o'er me.

I thought His peace blest my increase; But then, as it seem'd, A shadow made my joy to cease, And the day was dimm'd.

I s.h.i.+ver'd as if one a knife Should pull forth of the sheath.

I think just then the Lord of Life Gave way to Him of Death.

As one bestead with gossamer-thread I pluckt at my eyes To catch again the glory shed, The hope, the load, the prize; But no more hands invisible Held like a shade o'er me, And there seem'd little enough to tell My husband momently.

The long forenoon my thought I held, And yet all thro' it The wires all England over shrill'd, And I never knew it!

In a high muse I nurst my news All the forenoon, While England braced her limbs and thews To a marching tune.

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I serv'd my love, when he came home, His meal; then on his knee I told him what I might become, And he kiss'd me; Then said, "Indeed, there may be need Of this little one, For many a woman's heart must bleed For wanting of a son.

"Since we awoke, the word is spoke, And if 'tis still right That English folk keep faith unbroke, Then must England fight."

I could not look, nor think, nor ask What himself would do, But call'd to task my pride, to bask In what had warm'd me thro'.

Oh, he was grave and self-possest Under love's new crown!

He took me in his arms to rest, And lay my head down A moment on his shoulder; then Went steady to his work.

I knew what fate soe'er call'd men He was none to s.h.i.+rk.

Now I must play the helpful wife, And my new pride Be little worth to ease the strife That vext me in the side; For like a green and aching wound, Like a throbbing vein I felt this terror on the ground Of young men slain.

The swooning summer sun sank low, And all the dusty air Held breathlessly beneath his glow, So tir'd, so quiet and fair, I would not think that men could live In such glory a minute, To hate and grudge, to slay and reive Poor souls within it.

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I heard fond crying in my ears, Fond and vain regret For life as it had been ere tears Made women's eyes wet; I saw arise the host of stars And listen'd to their song; "O we have seen a thousand wars And woe agelong!

"What are you men, what are you women But a s.h.i.+fting sand?

The tide of life is overbr.i.m.m.i.n.g-- G.o.d holds not His hand; But all the evil with the good To His mill is grist; He serves his mood now with man's blood Who serv'd it once with beast."

So sang the stars. That night our love Burn'd at its holiest; For aught we knew the same might prove Our last in the nest.

But from the bed my pa.s.sion pled, O G.o.d, let us be!

If woman's anguish her bestead, Then forsake not me!

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I dare not trace that watching s.p.a.ce Of days, too short, too long-- Too long to wear a patient face, Too short to wear a strong.

I us'd to think I'd have him choose His duty and begone; And then, No, no, I dare not lose Him ere he take his son!

Too long, too short the days to wait, To plan and think and dread; And happy we whose poor estate Claims our work for our bread.

Each day I went to scour and scrub As my mother us'd, Or stood before the was.h.i.+ng-tub Where the linen sluiced.

And so my love with careful hand And careful eye Led his white flock about the land; And I must sigh, "There's no rebelling in a poor man's dwelling, The roof stoops to the blast; And no heart-swelling meets G.o.d's compelling, And what is cast is cast!"

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But as the tide crawls to his full Without your knowing, Invading rock and filling pool, Endlessly flowing; Lo, while you sit and look at it, Idle, little thinking, The flood is br.i.m.m.i.n.g at your feet, Lipping there and winking--

The very same the Great War grew; Like a flowing tide It spread its channels thro' and thro'

The quiet countryside.

One day you'd stop: a poster up, And Lord, how it glared!

The next there'd be a very crop, And not a body stared.

And then the lorries flung along By ones and twos, and then In snaky line some twenty strong, Full of shouting men.

They made me blench with noise and stench, But more, I do believe, To know them gaining inch by inch The earth whereby we live.

So faded fast the painted past Beneath the mist of war; One could not think life had been cast In sweet lines before.

There was no list in that red mist For love or wholesome breath, But making rage our staple grist We ground the dust of death.

Our men held talk among themselves, But said little to we; And soon they went by tens and twelves Soldiers to be.