Poems of Purpose Part 9

THE UNWED MOTHER TO THE WIFE

I had been almost happy for an hour, Lost to the world that knew me in the park Among strange faces; while my little girl Leaped with the squirrels, chirruped with the birds And with the sunlight glowed. She was so dear, So beautiful, so sweet; and for the time The rose of love, shorn of its thorn of shame, Bloomed in my heart. Then suddenly you pa.s.sed.

I sat alone upon the public bench; You, with your lawful husband, rode in state; And when your eyes fell on me and my child, They were not eyes, but daggers, poison tipped.

G.o.d! how good women slaughter with a look!

And, like cold steel, your glance cut through my heart, Struck every petal from the rose of love And left the ragged stalk alive with thorns.

My little one came running to my side And called me Mother. It was like a blow Between the eyes; and made me sick with pain.

And then it seemed as if each bird and breeze Took up the word, and changed its syllables From Mother into Magdalene; and cried My shame to all the world.

It was your eyes Which did all this. But listen now to me (Not you alone, but all the barren wives Who, like you, flaunt their virtue in the face Of fallen women): I do chance to know The crimes you think are hidden from all men (Save one who took your gold and sold his skill And jeopardized his name for your base ends).

I know how you have sunk your soul in sense Like any wanton; and refused to bear The harvest of your pleasure-planted seed; I know how you have crushed the tender bud Which held a soul; how you have blighted it; And made the holy miracle of birth A wicked travesty of G.o.d's design; Yea, many buds, which might be blossoms now And beautify your selfish, arid life, Have been destroyed, because you chose to keep The aimless freedom, and the purposeless, Self-seeking liberty of childless wives.

I was an untaught girl. By nature led, By love and pa.s.sion blinded, I became An unwed mother. You, an honoured wife, Refuse the crown of motherhood, defy The laws of nature, and fling baby souls Back in the face of G.o.d. And yet you dare Call me a sinner, and yourself a saint; And all the world smiles on you, and its doors Swing wide at your approach.

I stand outside.

Surely there must be higher courts than earth, Where you and I will some day meet and be Weighed by a larger justice.

FATHER AND SON

My grand-dame, vigorous at eighty-one, Delights in talking of her only son, My gallant father, long since dead and gone.

'Ah, but he was the lad!'

She says, and sighs, and looks at me askance.

How well I read the meaning of that glance - 'Poor son of such a dad; Poor weakling, dull and sad.'

I could, but would not tell her bitter truth About my father's youth.

She says: 'Your father laughed his way through earth: He laughed right in the doctor's face at birth, Such joy of life he had, such founts of mirth.

Ah, what a lad was he!'

And then she sighs. I feel her silent blame, Because I brought her nothing but his name.

Because she does not see Her wors.h.i.+pped son in me.

I could, but would not, speak in my defence, Anent the difference.

She says: 'He won all prizes in his time: He overworked, and died before his prime.

At high ambition's door I lay the crime.

Ah, what a lad he was!'

Well, let her rest in that deceiving thought, Of what avail to say, 'His death was brought By broken s.e.xual laws, The ancient sinful cause.'

I could, but would not, tell the good old dame The story of his shame.

I could say: 'I am crippled, weak, and pale, Because my father was an unleashed male.

Because he ran so fast, I halt and fail (Ah, yes, he was the lad), Because he drained each cup of sense-delight I must go thirsting, thirsting, day and night.

Because he was joy-mad, I must be always sad.

Because he learned no law of self-control, I am a blighted soul.'

Of what avail to speak and spoil her joy.

Better to see her disapproving eyes, And silent, hear her say, between her sighs, 'Ah, but he was the boy!'

HUSKS

She looked at her neighbour's house in the light of the waning day - A shower of rice on the steps, and the shreds of a bride's bouquet.

And then she drew the shade, to shut out the growing gloom, But she shut it into her heart instead. (Was that a voice in the room?)

'My neighbour is sad,' she sighed, 'like the mother bird who sees The last of her brood fly out of the nest to make its home in the trees' - And then in a pa.s.sion of tears--'But, oh, to be sad like her: Sad for a joy that has come and gone!' (Did some one speak, or stir?)

She looked at her faded hands, all burdened with costly rings; She looked on her widowed home, all burdened with priceless things.

She thought of the dead years gone, of the empty years ahead - (Yes, something stirred and something spake, and this was what it said:)

'The voice of the Might Have Been speaks here through the lonely dusk; Life offered the fruits of love; you gathered only the husk.

There are jewels ablaze on your breast where never a child has slept.'

She covered her face with her ringed old hands, and wept and wept and wept.

MEDITATIONS

HIS

I was so proud of you last night, dear girl, While man with man was striving for your smile.

You never lost your head, nor once dropped down From your high place As queen in that gay whirl.

(It takes more poise to wear a little crown With modesty and grace Than to adorn the lordlier thrones of earth.)

You seem so free from artifice and wile: And in your eyes I read Encouragement to my unspoken thought.

My heart is eloquent with words to plead Its cause of pa.s.sion; but my questioning mind, Knowing how love is blind, Dwells on the pros and cons, and G.o.d knows what.

My heart cries with each beat, 'She is so beautiful, so pure, so sweet, So more than dear.'

And then I hear The voice of Reason, asking: 'Would she meet Life's common duties with good common sense?

Could she bear quiet evenings at your hearth, And not be sighing for gay scenes of mirth?

If, some great day, love's mighty recompense For chast.i.ty surrendered came to her, If she felt stir Beneath her heart a little pulse of life, Would she rejoice with holy pride and wonder, And find new glory in the name of wife?

Or would she plot with sin, and seek to plunder Love's sanctuary, and cast away its treasure, That she might keep her freedom and her pleasure?

Could she be loyal mate and mother dutiful?

Or is she only some bright hothouse bloom, Seedless and beautiful, Meant just for decoration, and for show?'

Alone here in my room, I hear this voice of Reason. My poor heart Has ever but one answer to impart, 'I love her so.'

HERS