From an Ungrafted Treef
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IX
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.
X 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, who 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 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. XI 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. XII 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. XIII 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! XIV 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 tea: She had kept that kettle boiling all night long, for company. XV 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 not people, but only dead. XVI 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 — the 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 a came . . . She said at length, feeling the doctor's eyes, "I don't know what you do exactly when a person dies." XVII 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 today those heavy curves And lengths familiar as the bedroom door. She was one who enters, sly, and proud, To where he 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. |
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