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I
So she came back into his house again
And watched beside his bed until he died,
Loving him not at all. The winter rain
Splashed in the painted butter-tub outside,
Where once her red geraniums had stood,
Where still their rotted stalks were to be seen;
The thin log snapped; and she went out for wood,
Bareheaded, running the few steps between
The house and shed; there, from the sodden eaves
Blown back and forth on ragged ends of twine,
Saw the dejected creeping-jinny vine,
(And one, big-aproned, blithe, with stiff blue sleeves
Rolled to the shoulder that warm day in spring,
Who planted seeds, musing ahead to their far blossoming).
II
The last white sawdust on the floor was grown
Gray as the first, so long had he been ill;
The axe was nodding in the block; fresh-blown
And foreign came the rain across the sill,
But on the roof so steadily it drummed
She could not think a time it might not be —
In hazy summer, when the hot air hummed
With mowing, and locusts rising raspingly,
When that small bird with iridescent wings
And long incredible sudden silver tongue
Had just flashed (and yet maybe not!) among
The dwarf nasturtiums — when no sagging springs
Of shower were in the whole bright sky, somehow
Upon this roof the rain would drum as it was drumming now.
III She filled her arms with wood, and set her chin Forward, to hold the highest stick in place, No less afraid than she had always been Of spiders up her arms and on her face, But too impatient for a careful search Or a less heavy loading, from the heap Selecting hastily small sticks of birch, For their curled bark, that instantly will leap Into a blaze, nor thinking to return Some day, distracted, as of old, to find Smooth, heavy, round, green logs with a wet, gray rind Only, and knotty chunks that will not burn, (That day when dust is on the wood-box floor, And some old catalogue, and a brown, shriveled apple core). IV The white bark writhed and sputtered like a fish Upon the coals, exuding odorous smoke. She knelt and blew, in a surging desolate wish For comfort; and the sleeping ashes woke And scattered to the hearth, but no thin fire Broke suddenly, the wood was wet with rain. Then, softly stepping forth from her desire, (Being mindful of like passion hurled in vain Upon a similar task, in other days) She thrust her breath against the stubborn coal, Bringing to bear upon its hilt the whole Of her still body . . . there sprang a little blaze . . . A pack of hounds, the flame swept up the flue! — And the blue night stood flattened against the window, staring through. V A wagon stopped before the house; she heard The heavy oilskins of the grocer's man Slapping against his legs. Of a sudden whirred Her heart like a frightened partridge, and she ran And slid the bolt, leaving his entrance free; Then in the cellar way till he was gone Hid, breathless, praying that he might not see The chair sway she had laid her hand upon In passing. Sour and damp from that dark vault Arose to her the well-remembered chill; She saw the narrow wooden stairway still Plunging into the earth, and the thin salt Crusting the crocks; until she knew him far, So stood, with listening eyes upon the empty doughnut jar. VI Then cautiously she pushed the cellar door And stepped into the kitchen — saw the track Of muddy rubber boots across the floor, The many paper parcels in a stack Upon the dresser; with accustomed care Removed the twine and put the wrappings by, Folded, and the bags flat, that with an air Of ease had been whipped open skillfully, To the gape of children. Treacherously dear And simple was the dull, familiar task. And so it was she came at length to ask: How came the soda there? The sugar here? Then the dream broke. Silent, she brought a mop, And forced the trade-slip on the nail that held his razor strop. VII One way there was of muting in the mind A little while the ever-clamorous care; And there was rapture, of a decent kind, In making mean and ugly objects fair: Soft-sooted kettle bottoms, that had been Time after time set in above the fire, Faucets, and candlesticks, corroded green, To mine again from quarry; to attire The shelves in paper petticoats, and tack New oilcloth in the ringed-and-rotten's place, Polish the stove till you could see your face, And after nightfall rear an aching back In a changed kitchen, bright as a new pin, An advertisement, far too fine to cook a supper in. VIII She let them leave their jellies at the door And go away, reluctant, down the walk. She heard them talking as they passed before The blind, but could not quite make out their talk For noise in the room — the suddenly heavy fall And roll of a charred log, and the roused shower Of snapping sparks; then sharply from the wall The unforgivable crowing of the hour. One instant set ajar, her quiet ear Was stormed and forced by the full rout of day: The rasp of a saw, the fussy cluck and bray Of hens, the wheeze of a pump, she needs must hear; She inescapably must endure to feel Across her teeth the grinding of a backing wagon wheel. |
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