Page:Reuben and other poems.pdf/23

 Just as it did on Sundays, coming home. And home itself, and sky, and down, and sea Were all as usual, everything the same— All, all, how different!

As they rose at length That night together from their knees: “My lad,” She whisper’d, “God is good; we’ve got a year, Maybe.” But Reuben had no words to say. In the deep middle of the night fierce pangs Awoke her, but the groan upon her lips Died, as she felt the breath come hot and quick Between those other lips, and heard the voice Dearer than life break into one low cry, Quick-stifled, on the almighty name of God.

That spring-time wore and went. When summer came, Mercy, grown pitifully weak, at last Perforce to Reuben’s anxious daily plea Gave way, and from the near town where she dwelt Alone, in much-respected widowhood, Heavily summon’d the oft-tender’d aid Of Sarah, her one sister. She was good, Godly, ungracious, with a caustic tongue, Capable hands, and critical shrewd eyes, That saw too well to see aright, too much To see sufficient; thoroughly ransack’d