REUBEN
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
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