REUBEN
Peace, the long-exiled housemate, stealing back,
Might smile, with careworn lips. There, hand in hand,
They patiently abode, like two that wait.
Silent they sat together, Reuben’s gaze
Fix’d idly on the once dear apple boughs,
And Mercy watching the long thro’-shine turn
To pillars and to pennons of green light
Her window lily-leaves. They seldom look’d
At one another, very seldom spoke;
Sometimes a fitful word or two might slip.
“She tries you, Reuben.” “Nay, she tends thee, lass!”
“Three now to feed—however shall we do?
An’ all this weary doctoring!” “Never fret!
Two can feed three, dear heart, an’ ’tis kind soil
This year.” “Next year—O, lad!” On such a word
Would silence close again, until—quick steps,
The door flung open, and the stinging tones:
Thro’ conscience-pricks, it may be, doubly sharp.
Mercy had talk’d too much—or else been moped;
The fire was low—a furnace—and despite
The wistful voice, “O sister, let him stay!”
Water or wood must instantly be brought,
And Reuben, rising, with one full fond look
Into those understanding pleading eyes,
Would reach his cap, and, Pilot slinking close,
Go out, obey the heard commandment first,
Then the unheard, buy quiet for his wife
At his own cost and so come back no more.
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