REUBEN
He stoop’d, and ’twixt his hands the nestling head
Held for a moment, for a moment gazed
In the warm eager eyes; then took his gun,
New-primed, and once more to the shed they went,
Trusting and trusted, two old comrades. There
He shot him through the heart; nor did his hand
Tremble, nor was there in his eye one tear
Then, or thereafter, digging the small grave
Under the sycamore trees.
With slow long toil
Thro’ the remainder daylight, and thro’ much
Of the long dark, within the silent house
He work’d till all was orderly and clean,
Ready for stranger-hands. Midnight had struck
Ere all was done; and, all being duly done,
He lock’d each well-known door behind him, left
The hollow and went forth into the night.
There was no moon. The great black sky was strown
With stars innumerable; the quiet air
Brought up the ceaseless sighing of the sea.
Out on the darkling promontory he came,
Came to the blank cliff-edge, and there stood still,
Homeless, alone, amid a night twofold.
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