Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/His Mother's Way

by Sarah Piatt

HIS MOTHER'S WAY.⁽³⁾

"My Mamma just knows how to cry
 About an old glove or a ring,
Or even a stranger going by
 The gate, or—almost anything!

"She cried till both her eyes were red
 About him, too. (I saw her, though!)
And he was just a ———, Papa said.
 (We have to call them that, you know.)

"She cried about the shabbiest shawl,
 Because it cost too much to buy;
But Papa cannot cry at all,
 For he's a man. And that is why!

"Why, if his coat was not right new,
 And if the yellow bird would die
That sings, and my white kitten too,
 Or even himself, he would not cry.

"He said that he would sleep to-night
 With both the pistols at his head,
Because that ragged fellow might
 Come back. That's what my Papa said!

"But Mamma goes and hides her face
 There in the curtains, and peeps out
At him, and almost spoils the lace;—
 And he is what she cries about!

"She says he looks so cold, so cold,
 And has no pleasant place to stay!
Why can't he work? He is not old;
 His eyes are blue—they've not turned grey.

So the boy babbled. . . . Well, sweet sirs,
 Flushed with your office-fires you write
Your laugh down at such grief as hers;
 But are these women foolish quite?

———I know. But, look you, there may be
 Stains sad as wayside dust, I say,
Upon your own white hands (ah, me!)
 No woman's tears can wash away.

One sees her baby's dimple hold
 More love than you can measure. . . . Then
Nights darken down on heads of gold,
 Till wind and frost try wandering men!

But there are prisons made for such,
 Where the strong roof shuts out the snow;
And bread (that you would scorn to touch)
 Is served them there? I know, I know.

Ah! while you have your books, your ease,
 Your lamp-light leisure, jests, and wine,
Fierce outside whispers, if you please,
 Moan, each: "These things are also mine!"