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She took such good care of him that he seldom lifted a finger. So only now does he stand by the sink and peel his first potato, with the paring knife she left as legacy.   The potato, he notes, fits the human hand, was made to do so, one of the miracles.   She knew all along.

Roger a doleful widower, Full eighteen weeks had been, When he, to meet the milk-maid Nell Came smiling o’er the green. Blithe as a lad of seventeen, He thus accosted Nell; Give me your pail, I’ll carry it For you, if you think well. Says Nell, indeed my milking-pail You shall not touch, I vow; I’ve carried it myself before, And I can carry it now. So side by side they walked awhile, Then he at last did say; My inclination is to come And see you, if I may. Nell understood his meaning well, And briskly answered she; You may see me at any time, If you look where I be. Says he, but hear me yet awhile, I’ve something more to tell; I gladly would a sweetheart be Unto you, Mistress Nell. A sweetheart I don’t want, says Nell, Kind Sir, and if you do, Another you may seek, for I Am not the lass for you. When she had made him this reply, He’d nothing more to say But — Nelly, as good night to you, And homeward went his way.

[ At Bethlehem, Pennsylvania ] What of this house with massive walls And small-paned windows, gay with blooms? A quaint and ancient aspect falls Like pallid sunshine through the rooms. Not this new country’s rush and haste Could breed, one thinks, so still a life; Here is the old Moravian home, A placid foe of worldly strife. For this roof covers, night and day, The widowed women poor and old, The mated without mates, who say Their light is out, their story told. To these the many mansions seem Dear household fires that cannot die; They wait through separation dark An endless union by and by. Each window has its watcher wan To fit the autumn afternoon, The dropping poplar leaves, the dream Of spring that faded all too soon. Upon the highest window-ledge A glowing scarlet flower shines down. Oh, wistful sisterhood, whose home Has sanctified this quiet town! Oh, hapless household, gather in The tired-hearted and the lone! What broken homes, what sundered love, What disappointment you have known! They count their little wealth of hope And spend their waiting days in peace, What comfort their poor loneliness Must find in every soul’s release! And when the wailing trombones go Along the street before the dead In that Moravian custom quaint, They smile because a soul has fled.

When the forsaken city starts to burn, after the men and children have fled, stand still, silent as prey, and slowly turn back. Behold the curse. Stay and mourn the collapsing doorways, the unbroken bread in the forsaken city starting to burn. Don’t flinch. Don’t join in. Resist the righteous scurry and instead stand still, silent as prey. Slowly turn your thoughts away from escape: the iron gates unlatched, the responsibilities shed. When the forsaken city starts to burn, surrender to your calling, show concern for those who remain. Come to a dead standstill. Silent as prey, slowly turn into something essential. Learn the names of the fallen. Refuse to run ahead when the forsaken city starts to burn. Stand still and silent. Pray. Return.

Husband, today could you and I behold The sun that brought us to our bridal morn Rising so splendid in the winter sky (We though fair spring returned), when we were wed; Could the shades vanish from these fifteen years, Which stand like columns guarding the approach To that great temple of the double soul That is as one – would you turn back, my dear, And, for the sake of Love’s mysterious dream, As old as Adam and as sweet as Eve, Take me, as I took you, and once more go Towards that goal which none of us have reached? Contesting battles which but prove a loss, The victor vanquished by the wounded one; Teaching each other sacrifice of self, True immolation to the marriage bond; Learning the joys of birth, the woe of death, Leaving in chaos all the hopes of life— Heart-broken, yet with courage pressing on For fame and fortune, artists needing both? Or, would you rather – I will acquiesce— Since we must choose what is, and are grown gray, Stay in life’s desert, watch our setting sun, Calm as those statues in Egyptian sands, Hand clasping hand, with patience and with peace, Wait for a future which contains no past?

Living, I had no might To make you hear, Now, in the inmost night, I am so near No whisper, falling light, Divides us, dear. Living, I had no claim On your great hours. Now the thin candle-flame, The closing flowers, Wed summer with my name, — And these are ours. Your shadow on the dust, Strength, and a cry, Delight, despair, mistrust, — All these am I. Dawn, and the far hills thrust To a far sky. Living, I had no skill To stay your tread, Now all that was my will Silence has said. We are one for good and ill Since I am dead.

Maker-of-sevens in the scheme of things From earth to star; Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and Over the border the bar. Though rank and fierce the mariner Sailing the seven seas, He prays, as he holds his glass to his eyes, Coaxing the Pleiades. I cannot love them; and I feel your glad Chiding from the grave, That my all was only worth at all, what Joy to you it gave. These seven links the Law compelled For the human chain— I cannot love them; and you, oh, Seven-fold months in Flanders slain! A jungle there, a cave here, bred six And a million years, Sure and strong, mate for mate, such Love as culture fears; I gave you clear the oil and wine; You saved me your hob and hearth— See how even life may be ere the Sickle comes and leaves a swath. But I can wait the seven of moons, Or years I spare, Hoarding the heart’s plenty, nor spend A drop, nor share— So long but outlives a smile and A silken gown; Then gaily I reach up from my shroud, And you, glory-clad, reach down.

In the dark we disappear, pure being. Our mirror images, impure being. Being and becoming (Heidegger), being and nothingness (Sartre)—which is purer being? Being alone is no way to be: thus loneliness is the test of pure being. Nights in love I fell too far or not quite far enough—one pure, one impure being. Clouds, snow, mist, the dragon's breath on water, smoke from fire—a metaphor's pure being. Stillness and more stillness and the light locked deep inside—both pure and impure being. Is is the verb of being, I the noun— or pronoun for the purists of being. I was, I am, I looked within and saw nothing very clearly: purest being.

Often in summer, on a tarred bridge plank standing, Or downstream between willows, a safe Ophelia drifting In a rented boat — I had seen them come and go, Those wild bees swift as tigers, their gauze wings a-glitter In passionless industry, clustering black at the crevice Of a rotten cabbage tree, where their hive was hidden low. But never strolled too near. Till one half-cloudy evening Of ripe January, my friends and I Came, gloved and masked to the eyes like plundering desperadoes, To smoke them out. Quiet beside the stagnant river We trod wet grasses down, hearing the crickets chitter And waiting for light to drain from the wounded sky. Before we reached the hive their sentries saw us And sprang invisible through the darkening air, Stabbed, and died in stinging. The hive woke. Poisonous fuming Of sulphur filled the hollow trunk, and crawling Blue flame sputtered — yet still their suicidal Live raiders dived and clung to our hands and hair. O it was Carthage under the Roman torches, Or loud with flames and falling timber, Troy! A job well botched. Half of the honey melted And half the rest young grubs. Through earth-black smouldering ashes And maimed bees groaning, we drew out our plunder. Little enough their gold, and slight our joy. Fallen then the city of instinctive wisdom. Tragedy is written distinct and small: A hive burned on a cool night in summer. But loss is a precious stone to me, a nectar Distilled in time, preaching the truth of winter To the fallen heart that does not cease to fall.

[ Version 1: 1921 ] The quick sparks on the gorse bushes are leaping, Little jets of sunlight-texture imitating flame; Above them, exultant, the peewits are sweeping: They are lords of the desolate wastes of sadness their screamings proclaim. Rabbits, handfuls of brown earth, lie Low-rounded on the mournful grass they have bitten down to the quick. Are they asleep? — Are they alive? — Now see, when I Move my arms the hill bursts and heaves under their spurting kick. The common flaunts bravely; but below, from the rushes Crowds of glittering king-cups surge to challenge the blossoming bushes; There the lazy streamlet pushes Its curious course mildly; here it wakes again, leaps, laughs, and gushes. Into a deep pond, an old sheep-dip, Dark, overgrown with willows, cool, with the brook ebbing through so slow, Naked on the steep, soft lip Of the bank I stand watching my own white shadow quivering to and fro. What if the gorse flowers shrivelled and kissing were lost? Without the pulsing waters, where were the marigolds and the songs of the brook! If my veins and my breasts with love embossed Withered, my insolent soul would be gone like flowers that the hot wind took. So my soul like a passionate woman turns, Filled with remorseful terror to the man she scorned, and her love For myself in my own eyes' laughter burns, Runs ecstatic over the pliant folds rippling down to my belly from the breast-lights above. Over my sunlit skin the warm, clinging air, Rich with the songs of seven larks singing at once, goes kissing me glad. And the soul of the wind and my blood compare Their wandering happiness, and the wind, wasted in liberty, drifts on and is sad. Oh but the water loves me and folds me, Plays with me, sways me, lifts me and sinks me as though it were living blood, Blood of a heaving woman who holds me, Owning my supple body a rare glad thing, supremely good. [ Version 2: 1928 ] The quick sparks on the gorse-bushes are leaping Little jets of sunlight texture imitating flame; Above them, exultant, the peewits are sweeping: They have triumphed again o'er the ages, their screamings proclaim. Rabbits, handfuls of brown earth, lie Low-rounded on the mournful turf they have bitten down to the quick. Are they asleep? — are they living? — Now see, when I Lift my arms, the hill bursts and heaves under their spurting kick! The common flaunts bravely; but below, from the rushes Crowds of glittering king-cups surge to challenge the blossoming bushes; There the lazy streamlet pushes His bent course mildly; here wakes again, leaps, laughs, and gushes Into a deep pond, an old sheep-dip, Dark, overgrown with willows, cool, with the brook ebbing through so slow; Naked on the steep, soft lip Of the turf I stand watching my own white shadow quivering to and fro. What if the gorse-flowers shrivelled, and I were gone? What if the waters ceased, where were the marigolds then, and the gudgeon? What is this thing that I look down upon? White on the water wimples my shadow, strains like a dog on a string, to run on. How it looks back, like a white dog to its master! I on the bank all substance, my shadow all shadow looking up to me, looking back! And the water runs, and runs faster, runs faster, And the white dog dances and quivers, I am holding his cord quite slack. But how splendid it is to be substance, here! My shadow is neither here nor there; but I, I am royally here! I am here! I am here! screams the peewit; the may-blobs burst out in a laugh as they hear! Here! flick the rabbits. Here! pants the gorse. Here! say the insects far and near. Over my skin in the sunshine, the warm, clinging air Flushed with the songs of seven larks singing at once, goes kissing me glad. You are here! You are here! We have found you! Everywhere We sought you substantial, you touchstone of caresses, you naked lad! Oh but the water loves me and folds me, Plays with me, sways me, lifts me and sinks me, murmurs: Oh marvellous stuff! No longer shadow! — and it holds me Close, and it rolls me, enfolds me, touches me, as if never it could touch me enough. Sun, but in substance, yellow water-blobs! Wings and feathers on the crying, mysterious ages, peewits wheeling! All that is right, all that is good; all that is God takes substance! a rabbit lobs In confirmation, I hear sevenfold lark-songs pealing.