Elizabeth Drew Barstow Stoddard

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?

Falling leaves and falling men! When the snows of winter fall, And the winds of winter blows, Will be woven Nature’s pall. Let us, then, forsake our dead; For the dead will surely wait While we rush upon the foe, Eager for the hero’s fate. Leaves will come upon the trees; Spring will show the happy race; Mothers will give birth to sons— Loyal souls to fill our place. Wherefore should we rest and rush? Soldiers, we must fight and save Freedom now, and give our foes All their country should—a grave!

One morn I left him in his bed; A moment after some one said, ‘Your child is dying – he is dead.’ We made him ready for his rest, Flowers in his hair, and on his breast His little hands together prest. We sailed by night across the sea; So, floating from the world were we, Apart from sympathy, we Three. The wild sea moaned, the black clouds spread Moving shadows on its bed, But one of us lay midship dead. I saw his coffin sliding down The yellow sand in yonder town, Where I put on my sorrow’s crown. And we returned; in this drear place Never to see him face to face, I thrust aside the living race. Mothers, who mourn with me today, Oh, understand me, when I say, I cannot weep, I cannot pray; I gaze upon a hidden store, His books, his toys, the clothes he wore, And cry, ‘Once more, to me,once more!’ Then take, from me, this simple verse, That you may know what I rehearse— A grief – your and my Universe!

I should be happy with my lot: A wife and mother – is it not Enough for me to be content? What other blessing could be sent? A quiet house, and homely ways, That make each day like other days; I only see Time’s shadow now Darken the hair on baby’s brow! No world’s work ever comes to me, No beggar brings his misery; I have no power, no healing art With bruised soul or broken heart. I read the poets of the age, ’Tis lotus-eating in a cage; I study Art, but Art is dead To one who clamors to be fed With milk from Nature’s rugged breast, Who longs for Labor’s lusty rest. O foolish wish! I still should pine If any other lot were mine.

Now like the Lady of Shalott, I dwell within an empty room, And through the day and through the night I sit before an ancient loom. And like the Lady of Shalott I look into a mirror wide, Where shadows come, and shadows go, And ply my shuttle as they glide. Not as she wove the yellow wool, Ulysses’ wife, Penelope; By day a queen among her maids, But in the night a woman, she, Who, creeping from her lonely couch, Unraveled all the slender woof; Or, with a torch, she climbed the towers, To fire the fagots on the roof! But weaving with a steady hand The shadows, whether false or true, I put aside a doubt which asks ‘Among these phantoms what are you?’ For not with altar, tomb, or urn, Or long-haired Greek with hollow shield, Or dark-prowed ship with banks of oars, Or banquet in the tented field; Or Norman knight in armor clad, Waiting a foe where four roads meet; Or hawk and hound in bosky dell, Where dame and page in secret greet; Or rose and lily, bud and flower, My web is broidered. Nothing bright Is woven here: the shadows grow Still darker in the mirror’s light! And as my web grows darker too, Accursed seems this empty room; For still I must forever weave These phantoms by this ancient loom.