II
THEY say the Dead may never dream.
But yet I heard my pierced heart scream
His name within the dark. They lie
Who say the Dead can ever die.
For in the grave I may not sleep
For dreaming that I hear him weep.
And in the dark, my dead hands grope
In search of him. O barren hope!
I cannot draw his head to rest
Deep down upon my wounded breast ...
He gave the breast that fed him well
To suckle the small worms of Hell.
The little wicked thoughts that fed
Upon the weary helpless Dead ...
They whispered o’er my broken heart,
They stuck their fangs deep in the smart.
“The child she bore with bloody sweat
And agony has paid his debt.
Through that bleak face the stark winds play;
The crows have chased his soul away.
“His body is a blackened rag
Upon the tree—a monstrous flag.”
Thus one worm to the other saith.
Those slow mean servitors of Death,
They chuckling said: “Your soul, grown blind
With anguish, is the shrieking Wind
That blows the flame that never dies
About his empty, lidless eyes.”
I tore them from my heart. I said:
“The life-blood that my son’s hand shed,
That from my broken heart outburst,
I’d give again, to quench his thirst.
“He did no sin. But cold blind earth
The body was that gave him birth.
All mine, all mine the sin; the love
I bore him was not deep enough.”
Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.