The Horse Trough
Clouds of children round the trough
Splash and clatter in the sun:
Their clouted shoes are mostly off,
And some are quarrelling, and one
Cools half her face, nose downward bubbling,
Wetting her clo’es and never troubling;
Bobble, bobble, bobble there
Till bubbles like young earthquakes heave
The orange island of her hair,
And tidal waves run up her sleeve;
Another’s tanned as brown as bistre;
Another ducks his little sister,
And all are mixed in such a crowd
And tell their separate joys so loud
That who can be this silent one,
This dimpled, pensive, baby one?
—She sits the sunny steps so still
For hours, trying hard to kill
One fly at least of those that buzz
So cannily ...
And then she does.
Martha
(Gipsies on Tilberstowe: 1917)
Small child with the pinched face,
Why do you stare
With screwed-up eyes under a shock
Of dull carrot hair?
—Child in the long, torn frock,
Crouched in the warm dust:
Why do you stare, as if
Stare you must?
Fairies in gossamer,
Hero and warrior,
Queens in their cherry gowns,
Wizards and witches:
Dream you of such as these?
Palaces? Orange-trees?
Dream you of swords and crowns,
Child of the ditches?
Still in the warm dust
Sits she and stares; as if
Stare she must,
Pale eyes that see through:
Soon I must stare too:
Soon through the fierce glare
Loom things that are not there:
Out of the blind Past
Savages grim:
Negroes and muleteers,
Saxons and wanderers
Tall as a ship’s mast,
Spectral and dim.
Stirring the race’s dust,
Stares she as stare she must.
Fade they: but still the glare
Shimmers her copper hair.
Eight years of penury,
Whining and beggary,
Famine and cursing,
Hunger and sharp theft:
Death comes to such as these
Under the sobbing trees.
The cold stars nursing
Those that are left.
Angel and devil peers
Through those pale eyes of hers,
Child of the Wide Earth,
Born at the World’s birth,
Grave with the World’s pain,
Mirthless and tearless:
Widowed from babyhood,
Child without childhood,
Stained with an earthy stain,
Loveless and fearless:
My God is overhead:
Yours must be cold. Or dead.
—Child with the pinched face
Why do you stare
With so much knowledge under your shock
Of wild matted hair?