II.
One fine Sunday,
in the bright sunlight,
All dressed up
in blouses white,
The old folks sat
on the bench by the door;
No cloud in sky,
What could they ask more?
All peace and love
it seemed like Eden.
Yet angels above
their hearts might read in,
A hidden sorrow,
a gloomy mood
Like lurking beast
in darksome wood.
In such a heaven
Oh, do you see
Whatever could
the trouble be?
I wonder now
what ancient sorrow
Suddenly sprang
into their morrow.
Was it quarrel
of yesterday
Choked off, then
revived today,
Or yet some newly sprouted ire
Arisen to set their heaven on fire?
[[45]]
Perchance they’re called to go to God,
Nor longer dwell on earth’s green sod.
Then who for them on that far way
Horses and chariot shall array?
“Anastasia, wife of mine,
Soon will come our fatal day,
Who will lay our bones away?”
“God only knows.
With me always was that thought
Which gloom into my heart has brought.
Together in years and failing health,
For what have we gathered
all this wealth?”
“Hold a minute,
Hearest thou? Something cries
Beyond the gate—’tis like a child.
Let’s run! See’st ought?
I thought something was there.”
Together they sprang
And to the gate running;
Then stopped in silence wondering.
Before the stile
a swaddled child,
Not bound tightly,
just wrapped lightly,
For it was
in summer mild, [[46]]
And the mother
with fond caress
Had covered it
with her own last dress.
In wondering prayer
stood our fond old pair.
The little thing
just seemed to plead.
In little arms
stretched out you’ld read
Its prayer,—
in silence all.
No crying—just a little breath its call.
“See, ’Stasia!
What did I tell thee?
Here is fortune and fate for us;
No longer dwell we in loneliness.
Take it
and dress it.
Look at it!
Bless it!
Quick, bear it inside,
To the village I’ll ride.
Its ours to baptize,
God-parents we need for our prize.”
In this world
things strangely run.
There’s a fellow
that curses his son,
Chases him away from home,
Into lonely lands to roam, [[47]]
While other poor creatures,
With sorrowful features,
With sweat of their toiling
Must much money earn;
The wage of their moiling
Candles to burn.
Prayers to repeat,
The saints to entreat;
For children are none.
This world is no fun
The way things run.
[[48]]