There's blood on my soul: but then ... she should never
Have said it was his—the child—
And hers—for she knew I'd never forgive her ...
I grew so wild
There was just one thing to be done—to kill her:
Just one—no more.
I took the keen steel ... one stroke would still her ...
I counted four.
And she fell—fell down on the kelp—none near her.
But when she lay so fair
I kissed her ... because I knew I should fear her,
And smoothed her hair;
And shut her two eyes that fixed me fearless
Of death and pain.
And the blood on my hand I wiped off tearless—
And that on my brain.
And I buried her quickly. The thorn-trees cover
Her grave with spines. I pray
That each in its fall will prick her and shove her
To colder clay.
But ... yonder! ... she's up! and moans in the heather
A whimpering thing!
I'll bury her deeper in Autumn weather ...
Or Winter ... or Spring.
And then if she comes with them still to call me
Each night, I'll tell her loud
He was mine! and laugh when they try to pall me
With sea and shroud.
And I'll swear not to care for Christ or Devil.
They'll skitter back
To the waves, at that, and be gone with their revel....
God spare me the rack!
NIGHT-RIDERS[1]
[1] This clan of tobacco outlaws in Kentucky during 1907-1908 cast such disgrace on her good name as years will not suffice to erase.
See them mount in the dead of night—
Men, three hundred strong!
Armed and silent, masked from the light,
Speeding swartly along.
What is their errand? manly fight?
Clench with a manly foe?
I would rather be dead of wrong
Than ride among them so.
See them enter the sleeping town.
Hear the warning shot!
Keep to your beds, free men—down, down!
Dare you to move?—dare not!
These are your masters—these who crown
Black Anarchy their king—
I would rather my hand should rot
Than have it do this thing.