He stole to kill me while I slept—
The little son, who never wept
But that I kissed his tears away
So fast, his weeping seemed but play.
So light his footfall, yet I heard
Its echo in my heart, and stirred
From out my weary sleep to see
My child’s face bending over me.
The wicked knife flashed serpent-wise.—
Yet I saw nothing but his eyes,
And heard one little word he said
Go echoing down among the Dead.
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,