Woman
There, between yonder walls,
The cot. My father builded it
Of brick, and of the wreckage stones.
Here do we dwell.
He gave me to a husbandman,
And in our arms he died—
Sweetheart—and hast thou slept?
How bright he is—and wants to play.
My rogue!
Wanderer
O Nature! everlastingly conceiving.
Each one thou bearest for the joy of life,
All of thy babes thou hast endowed
Lovingly with a heritage—a Name.
High on the cornice doth the swallow build,
Of what an ornament she hides
All unaware.
The caterpillar round the golden bough
Spins her a winter quarters for her young.
Thus dost thou patch in ’twixt the august
Fragments of bygone time
For needs of thine—for thy own needs
A hut. O men—
Rejoicing over graves.
Farewell, thou happy wife.
Woman
Thou wilt not stay?
Wanderer
God keep you safe
And bless your boy.