She mutters and kneels and her bosom is bare—
The little green leaves are stirred on the trees—
A black bat brushes her unkempt hair,
And the hiss of a snake glides 'round her there ...
Or is it the voice of the ghostly breeze,
Or That she sees,
Whose mouth is flame in the light o' the moon?—
"Soon, oh, soon," hear her croon,
"Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!"
She mutters and digs and buries it deep—
The little green leaves are wild on the trees—
And nearer and nearer the noises creep,
That gibber and maunder and whine and weep ...
Or is it the wave and the weariless breeze,
Or That she sees,
Which hobbles away in the light o' the moon?—
"Soon, oh, soon," hear her croon,
"Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!"
In the hut where the other girl sits with him—
The little green leaves hang limp on the trees—
All on a sudden the moon grows dim ...
Is it the shadow of cloud or of limb,
Cast in the door by the moaning breeze?
Or That she sees,
Which limps and leers in the light o' the moon?—
"Soon, oh, soon," hear it croon,
"Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!"
It has entered in at the open door—
The little green leaves fall dead from the trees—
And she in the cabin lies stark on the floor,
And she in the woods has her lover once more ...
And—is it the hoot of the dying breeze?
Or him who sees,
Who mocks and laughs in the light o' the moon:—
"Soon, oh, soon," hear him croon,
"Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!"
THE OTHER WOMAN.
You have shut me out from your tears and grief
Over the man laid low and hoary.
Listen to me now: I am no thief!—
You have shut me out from your tears and grief,—
Listen to me, I will tell my story.
The love of a man is transitory.—
What do you know of his past? the years
He gave to another his manhood's glory?—
The love of a man is transitory.
Listen to me now: open your ears.
Over the dead have done with tears!
Over the man who loved to madness
Me the woman you met with sneers,—
Over the dead have done with tears!
Me the woman so sunk in badness.
He loved me ever, and that is gladness!—
There by the dead now tell her so;
There by the dead where she bows in sadness.—
He loved me ever, and that is gladness!—
Mine the gladness and hers the woe.