Ah, pray that you
May never, never know what I have known.
THE WOMAN
Ay, that I will. But come, and share our joy,
For there is none to-night to presage woe.
THE OLD MOTHER,
None save myself. My old bones feel the cold—
I sense a sorry blackening of the sun
As night comes on, and any heap of fruit,
Yes, any wagon load of yellow grain
May hide from these old eyes their enemy.
THE WOMAN
(shrugging her shoulders)
Well, hide your grief, poor soul, if grieve you must;
The men, who look for rest, will soon be home.
THE OLD MOTHER,
But not to me are any comings home,
Although I keep The World Inn day by day....
Yet ’tis an ill thing and a sign of trouble
For to be weeping when the men come home—
The men, who should find smiles at set of sun,
Who should be fed and coddled to their rest,
These splendid children, when they come to us.
I will make ready. I will dry my tears.