| |
| SHE sits to watch the evening sun, | |
| Her gnarled hands folded on her knees. | |
| Upon her hair the river breeze | |
| Lays light cool palm. Her work is done. | |
| She rests as one who fears to rest. | 5 |
| With chin upthrust she seems to wait | |
| A summons—some dread footstep at the gate— | |
| Her breath scarce lifts her lean bent breast. | |
| |
| Her wayward sons are all afar; | |
| Her daughters drudge for tired men. | 10 |
| Her husband’s grave lies up the glen, | |
| And she, the sport of some grim star, | |
| Sits there alone with dim dull eyes. | |
| Of what she dreams I cannot tell. | |
| Her pains have fitted her for hell— | 15 |
| Her deeds should lift her to the skies. | |
| |
| It seems God cursed her at the start; | |
| She was foredoomed to toil and pain. | |
| She has no higher prize to gain | |
| Than rest, and endless quietude of heart. | 20 |
| Hunger, and solitude, the agony of birth, | |
| The numbing dulness of the daily task | |
| She has not shunned; she does not ask | |
| Her God to free her from the earth. | |
| |
