Her husband woke: but not a word She told him of the strange, white bird: But, as at breakfast-time, she took The pan of porridge from the crook; And all was ready to begin; A neighbour gossip hurried in; And told the news, that Phoebe Wright Had died in childbirth in the night. The husband neither spoke, nor stirred, But sat as one who, having heard, May never hearken to a word From any living lips again; And, heedless of the tongues of men, Hears, in a silence, dread and deep, The dead folk talking in their sleep. His porridge stood till it was cold: And as he sat, his face grew old; And all his yellow hair turned white, As it had looked to her last night, When it was drenched with cold moonlight. And she knew all: yet never said A word to him about the dead; Or pestered him to take his meat: But, sitting silent in her seat, She left him quiet with his heart To thoughts in which she had no part; Until he rose to go about His daily work; and staggered out. And all that day, her eyes were dim That she had borne no child to him. Days passed: and then, one evening late, As she came by the churchyard-gate, She saw him, near the new-made grave: And, with a lifted head and brave, She hurried home, lest he should know That she had looked upon his woe. And when they sat beside the fire, Although it seemed he could not tire Of gazing on the glowing coal, And though a fire was in her soul; She sat beside him with a smile, Lest he should look on her, the while, And wonder what could make her sad When all the world but him was glad. But, not a word to her he said: And silently they went to bed.