Thenceforth I had a secret which I kept-- Kept by my mother with as close a tongue-- A secret which embittered every cup. It bred rebellion in me--filled my soul, Opening to life in innocent delight, With baleful doubt and harrowing distrust. Why, if my father was the godly man His gentle widow vouched with tender tears, Did He to whom she bowed in daily prayer-- Who loved us, as she told me, with a love Ineffable for strength and tenderness-- Permit such fate to him, such woe to us? Ah! many a time, repeating on my knees The simple language of my evening prayer Which her dear lips had taught me, came the dark Perplexing question, stirring in my heart A sense of guilt, or quenching all my faith. This, too, I kept a secret. I had died Rather than breathe the question in her ears Who knelt beside me. I had rather died Than add a sorrow to the load she bore. Taught to be true, I played the hypocrite In truthfulness to her. I had no God, Nor penitence, nor loyalty nor love; For any being higher than herself. Jealous of all to whom she gave her hand, I clung to her with fond idolatry. I sat with her; where'er she walked, I walked I kissed away her tears; I strove to fill, With strange precocity of manly pride And more than boyish tenderness, the void Which death had made. I could not fail to see That ruth for me and sorrow for her loss-- Twin leeches at her heart--were drinking blood That, from her pallid features, day by day Sank slowly down, to feed the cruel draught. Nay, more than this I saw, and sadly worse. Oft when I watched her and she knew it not, I marked a quivering horror sweep her face-- A strange, quick thrill of pain--that brought her hand With sudden pressure to her heart, and forced To her white lips a swiftly whispered prayer. I fancied that I read the mystery; But it was deeper and more terrible Than I conjectured. Not till darker years Came the solution. Still, we had some days Of pleasure. Sorrow cannot always brood Over the shivering forms that drink her warmth; But springs to meet the morning light, and soars Into the empyrean, to forget For one sweet hour the ring of greedy mouths That surely wait, and cry for her return. My mother's hand in mine, or mine in hers, We often left the village far behind, And walked the meadow-paths to gather flowers, And watch the plowman as he turned the tilth, Or tossed his burnished share into the sun At the long furrow's end, the while we marked The tipsy bobolink, struggling with the chain Of tinkling music that perplexed his wings, And listened to the yellow-breasted lark's Sweet whistle from the grass.