Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death, A something like a worm gnawing a brain, That bids me heed what bitter lesson saith The blind wind beating on the widow-pane. None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can: I pass them through at night with hidden head; Lock’d rotting rooms her eyes must never scan, Floors that her blessed feet must never tread. Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know, Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow. C. L. M. In the dark womb where I began My mother’s life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her. Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave. For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind. If the grave’s gates could be undone, She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should meet She would pass by me in the street, Unless my soul’s face let her see My sense of what she did for me. What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and womankind? What woman’s happier life repays Her for those months of wretched days? For all my mouthless body leeched Ere Birth’s releasing hell was reached? What have I done, or tried, or said In thanks to that dear woman dead? Men triumph over women still, Men trample women’s rights at will, And man’s lust roves the world untamed. * * * * * O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed. WASTE No rose but fades: no glory but must pass: No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets. Her beauty must go underneath the grass, Under the long roots of the violets. O, many glowing beauties Time has hid In that dark, blotting box the villain sends. He covers over with a coffin-lid Mothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends. Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned, Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay. All are as blossoms blowing down the wind, Things the old envious villain sweeps away. And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll, Death brings another April to the soul. THE WILD DUCK Twilight; red in the west; Dimness; a glow on the wood. The teams plod home to rest. The wild duck come to glean. O souls not understood, What a wild cry in the pool; What things have the farm ducks seen That they cry so, huddle and cry? Only the soul that goes, Eager, eager, flying, Over the globe of the moon, Over the wood that glows; Wings linked; necks a-strain, A rush and a wild crying. * * * * *