By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 860 And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy To give her needful help. That very time Most willingly she put her work aside, And walked with me along the miry road, Heedless how far; and, in such piteous sort 865 That any heart had ached to hear her, begged That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask For him whom she had lost. We parted then-- Our final parting; for from that time forth Did many seasons pass ere I returned 870 Into this tract again. "Nine tedious years; From their first separation, nine long years, She lingered in unquiet widowhood; A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend, 875 That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day; And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench For hours she sate; and evermore her eye 880 Was busy in the distance, shaping things That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, Now faint,--the grass has crept o'er its grey line; There, to and fro, she paced through many a day Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 885 That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed A man whose garments showed the soldier's red, Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, The little child who sate to turn the wheel 890 Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice Made many a fond enquiry; and when they, Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, That bars the traveller's road, she often stood, 895 And when a stranger horseman came, the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully: Most happy, if, from aught discovered there Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 900 Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose hand, At the first nipping of October frost, Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived Through the long winter, reckless and alone; 905 Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain, Was sapped; and while she slept, the nightly damps Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind, Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 910 She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds Have parted hence; and still that length of road, And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend,--