Oh, how his little face come, with bright hair, Dear little face. We made this room so snug; He sit beside me in his little chair, I give him real tea sometimes in his mug. He liked the velvet in the patchwork rug. He used to stroke it, did my pretty son, He called it Bunny, little Jimmie done. And then he ran so, he was strong at running, Always a strong one, like his dad at that. In summertimes I done my sewing sunning, And he’d be sprawling, playing with the cat. And neighbours brought their knitting out to chat Till five o’clock; he had his tea at five; How sweet life was when Jimmy was alive.’ * * * * * Darkness and midnight, and the midnight chimes. Another four-and-twenty hours begin, Darkness again, and many, many times, The alternating light and darkness spin Until the face so thin is still more thin, Gazing each earthly evening wet or fine For Jimmy coming from work along the line. Over her head the Chester wires hum, Under the bridge the rocking engines flash. ’He’s very late this evening, but he’ll come And bring his little packet full of cash (Always he does) and supper’s cracker hash, That is his favourite food excepting bacon. They say my boy was hanged; but they’re mistaken. And sometimes she will walk the cindery mile, Singing, as she and Jimmy used to do, Singing ’The parson’s dog lep over a stile,’ Along the path where water lilies grow. The stars are placid on the evening’s blue, Burning like eyes so calm, so unafraid, On all that God has given and man has made. Burning they watch, and mothlike owls come out, The redbreast warbles shrilly once and stops; The homing cowman gives his dog a shout, The lamps are lighted in the village shops. Silence; the last bird passes; in the copse The hazels cross the moon, a nightjar spins, Dew wets the grass, the nightingale begins. Singing her crazy song the mother goes, Singing as though her heart were full of peace, Moths knock the petals from the dropping rose, Stars make the glimmering pool a golden fleece, The moon droops west, but still she does not cease, The little mice peep out to hear her sing, Until the inn-man’s cockerel shakes his wing. And in the sunny dawns of hot Julys, The labourers going to meadow see her there. Rubbing the sleep out of their heavy eyes, They lean upon the parapet to stare; They see her plaiting basil in her hair, Basil, the dark red wound-wort, cops of clover, The blue self-heal and golden Jacks of Dover. Dully they watch her, then they turn to go To that high Shropshire upland of late hay; Her singing lingers with them as they mow, And many times they try it, now grave, now gay, Till, with full throat, over the hills away, They lift it clear; oh, very clear it towers Mixed with the swish of many falling flowers. ’The Widow in the Bye Street’ first appeared in _The English Review_ for February 1912. I thank the editor and proprietors of the _Review_ for permitting me to reprint it here.