Still burning to make reparation I pleaded to wive her, And father her child, and thus faintly My mischief undo. She yielded, and spells of calm weather Succeeded the tempest; And one sprung of him stood as scion Of my bone and thew . . . But Time unveils sorrows and secrets, And so it befell now: By inches the curtain was twitched at, And slowly undrew. As we lay, she and I, in the night-time, We heard the boy moaning: “O misery mine! My false father Has murdered my true!” She gasped: yea, she heard; understood it. Next day the child fled us; And nevermore sighted was even A print of his shoe. Thenceforward she shunned me, and languished; Till one day the park-pool Embraced her fair form, and extinguished Her eyes’ living blue. —So; ask not what blast may account for This aspect of pallor, These bones that just prison within them Life’s poor residue; But pass by, and leave unregarded A Cain to his suffering, For vengeance too dark on the woman Whose lover he slew. THE REJECTED MEMBER’S WIFE WE shall see her no more On the balcony, Smiling, while hurt, at the roar As of surging sea From the stormy sturdy band Who have doomed her lord’s cause, Though she waves her little hand As it were applause. Here will be candidates yet, And candidates’ wives, Fervid with zeal to set Their ideals on our lives: Here will come market-men On the market-days, Here will clash now and then More such party assays. And the balcony will fill When such times are renewed, And the throng in the street will thrill With to-day’s mettled mood; But she will no more stand In the sunshine there, With that wave of her white-gloved hand, And that chestnut hair. _January_ 1906. THE FARM-WOMAN’S WINTER I If seasons all were summers, And leaves would never fall, And hopping casement-comers Were foodless not at all, And fragile folk might be here That white winds bid depart; Then one I used to see here Would warm my wasted heart! II One frail, who, bravely tilling Long hours in gripping gusts, Was mastered by their chilling, And now his ploughshare rusts. So savage winter catches The breath of limber things, And what I love he snatches, And what I love not, brings. AUTUMN IN KING’S HINTOCK PARK HERE by the baring bough Raking up leaves, Often I ponder how Springtime deceives,— I, an old woman now, Raking up leaves. Here in the avenue Raking up leaves, Lords’ ladies pass in view, Until one heaves Sighs at life’s russet hue, Raking up leaves!