A pride in the human race At this paragon Of mortals, lights each face While the old rite goes on; But ah, they are shocked anon. What girl is she who peeps From the gallery stair, Smiles palely, redly weeps, With feverish furtive air As though not fitly there? “I am the baby’s mother; This gem of the race The decent fain would smother, And for my deep disgrace I am bidden to leave the place.” “Where is the baby’s father?”— “In the woods afar. He says there is none he’d rather Meet under moon or star Than me, of all that are. “To clasp me in lovelike weather, Wish fixing when, He says: To be together At will, just now and then, Makes him the blest of men; “But chained and doomed for life To slovening As vulgar man and wife, He says, is another thing: Yea: sweet Love’s sepulchring!” 1904. A DREAM QUESTION “It shall be dark unto you, that ye shall not divine.” MICAH iii. 6. I ASKED the Lord: “Sire, is this true Which hosts of theologians hold, That when we creatures censure you For shaping griefs and ails untold (Deeming them punishments undue) You rage, as Moses wrote of old? When we exclaim: ‘Beneficent He is not, for he orders pain, Or, if so, not omnipotent: To a mere child the thing is plain!’ Those who profess to represent You, cry out: ‘Impious and profane!’” He: “Save me from my friends, who deem That I care what my creatures say! Mouth as you list: sneer, rail, blaspheme, O manikin, the livelong day, Not one grief-groan or pleasure-gleam Will you increase or take away. “Why things are thus, whoso derides, May well remain my secret still . . . A fourth dimension, say the guides, To matter is conceivable. Think some such mystery resides Within the ethic of my will.” BY THE BARROWS NOT far from Mellstock—so tradition saith— Where barrows, bulging as they bosoms were Of Multimammia stretched supinely there, Catch night and noon the tempest’s wanton breath, A battle, desperate doubtless unto death, Was one time fought. The outlook, lone and bare, The towering hawk and passing raven share, And all the upland round is called “The He’th.” Here once a woman, in our modern age, Fought singlehandedly to shield a child— One not her own—from a man’s senseless rage. And to my mind no patriots’ bones there piled So consecrate the silence as her deed Of stoic and devoted self-unheed. A WIFE AND ANOTHER “WAR ends, and he’s returning Early; yea, The evening next to-morrow’s!”— —This I say To her, whom I suspiciously survey, Holding my husband’s letter To her view.— She glanced at it but lightly, And I knew That one from him that day had reached her too.