Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or stay; Our morrow’s anxious plans have missed their aim; Whether we leave to-night or wait till day Counts as the same. The lettered vessels of medicaments Seem asking wherefore we have set them here; Each palliative its silly face presents As useless gear. And yet we feel that something savours well; We note a numb relief withheld before; Our well-beloved is prisoner in the cell Of Time no more. We see by littles now the deft achievement Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all, In view of which our momentary bereavement Outshapes but small. 1904. IN CHILDBED IN the middle of the night Mother’s spirit came and spoke to me, Looking weariful and white— As ’twere untimely news she broke to me. “O my daughter, joyed are you To own the weetless child you mother there; ‘Men may search the wide world through,’ You think, ‘nor find so fair another there!’ “Dear, this midnight time unwombs Thousands just as rare and beautiful; Thousands whom High Heaven foredooms To be as bright, as good, as dutiful. “Source of ecstatic hopes and fears And innocent maternal vanity, Your fond exploit but shapes for tears New thoroughfares in sad humanity. “Yet as you dream, so dreamt I When Life stretched forth its morning ray to me; Other views for by and by!” . . . Such strange things did mother say to me. THE PINE PLANTERS (MARTY SOUTH’S REVERIE) I WE work here together In blast and breeze; He fills the earth in, I hold the trees. He does not notice That what I do Keeps me from moving And chills me through. He has seen one fairer I feel by his eye, Which skims me as though I were not by. And since she passed here He scarce has known But that the woodland Holds him alone. I have worked here with him Since morning shine, He busy with his thoughts And I with mine. I have helped him so many, So many days, But never win any Small word of praise! Shall I not sigh to him That I work on Glad to be nigh to him Though hope is gone? Nay, though he never Knew love like mine, I’ll bear it ever And make no sign! II From the bundle at hand here I take each tree, And set it to stand, here Always to be; When, in a second, As if from fear Of Life unreckoned Beginning here, It starts a sighing Through day and night, Though while there lying ’Twas voiceless quite.