Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.
The Hill Wife
(Her Word)
O
So much as you and I
Care when the birds come round the house
To seem to say good-bye;
With whatever it is they sing;
The truth being we are as much
Too glad for the one thing
With birds that fill their breasts
But with each other and themselves
And their built or driven nests.
A
Always at night when they returned
To the lonely house from far away,
To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray,
They learned to rattle the lock and key
To give whatever might chance to be
Warning and time to be off in flight:
And preferring the out- to the in-door night,
They learned to leave the house-door wide
Until they had lit the lamp inside.
S
For the dark pine that kept
Forever trying the window-latch
Of the room where they slept.
That with every futile pass
Made the great tree seem as a little bird
Before the mystery of glass!
And only one of the two
Was afraid in an oft-repeated dream
Of what the tree might do.
I
And too wild,
And since there were but two of them,
And no child,
She was free,
And followed where he furrowed field,
Or felled tree.
The fresh chips,
With a song only to herself
On her lips.
Of black alder.
She strayed so far she scarcely heard
When he called her—
Or return.
She stood, and then she ran and hid
In the fern.
Everywhere,
And he asked at her mother’s house
Was she there.
The ties gave,
And he learned of finalities
Besides the grave.