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From “To the River Beach”
IN these cold mornings the alders can not hold their leaves, | |
| But in the stained pond-water drop them, broad and cold. | |
| Days ago the willows yellowed the river’s edge. | |
| The river-breaks are stuck full of gray wild seed. | |
| Dry and without the late hunger is every weed. | 5 |
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| The latest-bearing tree’s fruit is under roof; | |
| Nothing we value is left, nothing is left | |
| Except the garden Eusebia planted as she grew old. | |
| Under the trees of her orchard the tall marigolds, | |
| Past their best, are grown dark yellow with rain: | 10 |
| Half-wild stalks, that gave this woman much pride and much pain | |
To thin and keep in order.
It has rained, and turned cold. | |
| No one comes along the river or the breaks; | |
| No foot has changed the color of this tall grass. | |
| About her house, big rose-hips ripen, partly gray. | 15 |
| Who sits in the leaves there—the old eyes, and the flesh fallen? | |
| Eusebia Owen is come again, this chilly day: | |
| A ghost comes, and grieves at last because she is old. | |
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| The water of dead leaves, which the fruit trees | |
| Shed upon her dress, is not cold; there’s no fear now, though | 20 |
| Hard waves in the river gather and pace to the wind; | |
| There’s no pleasure in marigold petals upon her face. | |
| She grieves, and says: “So many years I let go, | |
| Working hard, and was content to think that love | |
| Would surely return; but the dead go all alone.” | 25 |
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| It is so: the years during which this woman lived | |
| Were divided—so many for love, so many following | |
| For work; and at last, let them be busy with flowers. | |
| Dusty summers, long harvests, awhile to rest; but in the cold days | |
| Eusebia gathered tree-cotton to weave cloth upon, | 30 |
| Worked with her garden, and would not fold her hands. | |
| This woman was not idle until she died. | |
| There’s tree-cotton, and cold days another year | |
| In which all her use is departed. This sad ghost | |
| That cries for love again, even the spirit is old. | 35 |
| The hair which hangs against the dry breast is gray. | |
| The old dark dress is worn thin; and, wet and cold, | |
| She who wears it would enjoy love again, would lie | |
In childbed over again.
When I was her friend | |
| I thought she had been content: and see the gray hair | 40 |
| Heavy and stained with water! Once she was vain, | |
| And now leaves stick upon her dress and her arms. | |
| Now she has left secrecy, and I am ashamed | |
| That we were less friends than ever I had dreamed. | |
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