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SHE stood against the kitchen sink, and looked | |
Over the sink out through a dusty window | |
At weeds the water from the sink made tall. | |
She wore her cape; her hat was in her hand. | |
Behind her was confusion in the room, | 5 |
Of chairs turned upside down to sit like people | |
In other chairs, and something, come to look, | |
For every room a house hasparlor, bed-room, | |
And dining-roomthrown pell-mell in the kitchen. | |
And now and then a smudged, infernal face | 10 |
Looked in a door behind her and addressed | |
Her back. She always answered without turning. | |
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Where will I put this walnut bureau, lady? | |
Put it on top of something thats on top | |
Of something else, she laughed. Oh, put it where | 15 |
You can to-night, and go. Its almost dark; | |
You must be getting started back to town. | |
Another blackened face thrust in and looked | |
And smiled, and when she did not turn, spoke gently, | |
What are you seeing out the window, lady? | 20 |
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Never was I beladied so before. | |
Would evidence of having been called lady | |
More than so many times make me a lady | |
In common law, I wonder. | |
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But I ask, | 25 |
What are you seeing out the window, lady? | |
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What Ill be seeing more of in the years | |
To come as here I stand and go the round | |
Of many plates with towels many times. | |
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And what is that? You only put me off. | 30 |
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Rank weeds that love the water from the dish-pan | |
More than some women like the dish-pan, Joe; | |
A little stretch of mowing-field for you; | |
Not much of that until I come to woods | |
That end all. And its scarce enough to call | 35 |
A view. | |
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And yet you think you like it, dear? | |
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Thats what youre so concerned to know! You hope | |
I like it. Bang goes something big away | |
Off there upstairs. The very tread of men | 40 |
As great as those is shattering to the frame | |
Of such a little house. Once left alone, | |
You and I, dear, will go with softer steps | |
Up and down stairs and through the rooms, and none | |
But sudden winds that snatch them from our hands | 45 |
Will ever slam the doors. | |
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I think you see | |
More than you like to own to out that window. | |
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No; for besides the things I tell you of, | |
I only see the years. They come and go | 50 |
In alternation with the weeds, the field, | |
The wood. | |
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What kind of years? | |
Why, latter years | |
Different from early years. | 55 |
I see them, too. | |
You didnt count them? | |
No, the further off | |
So ran together that I didnt try to. | |
It can scarce be that they would be in number | 60 |
Wed care to know, for we are not young now. | |
And bang goes something else away off there. | |
It sounds as if it were the men went down, | |
And every crash meant one less to return | |
To lighted city streets we, too, have known, | 65 |
But now are giving up for country darkness. | |
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Come from that window where you see too much for me, | |
And take a livelier view of things from here. | |
Theyre going. Watch this husky swarming up | |
Over the wheel into the sky-high seat, | 70 |
Lighting his pipe now, squinting down his nose | |
At the flame burning downward as he sucks it. | |
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See how it makes his nose-side bright, a proof | |
How dark its getting. Can you tell what time | |
It is by that? Or by the moon? The new moon! | 75 |
What shoulder did I see her over? Neither. | |
A wire she is of silver, as new as we | |
To everything. Her light wont last us long. | |
Its something, though, to know were going to have her | |
Night after night and stronger every night | 80 |
To see us through our first two weeks. But, Joe, | |
The stove! Before they go! Knock on the window; | |
Ask them to help you get it on its feet. | |
We stand here dreaming. Hurry! Call them back! | |
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Theyre not gone yet. | 85 |
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Weve got to have the stove, | |
Whatever else we want for. And a light. | |
Have we a piece of candle if the lamp | |
And oil are buried out of reach? | |
Again | 90 |
The house was full of tramping, and the dark, | |
Door-filling men burst in and seized the stove. | |
A cannon-mouth-like hole was in the wall, | |
To which they set it true by eye; and then | |
Came up the jointed stovepipe in their hands, | 95 |
So much too light and airy for their strength | |
It almost seemed to come ballooning up, | |
Slipping from clumsy clutches toward the ceiling. | |
A fit! said one, and banged a stovepipe shoulder. | |
Its good luck when you move in to begin | 100 |
With good luck with your stovepipe. Never mind, | |
Its not so bad in the country, settled down, | |
When people re getting on in life, Youll like it. | |
Joe said: You big boys ought to find a farm, | |
And make good farmers, and leave other fellows | 105 |
The city work to do. Theres not enough | |
For everybody as it is in there. | |
God! one said wildly, and, when no one spoke: | |
Say that to Jimmy here. He needs a farm. | |
But Jimmy only made his jaw recede | 110 |
Fool-like, and rolled his eyes as if to say | |
He saw himself a farmer. Then there was a French boy | |
Who said with seriousness that made them laugh, | |
Ma friend, you aint know what it is youre ask. | |
He doffed his cap and held it with both hands | 115 |
Across his chest to make as twere a bow: | |
Were giving you our chances on de farm. | |
And then they all turned to with deafening boots | |
And put each other bodily out of the house. | |
Goodby to them! We puzzle them. They think | 120 |
I dont know what they think we see in what | |
They leave us to: that pasture slope that seems | |
The back some farm presents us; and your woods | |
To northward from your window at the sink, | |
Waiting to steal a step on us whenever | 125 |
We drop our eyes or turn to other things, | |
As in the game Ten-step the children play. | |
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Good boys they seemed, and let them love the city. | |
All they could say was God! when you proposed | |
Their coming out and making useful farmers. | 130 |
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Did they make something lonesome go through you? | |
It would take more than them to sicken you | |
Us of our bargain. But they left us so | |
As to our fate, like fools past reasoning with. | |
They almost shook me. | 135 |
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Its all so much | |
What we have always wanted, I confess | |
Its seeming bad for a moment makes it seem | |
Even worse still, and so on down, down, down. | |
Its nothing; its their leaving us at dusk. | 140 |
I never bore it well when people went. | |
The first night after guests have gone, the house | |
Seems haunted or exposed. I always take | |
A personal interest in the locking up | |
At bedtime; but the strangeness soon wears off. | 145 |
He fetched a dingy lantern from behind | |
A door. Theres that we didnt lose! And these! | |
Some matches he unpocketed. For food | |
The meals weve had no one can take from us. | |
I wish that everything on earth were just | 150 |
As certain as the meals weve had. I wish | |
The meals we havent had were, anyway. | |
What have you you know where to lay your hands on? | |
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The bread we bought in passing at the store. | |
Theres butter somewhere, too. | 155 |
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Lets rend the bread. | |
Ill light the fire for company for you; | |
Youll not have any other company | |
Till Ed begins to get out on a Sunday | |
To look us over and give us his idea | 160 |
Of what wants pruning, shingling, breaking up. | |
Hell know what he would do if he were we, | |
And all at once. Hell plan for us and plan | |
To help us, but hell take it out in planning. | |
Well, you can set the table with the loaf. | 165 |
Lets see you find your loaf. Ill light the fire. | |
I like chairs occupying other chairs | |
Not offering a lady | |
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There again, Joe! | |
Youre tired. | 170 |
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Im drunk-nonsensical tired out; | |
Dont mind a word I say. Its a days work | |
To empty one house of all household goods | |
And fill another with em fifteen miles away, | |
Although you do no more than dump them down. | 175 |
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Dumped down in paradise we are and happy. | |
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Its all so much what I have always wanted, | |
I cant believe its what you wanted, too. | |
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Shouldnt you like to know? | |
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Id like to know | 180 |
If it is what you wanted, then how much | |
You wanted it for me. | |
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A troubled conscience! | |
You dont want me to tell if I dont know. | |
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I dont want to find out what cant be known. | 185 |
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But who first said the word to come? | |
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My dear, | |
Its who first thought the thought. Youre searching, Joe, | |
For things that dont exist; I mean beginnings. | |
Ends and beginningsthere are no such things. | 190 |
There are only middles. | |
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What is this? | |
This life? | |
Our sitting here by lantern-light together | |
Amid the wreckage of a former home? | 195 |
You wont deny the lantern isnt new. | |
The stove is not, and you are not to me, | |
Nor I to you. | |
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Perhaps you never were? | |
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It would take me forever to recite | 200 |
All thats not new in where we find ourselves. | |
New is a word for fools in towns who think | |
Style upon style in dress and thought at last | |
Must get somewhere. Ive heard you say as much. | |
No, this is no beginning. | 205 |
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Then an end? | |
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End is a gloomy word. | |
Is it too late | |
To drag you out for just a good-night call | |
On the old peach trees on the knoll to grope | 210 |
By starlight in the grass for a last peach | |
The neighbors may not have taken as their right | |
When the house wasnt lived in? Ive been looking: | |
I doubt if they have left us many grapes. | |
Before we set ourselves to right the house, | 215 |
The first thing in the morning, out we go | |
To go the round of apple, cherry, peach, | |
Pine, alder, pasture, mowing, well, and brook. | |
All of a farm it is. | |
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I know this much: | 220 |
Im going to put you in your bed, if first | |
I have to make you build it. Come, the light. | |
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When there was no more lantern in the kitchen, | |
The fire got out through crannies in the stove | |
And danced in yellow wrigglers on the ceiling, | 225 |
As much at home as if theyd always danced there. | |
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