Classic Poem

She is a murderess? Nay, it is not true—
Such eyes, such gentle eyes, such loving eyes,
And then her smile—it is so gentle, too.
You held her poor hard hands, and spoke to her
In tender tones, as mother to a child,
And she, with quick-caught breath, cried: “Anna's good;
So good, dear lady, always as you wish.”
And with those same adoring, pleading eyes
She seemed to drink your kind, protecting smile.
We gave her flowers, gay with Autumn sun,
That we had plucked in freedom, and the thought
Stabbed in my heart. She murmured little words,
In that soft tongue that poets love so well,
And pressed the blossoms to her patient breast.
So then we left her by her grated cell,
Hearing the prison door with dubious clang
Swing back behind us. Oh! the sunset light
Never had colors that were so divine,

Never was riotous wind so fresh and free,
And the pale moon was shining dimly, too,
As though fair nature held high carnival
Of all her beauty; lavish in her gifts
That we might know the contrast of our joy
To that poor inarticulate sister's fate.
A murderess? Then you told me—and the tale
Sent the hot blood in torrents to my head
Until my eyes were blinded with her pain.
They had been boy and girl in Italy,
Had danced and sung together by the shore,
And she was always his, had never known
Father or mother, and the priest had smiled
Because their pennies were too few to give
That he should bind them with a marriage vow!
But she was her Luigi's, he was hers—
And when his gay, adventurous spirit willed,
She followed him to this far land of ours—
“We think we find much gold, and make our home,”
She said, and then a glory swept her face.
She told of how he worked, and every day
She brought with her own hands—ah! patient toil—
The stones with which to build the little house.
And so it grew with all the long, hard days

Till one Spring morning, lo! the home was done.
She was so tired that her eyes were dim,
Her once straight body twisted out of shape
With heavy loads, but all her heart was glad—
Now it was done and she could rest awhile.
And then he came. Looking her in the eyes,
Laughing, he said: “This home is not for you—
You are grown old and ugly—Anna, go—
A fair young girl will share this home with me.”
Dumb, like a stricken dog, she turned and went—
He was Luigi, and she must obey!
She hardly knew what happened after that,
She had not died, it is so hard to die—
Yes, she had worked and earned her daily bread—
And days went by—days pass when souls are dead—
Just as they pass when hearts are full of song—
And so a laggard year dragged to its close.
The Spring had come again—the gracious Spring!
When all the earth is redolent with joy—
And happiness the birthright of each heart.
Ah! but the Spring has bitter pain for one
Who dreads its coming, fears the long sweet days
Fashioned for bursting blossoms and for love.
All suddenly she came to life again—

She, who had died that day the year before.
Her home, the little home her hands had made,
Surely it could not hurt Luigi if
She looked once more at what her toil had wrought!
Her hurrying feet could hardly carry her,
So eager was she. In her weary brain
There was no thought of evil, only thirst,
For that sweet past consumed her like a flame.—
There was the porch, and on it was a girl,
Young as she once had been, with curling hair
Falling on cheek and breast, and in her arms
A dark-eyed baby clinging to that breast;
She leaned across the railing and she laughed—
Luigi, too, had laughed a year ago!—
And laughing, called in shrill and taunting tones:
“You are the woman that Luigi kept
Until you grew too old—you had no child
To bind his love. Look what I've given him.”
She laughed again; mocking, she held the babe
As though to give it into Anna's arms—
Those arms that knew Luigi's, and had clung
In love's first ecstasy around his neck
In primitive passion. Now, that love, betrayed,
Called on the savage that is in us all,
Caught at her broken heart, her blazing brain—
A flash of steel, and the dread deed was done—
What wonder? Ah, the pity of it all!

Twelve years of prison, did you say, twelve years
Have passed already in that little cell?
A life-long sentence, but commuted now,
Because of good behavior? Ah! those eyes—
Such tender, quiet, sad, beseeching eyes—
Eyes of a murderess! And the man is free!