Classic Poem

That night she dreamt that he had died
As they were sleeping side by side,
And she awakened in affright
To think of him so cold and white;
And when she turned her eyes to him
The tears of dream had made them dim,
And for a while she could not see
That he was sleeping quietly.
But as she saw him lying there,
The moonlight on his curly hair,
With happy face and quiet breath,
Although she thought no more of death,
And it was very good to rest
Her trembling hand on his calm breast
And feel the warm and breathing life,
And know that she was still his wife,
Yet in his bosom's easy stir
She felt a something trouble her,
And wept again, she knew not why,
And thought it would be good to die —
To sink into the deep sweet rest,
Her hand upon his quiet breast.

She slept, and when she woke again
A bird was at the window-pane,
A wild-eyed bird with wings of white
That fluttered in the cold moonlight,
As though for very fear of night,
And flapped the pane as if afraid:
Yet not a sound the white wings made.
Her eyes met those beseeching eyes,
And then she felt she needs must rise
To let the poor wild creature in
To find the rest it sought to win.
She rose and set the casement wide,
And caught the murmur of the tide,
And saw afar the mounded graves
About the church beside the waves —
The huddled headstones gleaming white
And ghostly in the cold moonlight.

The bird flew straightway to the bed
And hovered o'er her husband's head,
And circled thrice above his head,
Three times above his dreaming head:
And as she watched it flying round
She wondered that it made no sound.
And while she wondered it was gone;
And cold and white the moonlight shone
Upon her husband lying there,
And turned to silver his gold hair,
And paled like death his ruddy face.
Then, creeping back into her place,
She lay beside him in the bed;
But, if she closed her eyes, with dread
She saw the wild bird's eyes that burned
Through her shut eyelids, though she turned
Her blessings over in her heart
That peace might come; and with a start,
If she but drowsed or dreamt of rest,
She felt that wild beak in her breast.
So, wearying for the time to rise,
She watched till dawn was in the skies.

Her husband woke; yet not a word
She told him of the strange white bird:
But, as at breakfast-time she took
The pan of porridge from the crook
And all was ready to begin,
A neighbour gossip hurried in
And told the news that Phoebe Wright
Had died in childbirth in the night.
The husband neither spoke nor stirred,
But sat as one who, having heard,
May never hearken to a word
From any living lips again,
Who, heedless of the tongues of men,
Hears in a silence dread and deep
The dead folk talking in their sleep.
His porridge stood till it was cold;
And as he sat his face grew old,
And all his yellow hair turned white
As it had looked to her last night
When it was drenched with cold moonlight.
And she knew all; yet never said
A word to him about the dead,
Or pestered him to take his meat;
But, sitting silent in her seat,
She left him quiet with his heart
To thoughts in which she had no part,
Until he rose to go about
His daily work and staggered out.
And all that day her eyes were dim
To think she'd borne no child to him.

Days passed: and then one evening late
As she came by the churchyard-gate
She saw him near the new-made grave:
And with a lifted head and brave
She hurried home, lest he should know
That she had looked upon his woe.
And when they sat beside the fire,
Although it seemed he could not tire
Of gazing on the glowing coal,
And though a fire was in her soul,
She sat beside him with a smile,
Lest he should look on her the while
And wonder what could make her sad
When all the world but him was glad.
But not a word to her he said,
And silently they went to bed.

She never closed her eyes that night,
And she was stirring ere the light;
And while her husband lay at rest
She left his side, and quickly dressed
And stole downstairs as though in fear
That he should chance to wake and hear.
And still the stars were burning bright
As she passed out into the night,
And all the dewy air was sweet
With flowers that grew about her feet,
Where he for her when they were wed
Had digged and sown a wallflower bed;
And on the deep, rich, mellow scent
A gust of memories came and went,
As, dreaming of those old glad hours,
She stooped to pick a bunch of flowers
To lay upon the flowerless grave
That held his heart beside the wave.

Though like a troop of ghosts in white
The headstones watched in cold starlight,
As by the dead girl's grave she knelt
No fear in her full heart she felt,
But hurried home when she had laid
Her offering on the turf, afraid
That he should wake and find her gone;
And still the stars in heaven shone
When into bed again she crept
And lay beside him where he slept.
And when day came upon his hair
The warm light fell, and young and fair
He looked again to her kind eyes,
That watched him till 'twas time to rise.

And every day as he went by
The churchyard-gate with downcast eye
He saw fresh flowers upon the grave
That held his heart beside the wave,
And wondering, he was glad to find
That any living soul was kind
To that dead girl who died the death
Of shame for his sake, and the breath
Of those fresh blooms to him was sweet
As he trudged home with laggard feet,
Still wondering who could be her friend.

He never knew until the end
When, in the churchyard by the wave,
He stood beside another grave,
And as the priest's last words were said
He turned, and lifting up his head
He saw the bunch of flowers was dead
Upon the dead girl's grave, and felt
The truth shoot through his heart and melt
The frost of icy bitterness,
And flood his heart with warm distress;
And, kneeling by his dead wife's grave,
To her at last her hour he gave.

That night she dreamt he too had died
And they were sleeping side by side.