And half asleep I heard her creep--Her never-singing lips shut fast, Fearing to wake me by a careless breath.
Then, at last, My lids upcast, Our eyes met, I smiled and she smiled, And I shut mine again and truly slept.
Was I that child Fretful, sick, wild? Was that you moving soft and soft Between the rooms if I but played at sleep?
Or if I laughed, Talked, cried, or coughed, You smiled too, just perceptibly, Or your large kind brown eyes said, O poor boy!
From the fireside I Could see the narrow sky Through the barred heavy window panes, Could hear the sparrows quarrelling round the lilac;
And hear the heavy rains Choking in the roof-drains:-- Else of the world I nothing heard Or nothing remember now. But most I loved
To watch when you stirred Busily like a bird At household doings; with hands floured Mixing a magic with your cakes and tarts.
O into me, sick, froward, Yourself you poured; In all those days and weeks when I Sat, slept, woke, whimpered, wondered and slept again.
Now but a memory To bless and harry me Remains of you still swathed with care; Myself your chief care, sitting by the hearth
Propped in the pillowed chair, Following you with tired stare, And my hand following the wood lines By dead hands smoothed and followed many years.
And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocks In this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks, How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars On these magnificent, cruel wars?--Venus, that brushes with her shining lips (Surely!) the wakeful edge of the world and mocks With hers its all ungentle wantonness?--Or the large moon (pricked by the spars of ships Creeping and creeping in their restlessness), The moon pouring strange light on things more strange, Looks she unheedfully on seas and lands Trembling with change and fear of counter-change?
O, not earth trembles, but the stars, the stars! The sky is shaken and the cool air is quivering. I cannot look up to the crowded height And see the fair stars trembling in their light, For thinking of the starlike spirits of men Crowding the earth and with great passion quivering:-- Stars quenched in anger and hate, stars sick with pity. I cannot look up to the naked skies Because a sorrow on dark midnight lies, Death, on the living world of sense; Because on my own land a shadow lies That may not rise; Because from bare grey hillside and rich city Streams of uncomprehending sadness pour, Thwarting the eager spirit's pure intelligence... How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars On these magnificent, cruel wars?