Ever so little to shew for it And I shouldn't have cared but I haven't a thing Excepting her battered turquoise ring And my finger's so thick it's too small to fit. Nothing to shew for all the sorrow— And !—Good God! I am here by myself With those two watch pockets over our shelf I must take the red one down tomorrow. I wonder why she went so fast. I'm sure she ought to have lived a while, For the doctor said, with his sawdust smile, 'She's bound to go—but a week she'll last.' I shouldn't ha' minded , if only I'd known— But it happened so suddenly—first the gasp And then—she was holding me tight in her clasp— The jaw went down, and she fell like a stone. What came next after the stillness? Oh! tea, on a tray, with cups for two— (You see they thought that she'd pull through, And we'd always taken it so, in her illness.) That upset me—Lord knows why: When the slavey left and shut the door I gulped a bit, and I drop't on the floor But my throat was so hot I couldn't cry— And then the business next morning and all The hideous wrangling over the price 'For three pun ten you can do it nice But there's ten bob more for the use of the pall And three bob more if you 'as the bell, An' then there's the land; we manages that, And then there's the crape what goes round your 'at And then there's the parson's fees as well.' (The worst of it is you can't escape The detail after a loved one dies, But must quit at once, gird loins & rise To haggle for feathers and nails and crape) 'We'll manage it all.' God! What did I care As he preached in a dreary monotone Of the different merits of different stone And asked when the men should come and where. A wholesale business—mercantile To the gilt-head letter—nails hammered in— A matter of money—Who cared a pin Or thought of my Lottie all the while! * * * * Why is it so? What's the good of it all? I'd ha' kept her alive if they'd let me try— And she—what need to make her die? God of the Pestilence answer my call. Surely our God is a little blind, Or a little careless maybe—perhaps He is out of the reach of those awful taps On the shell that are driving me out of my mind. All so horrible ! all so strange! She can't have altered to this so quickly! Her colour was always a little sickly, But what a change! Oh what a change! The straight, lax lines by the curve of the lips, The stretched wax skin where no colour lingers, The blackening tips of her little fingers, And the hollow under the finger tips Lottie? The heart of our nomad life? Madcap girl with the reckless tongue? That her?—Why should she die so young Scarcely passed from the child to the wife? Old in the wit that our headrace brings, But oh! so sweet, so loving, so ready— Younger than I but she kept me steady Through a year of trouble and buffetings. And she's somewhere apart and away from me, Flown like a wild bird, out of my hand— There's the pain—Can you understand How it feels and what it must be To think of our councils, her head on my breast And the cash book balanced somehow or other, With plenty of kisses deficits to smother? (Foolish of course-but we liked it best) And then our evening strolls and our talks On the benches facing the Serpentine, Retold the old story, her hand in mine, While darkness settled down on the walks, Went over the year that joined us two Step by step—slowly, so slowly— Till night hid the lapping waters wholly, And Ifelt her ulster damp with the dew. Now—just nothing and worse than that For the room is full of the clothes she wore— There's her corset lying about on the floor With her knowing, brown, little sealskin hat. But the step, and the laugh and the eye are gone— These things proclaim the fact aloud, While the sun glares in from the grey smoke cloud, Lest I miss the bed that she lay upon— What days those were—and now they're over— I could work like a slave before 'twas light All through the day and half the night But then—I'm Curtiss not Lottie's lover.— Peace for her, I suppose so— For me What peace is there, except the lull After a storm has blown to its full And the sodden corpses come out of the sea, There's one thought strikes as the worst of it— The years will heal the scar they made And fix it, a youthful escapade When I'm older—and wiser a little bit Nothing is fixed—The newer day Smothers the dead one—New interests crowd (With little breathing space allowed) To take the edge of our grief away.— What have I to keep me out of the pit, Now you are gone—What chance for me To make my life as it used to be With you, sole arbitress of it— Oh girl wife I was the world to you! How will it be when we meet again? You stamped with my seal, that you remain For ever as loving, as sweet and true. And I, with the hand some alien she Presses in fire over the first Maybe—or else (the last and worst) My passion frittered utterly Through a dozen channels of later loves, No one single, or perfect or clean— How could I face you Oh my Queen When we meet again if Fate approves. I think you would put out your arms as of old, With that odd, quick gesture—draw my face Down on your breast in a strict embrace, And keep it there till the tale was told.— And after it all—you would turn your head To the bar—'This man was a god to me Even as Thou art—set him free Seeing he stood for a time in thy stead' What am I raving of? There you lie And now you are going—I shan't go I loved you too much in life, you know To follow up to the cemetery— You shall be Lottie, a little worn, And very silent, a little pale Nothing more—what would it avail If I walked behind you—where you are borne? You shall be Lottie—so fast asleep, That you will not wake though I kiss you now— Once, twice, thrice-lips, eyes, and brow And give you our marriage lines to keep Rest in peace—God bless you—Goodnight And another kiss before the screw Comes to sunder me from you And the top-board shuts your face from sight The bitterest wrench of it all is near— Up till now it was nothing—but God have mercy! It's shut, it's shut And they're going to take it away from here. Help me someone! Let it bide! Open it only once again— I'm perfectly well, I can bear the pain, I'll swear that a camphor bag slipped inside— A great Love spilt, and to shew for it— Nothing—the white face there is quiet While the first floor children continue their riot, And my head is aching fit to split.
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