Page:Words for the Chisel (1926).pdf/24

Beat on the window. Eric going by
Was beautiful and terrible to her
As her own brother dark men never were.

So Eric ran the gales for years between
This harbor and the Orient. She grew
More slender with the years and more serene;
Sight of her son gave pride to her anew;
There was a whispered pact between these two.
She called him Eric. In her heart she said,
—A few years and his father will be dead.

—A few years and we two will leave this place,
Find some far valley shut to sea and ships.
Perhaps its narrow beauty will erase
These haole smiles and sorrows from my face,
Now I am weary and my throat and lips
Parched with the rank black smoke . . . I am not fair
As once I was. We will be happy there.

—We will be happy where we both belong
Growing our taro. Kanakas are not made
For struggle, little Eric. We are strong
Only in endless rustles of green shade.
And you will bring me bread-fruit. I will braid
Mats for our hut and keep a little pig,
And we will have a feast when he is big.

Kanaka blood in him, blood of a dancer
Took him away and made him wary at
Her happy valley plan. He didn't answer
All her sharp questions when he came but sat