Page:Words for the Chisel (1926).pdf/30

—Here is some gold, he said.—Mother believe
I go away from you because I must.
Don't touch me, Mother. Mother, don't you grieve.
I'll come again. I promise you. I just . . .
She lit her lantern, shaking then. He thrust
An oar against the wharf-end as she swung
Her light sharp on the water. Cold she hung

Peering. He sat there dazzled in the glare
Of her sick lantern . . . saw his forehead so
Horrible white (his eyes threatened her stare . . .),
A scar like a half moon. Softly—Now you know,
Mother, damn you, now will you let me go?
The sea between them lifted, fell and spoke,
And after that she slept and never woke.

She took to smoke that night, deafened her ears
To sea, to sound of the sea, and prowling ships;
Smoke veiled her eyes and with the hurrying years
Set its dry seal upon her withering lips,
Darkening her face from men in dull eclipse.
—He took his father's name, she'd vacantly say,
A father, a father took a son away.

So with the years she sat and saw his ghost
Rise in the phantom vapors of the air;
The passive little Buddha on the post
Changed countenance to see the spectre there . . .
Deep in the drowsy perfume of her hair
Beside the spectre presence of her son
She found the valley of oblivion.