132
A TRAGEDY IN WESTERN WOODS.
Blossom and blush he came to find. He found
Only the dead—who left an empty earth.
———But, sir, a ploughman's heart can hold a wound
As deep as if he cared for books or birth.
Only the dead—who left an empty earth.
———But, sir, a ploughman's heart can hold a wound
As deep as if he cared for books or birth.
With tears unfallen, from out the murmurous crowd
A woman trembled, who was sad and grey.
Lifting the maid, she dressed her in her shroud,
And watched her in a long, still, wordless way.
A woman trembled, who was sad and grey.
Lifting the maid, she dressed her in her shroud,
And watched her in a long, still, wordless way.
"That boy?" one moaned; "why, that could never be."
Another said: "He owns what he has done."
She was a widow. As they muttered she
Looked from the door—and saw her only son!
Another said: "He owns what he has done."
She was a widow. As they muttered she
Looked from the door—and saw her only son!
. . . Ah, baby laugh and dimple, baby kiss
And wandering baby hands, that take one's heart
To play with—or let drop and break! Was this
The end, poor mother, of a mother's part?
And wandering baby hands, that take one's heart
To play with—or let drop and break! Was this
The end, poor mother, of a mother's part?
