REUBEN
While far-off homes wait empty . . . With a start
Suddenly might he shake that ill sight off,
Deliver’d thankfully to present peace,
As Mercy’s gentle hesitating voice
Spelt out the evening Psalms: and so to bed:—
Sometimes ’mid lashing rain to lie awake,
And thro’ the wind’s incessant lumbering, hear,
Safely, the great Voice boom: or, ’mid the stars
And silence, and the pausing of a mind
Profoundly by the far sea-rhythm lull’d—
’Mid Night’s wide simple quiet, perfected
By movements low without, of leaves and wind,
Live things unconscious nestling in their sleep,
And the beloved breathing at his side—
To drink long draughts of peace, to realize
Rest . . . till the sweetness of that shared repose
Would deepen down to love, and he would lie
Thinking: “Sure, we are happy! God is good!”
Such was his daily life, his year-long joy.
Till one spring came. The bees woke up, brown buds
Were on the wallflowers, and fresh radiant days
Jollily brought the welcome season in.
’Twas time to plant young cabbage, peas and beans,
And work the winter stiffness from the joints.
Reuben was fain and hearty. But, indoors,
Day after day a little heavier hung
Their wonted tasks on two persisting hands,
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