REUBEN
(A young oft-puzzled man) for ponderings dark
On heaven-sent grief that hardens; and grim cause
Had the dry pity which, invading, sapp’d
The doctor’s old regard. Reuben, who long
Had shunn’d his visits, as he left the house
One July noon, upon the dusty road
Stood and confronted him with last year’s cry:
“Doctor! how long?” Remembering last year’s look
The doctor glanced away and shook his head.
“I say, How long?” cried Reuben in a voice
So rude and desperate that the other turn’d
Quickly, a moment stared at the strange light
(Not anger, dread, despair—hope could it be?)
Fierce and peremptory in those faded eyes,
Then slowly, with attention, answer’d: “Well—
In such a case ’tis hard to tell. Perhaps—
Say—at a hazard, Christmas time”
“So long?”
The light died out, the pinch’d and sombre face
Grew ashen. “God ha’ mercy on us!” he said
Like one who knows not what his tongue is doing—
“Christmas? Live on to Christmas!” “But the pain
May lessen,” said the doctor, watching. “Ay!”
He answer’d dull, “That’s good . . . That’s not it.
Pain?
All’s pain now—No!” he suddenly cried out,
“There'll not be less! More, doctor, worse!”
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