The Mother [1]
I
It was April, blossoming spring,
They buried me, when the birds did sing;
They buried me, when the birds did sing;
Earth, in clammy wedging earth,
They banked my bed with a black, damp girth.
They banked my bed with a black, damp girth.
Under the damp and under the mould,
I kenned my breasts were clammy and cold.
I kenned my breasts were clammy and cold.
Out from the red beams, slanting and bright,
I kenned my cheeks were sunken and white.
I kenned my cheeks were sunken and white.
I was a dream, and the world was a dream,
And yet I kenned all things that seem.
And yet I kenned all things that seem.
For though in the under-grave’s doom-night
I lay all silent and stark and white,
I lay all silent and stark and white,
Yet over my head I seemed to know
The murmurous moods of wind and snow,
The murmurous moods of wind and snow,
The snows that wasted, the winds that blew,
The rays that slanted, the clouds that drew
The rays that slanted, the clouds that drew
The water-ghosts up from lakes below,
And the little flower-souls in earth that grow.
And the little flower-souls in earth that grow.
Under earth, in the grave’s stark night,
I felt the stars and the moon’s pale light.
I felt the stars and the moon’s pale light.
I felt the winds of ocean and land
That whispered the blossoms soft and bland.
That whispered the blossoms soft and bland.
Though they had buried me dark and low,
My soul with the season’s seemed to grow.
My soul with the season’s seemed to grow.
II
From throes of pain they buried me low,
For death had finished a mother’s woe.
For death had finished a mother’s woe.
I dreamed of my babe, and I kenned that his rest
Was broken in wailings on my dead breast.
Was broken in wailings on my dead breast.
I dreamed that a rose-leaf hand did cling:
Oh, you cannot bury a mother in spring!
Oh, you cannot bury a mother in spring!
When the winds are soft and the blossoms are red
She could not sleep in her cold earth-bed.
She could not sleep in her cold earth-bed.
I dreamed of my babe for a day and a night,
And then I rose in my graveclothes white.
And then I rose in my graveclothes white.
I rose like a flower from my damp earth-bed
To the world of sorrowing overhead.
To the world of sorrowing overhead.
Men would have called me a thing of harm,
But dreams of my babe made me rosy and warm.
But dreams of my babe made me rosy and warm.
I felt my breasts swell under my shroud;
No star shone white, no winds were loud;
No star shone white, no winds were loud;
But I stole me past the graveyard wall,
For the voice of my baby seemed to call;
For the voice of my baby seemed to call;
I passed the streets to my husband’s home;
The chamber stairs in a dream I clomb.
The chamber stairs in a dream I clomb.
I heard the sound of each sleeper’s breath,
Light waves that break on the shores of death.
Light waves that break on the shores of death.
I listened a space at my chamber door,
Then stole like a moon-ray over its floor.
Then stole like a moon-ray over its floor.
My babe was asleep on a stranger arm.
“O baby, my baby, the grave is so warm,
“O baby, my baby, the grave is so warm,
“Though dark and so deep, for mother is there!
O come with me from the pain and care!
O come with me from the pain and care!
“O come with me from the anguish of earth,
Where the bed is banked with a blossoming girth,
Where the bed is banked with a blossoming girth,
“Where the pillow is soft and the rest is long,
And mother will croon you a slumber-song,
And mother will croon you a slumber-song,
“A slumber-song that will charm your eyes
To a sleep that never in earth-song lies!
To a sleep that never in earth-song lies!
I nestled him soft to my throbbing breast,
And stole me back to my long, long rest.
And stole me back to my long, long rest.
And here I lie with him under the stars,
Dead to earth, its peace and its wars;
Dead to earth, its peace and its wars;
Dead to its hates, its hopes, and its harms,
So long as he cradles up soft in my arms.
So long as he cradles up soft in my arms.
And heaven may open its shimmering doors,
And saints make music on pearly floors,
And saints make music on pearly floors,
And hell may yawn to its infinite sea,
But they never can take my baby from me.
But they never can take my baby from me.
For so much a part of my soul he hath grown
That God doth know of it high on his throne.
That God doth know of it high on his throne.
And here I lie with him under the flowers
That sun-winds rock through the billowy hours,
That sun-winds rock through the billowy hours,
With the night-airs that steal from the murmuring sea,
Bringing sweet peace to my baby and me.
Bringing sweet peace to my baby and me.
[1] This poem was suggested by the following passage in Tyler’s Animism: “The pathetic German superstition that the dead mother’s coming back in the night to suckle the baby she had left on earth may be known by the hollow pressed down in the bed where she lay.”