Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/His Mother's Way
HIS MOTHER'S WAY.(3)
"My Mamma just knows how to cry About an old glove or a ring,Or even a stranger going by The gate, or—almost anything!
"She cried till both her eyes were red About him, too. (I saw her, though!)And he was just a ———, Papa said. (We have to call them that, you know.)
"She cried about the shabbiest shawl, Because it cost too much to buy;But Papa cannot cry at all, For he's a man. And that is why!
"Why, if his coat was not right new, And if the yellow bird would dieThat sings, and my white kitten too, Or even himself, he would not cry.
"He said that he would sleep to-night With both the pistols at his head,Because that ragged fellow might Come back. That's what my Papa said!
"But Mamma goes and hides her face There in the curtains, and peeps outAt him, and almost spoils the lace;— And he is what she cries about!
"She says he looks so cold, so cold, And has no pleasant place to stay!Why can't he work? He is not old; His eyes are blue—they've not turned grey.
So the boy babbled. . . . Well, sweet sirs, Flushed with your office-fires you writeYour laugh down at such grief as hers; But are these women foolish quite?
———I know. But, look you, there may be Stains sad as wayside dust, I say,Upon your own white hands (ah, me!) No woman's tears can wash away.
One sees her baby's dimple hold More love than you can measure. . . . ThenNights darken down on heads of gold, Till wind and frost try wandering men!
But there are prisons made for such, Where the strong roof shuts out the snow;And bread (that you would scorn to touch) Is served them there? I know, I know.
Ah! while you have your books, your ease, Your lamp-light leisure, jests, and wine,Fierce outside whispers, if you please, Moan, each: "These things are also mine!"