Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE WASHERWOMAN, by ALICE CARY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: At the north end of our village stands Last Line: In marriage-robes, I trust. Subject(s): Labor & Laborers; Laundry & Laundering; Soul; Washerwomen; Work; Workers | ||||||||
AT the north end of our village stands, With gable black and high, A weather-beaten house, -- I've stopt Often as I went by, To see the strip of bleaching grass Slipped brightly in between The long straight rows of hollyhocks, And currant-bushes green; The clumsy bench beside the door, And oaken washing-tub, Where poor old Rachel used to stand, And rub, and rub, and rub! Her blue-checked apron speckled with The suds, so snowy white; From morning when I went to school Till I went home at night, She never took her sunburnt arms Out of the steaming tub: We used to say 't was weary work Only to hear her rub. With sleeves stretched straight upon the grass The washed shirts used to lie; By dozens I have counted them Some days, as I went by. The burly blacksmith, battering at His red-hot iron bands, Would make a joke of wishing that He had old Rachel's hands! And when the sharp and ringing strokes Had doubled up his shoe, As crooked as old Rachel's back, He used to say 't would do. And every village housewife, with A conscience clear and light, Would send for her to come and wash An hour or two at night! Her hair beneath her cotton cap Grew silver white and thin; And the deep furrows in her face Ploughed all the roses in. Yet patiently she kept at work, -- We school-girls used to say The smile about her sunken mouth Would quite go out some day. Nobody ever thought the spark That in her sad eyes shone, Burned outward from a living soul Immortal as their own. And though a tender flush sometimes Into her cheek would start, Nobody dreamed old Rachel had A woman's loving heart! At last she left her heaps of clothes One quiet autumn day, And stript from off her sunburnt arms The weary suds away; That night within her moonlit door She sat alone, -- her chin Sunk in her hand, -- her eyes shut up, As if to look within. Her face uplifted to the star That stood so sweet and low Against old crazy Peter's house -- (He loved her long ago!) Her heart had worn her body to A handful of poor dust, -- Her soul was gone to be arrayed In marriage-robes, I trust. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER WORKING SIXTY HOURS AGAIN FOR WHAT REASON by HICOK. BOB DAY JOB AND NIGHT JOB by ANDREW HUDGINS BIXBY'S LANDING by ROBINSON JEFFERS ON BUILDING WITH STONE by ROBINSON JEFFERS LINES FROM A PLUTOCRATIC POETASTER TO A DITCH-DIGGER by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS IN CALIFORNIA: MORNING, EVENING, LATE JANUARY by DENISE LEVERTOV A SPINSTER'S STINT by ALICE CARY |
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