Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, STRAWBERRIES, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

STRAWBERRIES, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Since four she had been plucking strawberries
Last Line: And pluck to go on gathering strawberries.


Since four she had been plucking strawberries:
And it was only eight now; and the sun
Already blazing. There'd be little ease
For her until the endless day was done...

Yet, why should she have any ease, while he --
While he...
But there, she mustn't think of him,
Fighting beneath that burning sun, maybe, --
His rifle nigh red-hot, and every limb
Aching for sleep, the sweat dried on his brow,
And baking in the blaze, and such a thirst,
Prickly and choking, she could feel it now
In her own throat. He'd said it was the worst,
In his last letter, worst of all to bear,
That burning thirst -- that, and the hellish noise...

And she was plucking strawberries: and there
In the cool shadow of the elm their boys,
Their baby-boys, were sleeping quietly...

But she was aching too: her head and back
Were one hot blinding ache; and dizzily
Sometimes across her eyes the light swam black
With dancing spots of red...
So ripe and sweet
Among their fresh green leaves the strawberries lay,
Although the earth was baking in the heat,
Burning her soles -- and yet the summer day
Was young enough!
If she could only cram
A handful of fresh berries sweet and cool
Into his mouth, while he...
A red light swam
Before her eyes...
She mustn't think, poor fool,
What he'd be doing now, or she'd go crazed...
Then what would happen to them left alone --
The little lads!
And he would be fair mazed,
When he came back, to see how they had grown,
William and Dick, and how they talked. Two year,
Since he had gone -- and he had never set
His eyes upon his youngest son. 'Twas queer
To think he hadn't seen his baby yet, --
And it nigh fourteen months old.
Everything
Was queer in these days. She could never guess
How it had come about that he could bring
Himself to go and fight. 'Twas little less
Than murder to have taken him, and he
So mild and easy-tempered, never one
For drink or picking quarrels hastily...
And now he would be fighting in that sun...
'Twas quite beyond her. Yet, somehow, it seemed
He'd got to go. She couldn't understand...
When they had married, little had they dreamed
What things were coming to! In all the land
There was no gentler husband...
It was queer:
She couldn't get the rights of it, no way.
She thought and thought, but couldn't get it clear
Why he'd to leave his own work -- making hay
'Twould be this weather -- leave his home, and all --
His wife and his young family, and go
To fight in foreign lands, and maybe fall,
Fighting another lad he didn't know,
And had no quarrel with...
The world was mad,
Or she was going crazy. Anyhow
She couldn't see the rights of it ... Her lad
Had thought it right to go, she knew...
But now
She mustn't think about it all ... And so
She'd best stop puzzling, and pluck strawberries...

And every woman plucking in the row
Had husband, son, or brother overseas.

Men seemed to see things differently: and still
She wondered sore if even they knew why
They went themselves, almost against their will...

But sure enough, that was her baby's cry.
'Twas feeding time: and she'd be glad to rest
Her back a bit. It always gave her ease,
To feel her baby feeding at her breast,
And pluck to go on gathering strawberries.





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