Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CHILD, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CHILD, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: He's gone
Last Line: Gazing at the sky beyond the chimney-stacks.]


Persons:

AMOS WOODMAN.
JOAN WOODMAN, his wife.

Scene: A garret in the slums. It is afternoon and a gleam
of sunshine, struggling through the grimy window,
reveals the nakedness of the room, which is quite bare
of furniture. In one corner JOAN WOODMAN crouches by
a heap of rags and straw, on which is lying the dead
body of her child. She is a

JOAN. He's gone.
AMOS. Forgive me, Joan.
JOAN. Forgive you, Amos?
AMOS. Ay, forgive me --
Forgive me that I left you with the child.
I could not bear
To sit and watch him dying,
When there was nothing I could do to save him.
JOAN. 'Twas better that you went.
It is not good to see a baby die...
And yet...
When all was over,
I knew 'twas best.
AMOS. Best, wife?
JOAN. Yes, husband;
For he suffers nothing now.
AMOS. Ah, how he suffered!
And I,
His father,
Could do naught to ease him.
He cried for bread;
And I -- I had no bread --
I had no bread to give him.
Perhaps it's best...
And yet...
If he'd but lived...
JOAN. Lived, Amos?
It's not good to see a baby starve --
To watch him wasting day by day,
To hear him crying...
AMOS. Yes, he cried for bread --
And I, his father, had no bread to give him.
I would have worked these fingers to the bone,
To save him --
To the bone!
They're little else already.
But times are bad,
And work is slack,
And so I needs must watch my baby starving --
Must sit with idle hands and see him starving --
Must watch him starve to death;
His little body wasting day by day;
The hunger gnawing at his little life;
His weak voice growing weaker.
He cried for bread...
JOAN. He'll cry no more.
He feels no hunger now;
And wants for nothing.
AMOS. Ay, he's quiet...
We'll never hear his voice again.
If he'd but lived...
Yet he is free from pain now,
And will not thirst nor hunger any more.
And though, if no help comes,
We two must starve.
The hunger will no longer gnaw our hearts,
Knowing that he's beyond the clutch of hunger.
JOAN. Ay, we must starve, it seems,
If you have found no work;
Though I am free now...
Free to seek for work.
He does not need me now;
And nevermore will need me.
Ah, God, I'm free...
Free!
AMOS. They only look at me,
And shake their heads;
Though I was strong once, wife,
And I could work,
When there was work to get.
But times are bad,
And work is slack;
And I must needs sit idle.
While he was dying --
While he was dying for the want of food --
The hands that should have earned his bread were idle.
I gave him life,
Yet could not feed the life that I had given.
JOAN. Ay, Amos, you were always steady,
And ever worked well;
And I, too, have worked;
And yet we've not a penny in the world,
And scarce a bite to eat.
Reach down the loaf
And cut yourself a slice;
You've eaten naught all day.
AMOS. And you, wife?
JOAN. Nay, I cannot eat just now.
He drank the milk,
But could not touch the bread;
He was too ill to eat.
AMOS. And when he cried to me for bread,
I had no bread to give him.
Wife, how should I eat bread
When I'd no bread to give him till too late?

[They sit for a while silent on an upturned empty
orange-box by the window.]

JOAN. Your cough is worse to-day.
You've eaten naught,
And sit so still,
Save when the coughing takes you.
AMOS. Wife, I was thinking.
JOAN. Thinking!
Nay, lad, don't think;
It is not good to think,
At times like these.
I dare not --
I, who bore him,
And gave him suck.
AMOS. Wife, I was thinking of a little child.
JOAN. Of him?
AMOS. Nay, not of him,
But of a happy child,
Who played and paddled daylong in the brook
That ran before his father's cottage.
And, as I thought,
I seemed to hear the pleasant noise of waters --
The noise that once was in my ears all day,
Though then I never heard it,
Or, hearing, did not heed.
Yes, I was thinking of a happy child --
A happy child...
And yet, of him;
For, as I listened to the sound,
It seemed to me the baby that we loved
No longer lay upon that heap of rags,
Lifeless and cold,
But, somewhere, far away,
Beyond this cruel city,
Among the northern hills,
Played happily the livelong day,
Paddling and splashing in the brook that runs
Before a cottage door.
O wife, do you not hear the noise of water --
Of water, running in and out,
And in and out among the stones,
And tumbling over boulders?
He does not hear it,
For he's far too happy.
O wife, do you not hear the noise of water --
Of water, running, running...

[The room slowly darkens as they sit, hand in hand,
gazing at the sky beyond the chimney-stacks.]





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