Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WINTER DAWN, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WINTER DAWN, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The men are long away
Last Line: And I must tell him that his son is home.


Persons:

STEPHEN REED, a shepherd.
ELIZABETH REED, Stephen's wife.
MARY REED, Stephen's mother.

Scene: Callersteads, a lonely shepherd's cottage on the
fells. A candle burns on the window-sill, though the
light of dawn already glimmers through the
snow-blinded panes. ELIZABETH REED paces the sanded
floor with impatient step. MARY REED sits crouched on
the settle over the peat-fire; ELIZABE

ELIZABETH. The men are long away.
MARY. Have patience, lass;
They'll soon be back; they've scarce been gone an hour.
It's toilsome travelling when the drifts are deep;
And William is no longer young. Fear naught,
They'll bring back Stephen with them safe and sound.
ELIZABETH. You know he could not live through such a night.
MARY. Nay, none may know but God. I only know
That I have heard my father many times
Tell over and over, as though it were some tale
He'd learned by heart -- for he was innocent
And helpless as a babe for many years
Before death took him -- how, when he was young,
A hundred sheep were buried in the drifts
Down Devil's Sike, yet not an ewe was lost,
Though five days passed ere they could be dug out;
And they had cropped the grass beneath their feet
Bare to the roots, and nibbled at their wool
To stay the pangs of hunger, when, at last,
The shepherds found them, nearly starved, poor beasts.
If the frost hold, sheep live for many days
Beneath a drift; the snow lies on them light,
So they can draw their breath, and keep them warm;
But when the thaw comes it is death to them,
For they are smothered 'neath the melting snow.
I've heard my father speak these very words
A thousand times; and I can see him now,
As, huddled in the ingle o'er the fire,
With crazy eyes and ever-groping hands,
He sat all day, and mumbled to himself.
If silly sheep can keep themselves alive
So many days and nights, a shepherd lad,
With all his wits to strive against the storm,
Would never perish in a day and night;
And Stephen is a man....
ELIZABETH. If Stephen lived,
He would not bide from home a day and night;
He could not lose his way across the fell,
Unless the snow o'ercame him.
MARY. Yet, maybe,
He sheltered 'neath a dyke, and fell asleep;
And William and his man will find him there.
ELIZABETH. Ay, they will find him sleeping sure enough,
But from that slumber who shall waken him?
MARY. Nay, lass, you shall not speak so! Stephen lives,
The mother's heart within me tells me this:
That I shall look upon my son again
Before an hour has passed.
ELIZABETH. A wife's love knows
Its loss ere it be told; and in my heart
I know this night has taken him from me.
My husband's eyes shall never look again
In mine, nor his lips ever call me wife.
You cannot love him as I love him....
MARY. Lass!
ELIZABETH. Because he is your son, you love him, woman;
But I, for love of him, became his bride.
MARY. Lass, don't speak so. Your son cries out to you.
Take him within your arms, and comfort him
Until his father comes.
ELIZABETH. Poor babe, poor babe!
Your father nevermore will look on you,
And hug you to his breast, and call you his.
Nay! shut your eyes!
[To MARY.] O woman, take the boy!
I cannot bear to look into those eyes
So like his father's! Hark! did you hear aught?
MARY. Some one is on the threshold. See who comes.
ELIZABETH. No! No! I dare not. Give me back the child,
And open you the door. Quick, woman, quick!
Surely strange fingers fumble at the latch!

[As she speaks, the door slowly opens, and STEPHEN
enters wearily, with faltering step, and groping like
a blind man. ELIZABETH runs to meet him, but he
passes her unseeing, and walks towards the hearth.]

ELIZABETH. Stephen! [Shrinking as he passes her.] It is not he!
MARY. My son! My son!
STEPHEN [speaking slowly and wearily]. Ay, mother, are
you there? I cannot see you.
Why have you lit no candle? Fetch a light.
This darkness hurts my eyes. I scarce could find
The track across the fell. Did you forget
To set the candle on the window-sill?
Or maybe 'twas the snow that hid the flame.
The master kept me late, because my task
Was but half-done; and, when I left the school,
The snow was deep, and blew into my eyes,
Pricking them like hot needles. I was tired,
And hardly could win home, it was so dark;
Yet, that strange darkness burned my eyes like fire,
And dazzled them like flame, and still they burn.
But why do you sit lightless? Fetch a light,
That I may see. It must be very late.
I seemed to wander through an endless night;
And I am weary and would go to bed.
MARY. Son, sit you down. The snow has blinded you.
You will see better soon.
[Handing him a pot from the hob.]
Come, drink this ale;
It's hot, and will put life in your cold limbs.
Your supper awaits you; you are very late.
[To ELIZABETH.]
Lass, speak a word to him!
ELIZABETH. It is not he!
MARY. Ay, lass, it's he. The snow's bewildered him;
He dreams he is a little lad again.
But speak you to him; he will know your voice.
Your word may call his wits again to him.
ELIZABETH. No! No! The night has taken him from me.
This is not he who went out yesterday,
My kiss upon his lips, to seek the sheep,
And bring them into shelter from the storm.
My husband's eyes shall never look in mine
Again, nor his lips ever call me wife.
This is not he!
STEPHEN. Why do you bring no light?
The darkness hurts my eyes. Do you not heed?
I never knew such darkness. It is strange,
I feel the glow, yet cannot see the peats.
MARY. Lass, speak a word!
ELIZABETH. Stephen! ... He doesn't hear me.
STEPHEN. Whom do you speak with, mother? Is father back
Already from the mart? But I forget --
It must be late; 'twas dark ere I left school --
So strangely dark; it scorched my eyes like fire.
MARY. Son, don't you know Elizabeth?
STEPHEN. The lass
With big, brown eyes who sits by me at school?
Ay, ay, I know her well; but what of her?
MARY. Do you not know Elizabeth, your wife?
STEPHEN. Mother, I am too weary for your jest;
And my eyes hurt me. I would go to sleep.
Light me to bed. Why do you bring no light?
MARY. Ah, God, that he had slept to wake no more!
ELIZABETH. What say you, woman? Have you not your son?
It's I have lost my husband, and my babe
Is fatherless.
MARY. No, he may know the babe!
You take the boy and lay him in his lap.
Maybe his child will bring him to himself.
Son, do you not remember your poor babe?
STEPHEN. My baby brother, Philip? But he died
So long ago; what makes you speak of him?
Yes, I remember well the day he died,
And how the snow fell when they buried him.
The mare could scarce make headway through the drifts,
And plunged and stumbled, and the cart sank oft
Over the axle-tree; and when, at last,
We reached the church, the storm closed in again,
And happed the little coffin in white flakes,
Ere they had laid it in the grave. To-night
'Twas such a storm. I must have lost my way,
The night has seemed so long, and I am tired.
Mother, a light! The darkness hurts my eyes.
You do not heed.
MARY. At least you know me, son!
God give you light, ay! even though it blind
Your eyes to me forever, so that you
May know your wife and child!
ELIZABETH. My little babe!
He has forgotten us and does not love us.
The cruel night has taken him from us.
Don't cry, my son. He'll pay no heed to you.
Last night your father and my husband died.
STEPHEN. I am so weary, mother. Bring a light.
MARY. Son, take my hand. I'll lead you to your bed.
Maybe, a healing sleep will make you whole,
And bring your wandering spirit home again.
ELIZABETH. No, no! It's I must lead him! He is mine.
The night has taken my husband, but the dawn
Has brought him back, a helpless child, to me.
He fumbles in the darkness; yet, my love
Shall be a light to lead him to the end.
Come, Stephen, take my hand.
STEPHEN. Elizabeth!
What are you doing from home on such a night?
You have a gentle touch; I'll come with you.
It seems the snow has blinded me; but you
Will lead me safely through this dazzling dark.
Come, lass, for I am weary, and would sleep.
MARY [as ELIZABETH and STEPHEN pass out of the room]. Ay,
you must lead him to the end. Though sleep
May heal his sight, it cannot heal his mind,
Or lift the deeper darkness from his soul.
My poor, old father lives again in him;
And he, my son, so young and hale, must tread
The twilight road to death. Ah God! Ah God!
Through me the curse has fallen on my son!
Yet, when the madness on my father fell,
He was a frail, old man, and nigher death;
And Stephen is so young and full of life.
Nay! Surely, it's the storm has stricken him!
Elizabeth, your poor heart spoke too true:
The bitter night has widowed you, your babe
Is fatherless, and you must lead my son
Through the bewildering dark. But yesterday
It seems I guided his first baby steps!
Ay, you must lead him; you are young and strong,
And I am old and feeble, and my hand
Would fail him ere he reached the journey's end.

[The baby cries out, and MARY takes him in her arms.]

Poor babe, poor babe! A bleak dawn breaks for you!

[A sound of footsteps on the threshold.]

The seekers are returning. William comes;
And I must tell him that his son is home.





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