In the first year of the last disgrace Peace, turning her face away, Coughing in laurelled fires, weeping, Drags out from her hatcheted heart The sunset axe of the day. And leaning up against the red sky She mourns over evening cities: The milky morning springs from her mothering breast Half choked with happy memories And fulfilment of miseries. 'I am the wife of the workman world With an apron full of children -- And happy, happy any hovel was With my helping hand under his gifted head And for my sleep his shoulder. 'I wish that the crestfallen stars would fall Out of his drunken eye and strike My children cold. I wish the big sea Would pity them, and pity me, And smother us all alike. 'Bitter sun, bitter sun, put out your lions As I have put out my hope. For he will take them in his clever hand And teach them how to dismember love Just as though it was Europe. ‘O washing-board Time, my hands are sore And the backs of the angels ache. For the redhanded husband has abandoned me To drag his coat in front of his pride, And I know my heart will break. In the first year of the last disgrace Peace, turning her face away, Coughing in fire and laurels, weeping, Bared again her butchered heart To the sunrise axe of the day. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VALSE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ANTONIO by LAURA ELIZABETH HOWE RICHARDS ON THOSE THAT HATED 'THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD' by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS WHERE'S AGNES? by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING MUTATION by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE WANDERER: PROLOGUE. PART 2 by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |