A SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a bow; 'Yes,' so she says, 'and younger, too, than some,' Who bids me, bustling, 'God speed,' when I go, And gives me, rustling, 'Welcome,' when I come. 'Ay, sir, 'tis cold, -- and freezing hard, -- they say; I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit -- Beating his horse in such a shameful way! -- Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit.' A musky haunt of lavender and shells, Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays -- A life's collection -- where each object tells Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways: -- A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp; A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame; A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp; A child's mug graven with a golden name; A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set, A card, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath, Circling a silky curl as black as jet, With yellow writing faded underneath. Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair, And note the objects slowly, one by one, And light at last upon a portrait there, -- Wide-collared, raven-haired. 'Yes, 'tis my son!' 'Where is he?' 'Ah, sir, he is dead -- my boy! Nigh ten long years ago -- in 'sixty-three; He's always living in my head -- my boy! He was left drowning in the Southern Sea. 'There were two souls washed overboard, they said, And one the waves brought back; but he was left. They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head; The sea was running wildly; -- he was left. 'He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you know, When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried, And prayed to God, -- though 'twas so long ago, -- He did not struggle much before he died. ''Twas his third voyage. That's the box he brought, -- Or would have brought -- my poor deserted boy! And these the words the agents sent -- they thought That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy. 'Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more: This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat, -- That other clutched him as the wave went o'er, And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote. 'Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you; -- Grief is for them that have both time and wealth: We can't mourn much, who have much work to do; -- Your fire is bright. Thank God, I have my health! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BRAVE OLD OAK by HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY SEASHORE (1) by RALPH WALDO EMERSON ODE ON MELANCHOLY by JOHN KEATS SING-SONG; A NURSERY RHYME BOOK: 91 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI SPRING QUIET by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI COMPANIONSHIP by MABEL WARREN ARNOLD TO MARY; OCCASIONED BY HER HAVING ENGRAVED ON A SEAL 'FORGET ME NOT' by BERNARD BARTON |