Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE OVENS, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: He trailed along the cinder-track Last Line: "god knows whom I may wake to-night." | ||||||||
He trailed along the cinder-track Beside the sleek canal, whose black Cold, slinking waters shivered back Each frosty spark of starry light; And each star pricked, an icy pin, Through his old jacket worn and thin: The raw wind rasped his shrinking skin As if stark naked to its bite; Yet, cutting through him like a knife, It would not cut the thread of life; But only turned his feet to stones With red-hot soles, that weighed like lead In his old broken boots. His head, Sunk low upon his sunken chest, Was but a burning, icy ache That strained a skull which would not break To let him tumble down to rest. He felt the cold stars in his bones: And only wished that he were dead, With no curst searching wind to shred The very flesh from off his bones -- No wind to whistle through his bones, His naked, icy, burning bones: When, looking up, he saw, ahead, The far coke-ovens' glowing light That burnt a red hole in the night. And but to snooze beside that fire Was all the heaven of his desire... To tread no more this cursed track Of crunching cinders, through a black And blasted world of cinder-heaps, Beside a sleek canal that creeps Like crawling ice through every bone, Beneath the cruel stars, alone With this hell-raking wind that sets The cold teeth rattling castanets... Yea, heaven, indeed, that core of red In night's black heart that seemed quite dead. Though still far off, the crimson glow Through his chilled veins began to flow, And fill his shrivelled heart with heat; And as he dragged his senseless feet, That lagged as though to hold him back In cold, eternal hell of black, With heaven before him, blazing red, The set eyes staring in his head Were held by spell of fire quite blind To that black world that fell behind, A cindery wilderness of death; As he drew slowly near and nearer, And saw the ovens glowing clearer -- Low-domed and humming hives of heat -- And felt the blast of burning breath That quivered from each white-hot brick: Till, blinded by the blaze, and sick He dropped into a welcome seat Of warm white ashes, sinking low To soak his body in the glow That shot him through with prickling pain, An eager agony of fire, Delicious after the cold ache, And scorched his tingling, frosted skin. Then gradually the anguish passed; And blissfully he lay, at last, Without an unfulfilled desire, His grateful body drinking in Warm, blessed, snug forgetfulness. And yet with staring eyes awake, As though no drench of heat could slake His thirst for fire, he watched a red Hot eye that burned within a chink Between the bricks: while overhead The quivering stream of hot, gold air Surged up to quench the cold starlight. His brain, too numbed and dull to think Throughout the day, in that fierce glare Awoke, at last, with startled stare Of pitiless, insistent sight That stript the stark, mean, bitter strife Of his poor, broken, wasted life, Crippled from birth, and struggling on, The last, least shred of hope long gone, To some unknown, black, bitter end. But, even as he looked, his brain Sank back to sightless sloth again; Then, all at once, he seemed to choke; And knew it was the stealthy stife And deadly fume of burning coke That filled his lungs, and seemed to soak Through every pore, until the blood Grew thick and heavy in his veins, And he could scarcely draw a breath. He lay, and murmured drowsily, With closing eyes: "If this be death, It's snug and easy ... let it come... For life is cold and hard ... the flood Is rising with the heavy rains That pour and pour ... that damned old drum, Why ever can't they let it be... Beat-beating, beating, beating, beat..." Then, suddenly, he sat upright, For, close behind him in the night, He heard a breathing loud and deep, And caught a whiff of burning leather. He shook himself alive, and turned; And on a heap of ashes white, O'ercome by the full blast of heat, Where fieriest the dread blaze burned, He saw a young girl stretched in sleep. He sat awhile with heavy gaze Fixed on her in a dull amaze, Until he saw her scorched boots smoking: Then, whispering huskily: "She's dying, While I look on and watch her choking!" He roused, and pulled himself together: And rose, and went where she was lying: And, bending o'er the senseless lass, In his weak arms he lifted her; And bore her out beyond the glare, Beyond the stealthy, stifling gas, Into the fresh and eager air: And laid her gently on the ground Beneath the cold and starry sky; And did his best to bring her round; Though still, for all that he could try, She seemed, with each deep-labouring breath Just brought up on the brink of death. He sought, and found an icy pool, Though he had but a cap to fill, And bathed her hands and face, until The troubled breath was quieter, And her flushed forehead felt quite cool: And then he saw an eyelid stir; And shivering she sat up at last, And looked about her sullenly. "I'm cold ... I'm mortal cold," she said: "What call had you to waken me? I was so warm and happy, dead... And still those staring stars!" Her head Dropt in her hands: and thick and fast The tears came with a heavy sobbing. He stood quite helpless while she cried; And watched her shaken bosom throbbing With passionate, wild, weak distress, Till it was spent. And then she dried Her eyes upon her singed black dress; Looked up, and saw him standing there, Wondering, and more than half-afraid. But now the nipping, hungry air Took hold of her, and struck fear dead. She only felt the starving sting That must, at any price, be stayed; And cried out: "I am famishing!" Then from his pocket he took bread That he had been too weak and sick To eat o'ernight: and eager-eyed, She took it timidly; and said: "I have not tasted food two days." And as he waited by her side, He watched her with a quiet gaze; And saw her munch the broken crust So gladly, seated in the dust Of that black desert's bitter night, Beneath the freezing stars, so white And hunger-pinched: and at the sight Keen pity touched him to the quick; Although he never said a word, Till she had finished every crumb. And then he led her to a seat A little closer to the heat, But well beyond the deadly stife. And in the ashes, side by side, They sat together, dazed and dumb, With eyes upon the ovens' glare, Each looking nakedly on life. And then, at length, she sighed, and stirred, Still staring deep and dreamy-eyed Into the whitening, steady glow. With jerky, broken words and slow, And biting at her finger-ends, She talked at last: and spoke out all Quite open-heartedly, as though There were not any stranger there -- The fire and he, both bosom-friends. She'd left her home three months ago -- She, country-born and country-bred, Had got the notion in her head That she'd like city-service best... And so no country place could please... And she had worried without rest Until, at last, she got her ends; And, wiser than her folk and friends, She left her home among the trees... The trees grew thick for miles about Her father's house ... the forest spread As far as ever you could see... And it was green, in Summer, green... Since she had left her home, she'd seen No greenness could compare with it... And everything was fresh and clean, And not all smutched and smirched with smoke... They burned no sooty coal and coke, But only wood-logs, ash and oak... And by the fire at night they'd sit... Ah! wouldn't it be rare and good To smell the sappy, sizzling wood, Once more; and listen to the stream That runs just by the garden-gate... And often, in a Winter spate, She'd wakened from a troubled dream, And lain in bed, and heard it roar; And quaked to hear it, as a child... It seemed so angry, and so wild -- Just mad to sweep the house away! And now, it was three months or more Since she had heard it, on the day... The day she left ... and Michael stood... He was a woodman, too, and he Worked with her father in the wood... And wanted her, she knew ... but she Was proud, and thought herself too good To marry any country lad... 'Twas queer to think she'd once been proud -- And such a little while ago -- A beggar, wolfing crusts! ... The pride That made her quit her countryside Soon left her stranded in the crowd... And precious little pride she had To keep her warm these freezing days Since she had fled the city-ways To walk back home ... ay! home again: For, in the town, she'd tried in vain, For honest work to earn her bread... At one place, they'd nigh slaved her dead, And starved her, too; and, when she left, Had cheated her of half her wage: But she'd no means to stop the theft... And she'd had no more work to do... Two months since, now ... it seemed an age! How she had lived, she scarcely knew... And still, poor fool, too proud to write To home for help, until, at length, She'd not a penny for a bite, Or pride enough to clothe her back... So she was tramping home, too poor To pay the train-fare ... she'd the strength, If she'd the food ... but that hard track, And that cold, cruel, bitter night Had taken all the heart from her... If Michael knew, she felt quite sure... For she would rather drop stone-dead Than live as some ... if she had cared To feed upon the devil's bread, She could have earned it easily... She'd pride enough to starve instead, Ay, starve, than fare as some girls fared... But that was all behind ... and she Was going home ... and yet, maybe, If they'd a home like hers, they, too, Would be too proud ... she only knew The thought of home had kept her straight, And saved her ere it was too late. She'd soon be home again... And now She sat with hand upon her brow; And did not speak again nor stir. And as he heard her words, his gaze Still set upon the steady glare, His thoughts turned back to city-ways: And he remembered common sights That he had seen in city nights: And, once again, in early June, He wandered through the midnight street; And heard those ever-pacing feet Of young girls, children yet in years, With gaudy ribbons in their hair, And shameless fevered eyes astare, And slack lips set in brazen leers, Who walked the pavements of despair, Beneath the fair full Summer moon... Shadowed by worn-out, wizened hags, With claw-hands clutching filthy rags About old bosoms, shrunk and thin, And mouths aleer without a tooth, Who dogged them, cursing their sleek youth That filched their custom and their bread... Then, in a reek of hot gas light, He stood where, through the Summer night, Half-dozing in the stifling air, The greasy landlord, fat with sin, Sat, lolling in his easy chair, Just half-way up the brothel stair, To tax the earnings they brought in, And hearken for the policeman's tread... Then, shuddering back from that foul place And turning from the ovens' glare, He looked into her dreaming face; And saw green, sunlit woodlands there, And waters flashing in between Low-drooping boughs of Summer green. And as he looked, still in a dream She murmured: "Michael would, she knew... Though she'd been foolish ... he was true, As true as steel, and fond of her... And then she sat with eyes agleam In dreaming silence, till the stir Of cold dawn shivered through the air: When, twisting up her tumbled hair, She rose, and said, she must be gone. Though she'd still far to go, the day Would see her well upon her way... And she had best be jogging on, While she'd the strength ... and so, "Good-bye." And as, beneath the paling sky, He trudged again the cinder-track That stretched before him, dead and black, He muttered: "It's a chance the light Has found me living still ... and she -- She, too ... and Michael ... and through me! God knows whom I may wake to-night." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BETWEEN THE LINES by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON BREAKFAST by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON FLANNAN ISLE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON FOR G. by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON GERANIUMS by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON LAMENT by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON RETREAT by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON RUPERT BROOKE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE GORSE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE ICE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON |
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