Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PRINCESS AND PEASANT, by MARYETTA LEHR


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PRINCESS AND PEASANT, by                    
First Line: Who is a princess? Mother, say
Last Line: "there's just a difference in their name!"
Subject(s): Death; Story-telling; Dead, The


"WHO is a princess? Mother, say—
Who is a princess? Tell me, pray!"
"A great, grand lady, Bessie child,"
The mother said; but as she smiled,
Her eyes with sudden tears grew wet:
"List to the tale I tell you, Pet.

"The little daughter of a princess lay,
Once on a time, with fever sick to death.
The princess stayed beside her night and day,
Or kneeling over her with fragrant breath,
Or moving round the bed in her soft way.

"The child grew worse and worse as hours went by;
The doctors came and went, with grave concern;
The nurses watched her with an anxious sigh;
The fatal fever heat they could not turn;
Ere long they knew the little one must die.

"They gently told the princess, and they bade
Her not to touch the fever-stricken babe
Lest she should also die. With dark eyes sad
And white, tense face, the princess watched her rave
And toss and fret and moan like one gone mad.

"The child at sunset started up wild-eyed
And begged so piteously the love she missed;
'My mother! kiss me! once! just once!' she cried.
Swift stooped the princess, and her forehead kissed.
The little one sank back, and smiled—and died!"

"And mother, did the princess die?
There, there, my mother! do not cry!"

"Yes, Bessie. When the little child had died,
The princess sickened with the dread disease,
And in a little while she also died.
Out in the soft, sweet earth, 'neath blossoming trees,
They laid them, child and mother, side by side."
"Is that a princess then?"
"That? Yes!
That is a princess, little Bess."

"Who is a peasant? Mother, say!
Who is a peasant? Tell me, pray!"

"A poor, rough man, my little one."
"And did he have a poor, sick son?
A little son who moaned all day
For to be kissed? Say, mother, say!"

"A poor, sick son, my Bess? Perhaps he had,"
The mother said with quivering lips. "Just one.
A bright-eyed, roguish, winsome, little lad,
Whose prattle from the dawn 'till set of sun
Had kept the toiling peasant's lone heart glad.

"There only were they two. So happy they,
When drudging in the fields the long hours through,
Or sitting in their hut at close of day.
And now the child lay sick. The peasant knew
What fatal fever burned the life away.

"Alone the deadly malady he fought;
With hopeless, breaking heart, by day and night,
He kept his watch beside the little cot;
And oft he touched his hard, rough hand so light
Upon the laddie's face—yet kissed him not.

"The child one mid-night started up wild-eyed
And begged so piteously the love he missed:
'My father! kiss me! once! just once!' he cried.
The peasant knelt; the feverish lips he kissed.
The little one looked up, and smiled—and died!

"And mother! did the peasant die?
There, there, my mother! do not cry!"

"Yes, Bessie. When the little lad had died,
The peasant, stricken by the dread disease,
Lay down beside the form he loved, and died.
Out in the cold, hard earth, 'neath leafless trees,
They laid them, child and father, side by side."

"Is that a peasant then?"
"That? Yes!
That is a peasant, little Bess."

"Then, mother, they are just the same!
"There's just a difference in their name!"





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