What  was  it  brought  you  up  to  think  it  the

thing
To  take  your  mother-loss  of  a  first  child
So  inconsolably — in  the  face  of  love.
You'd  think  his  memory  might  be  satisfied "

"  There  you  go  sneering  now  !  "

"  I'm  not,  I'm  not !
You  make  me  angry.     I'll  come  down  to  you.
God,  what  a  woman  !     And  it's  come  to  this,
A  man  can't  speak  of  his  own  child  that's  dead."

"  You  can't  because  you  don't  know  how.
If  you  had  any  feelings,  you  that  dug

With  your  own  hand — how  could  you  ? — his

little  grave  ;
I  saw  you  from  that  very  window  there,
Making  the  gravel  leap  and  leap  in  air,
Leap  up,  like  that,  like  that,  and  land  so  lightly

48


And  roll  back  down  the  mound  beside  the  hole.
I  thought,  Who  is  that  man  ?     I  didn't  know

you.
And  I  crept  down  the  stairs  and  up  the  stairs
To  look  again,  and  still  your  spade  kept  lifting.
Then  you  came  in.     I   heard  your  rumbling

voice
Out  in  the  kitchen,  and  I  don't  know  why,
But  I  went  near  to  see  with  my  own  eyes.
You  could  sit  there  with  the  stains  on  your  shoes
Of  the  fresh  earth  from  your  own  baby's  grave
And  talk  about  your  everyday  concerns.
You  had  stood  the  spade  up  against  the  wall
Outside  there  in  the  entry,  for  I  saw  it."

"  I  shall  laugh  the  worst  laugh  I  ever  laughed.
I'm    cursed.      God,    if    I    don't    believe    I'm
cursed."

"  I  can  repeat  the  very  words  you  were  saying.
