Poetry Analysis

Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table

Original Poetry

Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step, She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage To meet him in the doorway with the news And put him on his guard. ‘Silas is back.’ She pushed him outward with her through the door And shut it after her. ‘Be kind,’ she said. She took the market things from Warren’s arms And set them on the porch, then drew him down To sit beside her on the wooden steps.

‘When was I ever anything but kind to him? But I’ll not have the fellow back,’ he said. ‘I told him so last haying, didn’t I? If he left then, I said, that ended it. What good is he? Who else will harbor him At his age for the little he can do? What help he is there’s no depending on. Off he goes always when I need him most. He thinks he ought to earn a little pay, Enough at least to buy tobacco with, So he won’t have to beg and be beholden. “All right,” I say, “I can’t afford to pay Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.” “Someone else can.” “Then someone else will have to.” I shouldn’t mind his bettering himself If that was what it was. You can be certain, When he begins like that, there’s someone at him Trying to coax him off with pocket-money,— In haying time, when any help is scarce. In winter he comes back to us. I’m done.’

‘Sh! not so loud: he’ll hear you,’ Mary said.

‘I want him to: he’ll have to soon or late.’

‘He’s worn out. He’s asleep beside the stove. When I came up from Rowe’s I found him here, Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep, A miserable sight, and frightening, too— You needn’t smile—I didn’t recognize him— I wasn’t looking for him—and he’s changed. Wait till you see.’

‘Where did you say he’d been?’

‘He didn’t say. I dragged him to the house, And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke. I tried to make him talk about his travels. Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.’

‘What did he say? Did he say anything?’

‘But little.’

‘Anything? Mary, confess He said he’d come to ditch the meadow for me.’

‘Warren!’

‘But did he? I just want to know.’

‘Of course he did. What would you have him say? Surely you wouldn’t grudge the poor old man Some humble way to save his self-respect. He added, if you really care to know, He meant to clear the upper pasture, too. That sounds like something you have heard before? Warren, I wish you could have heard the way He jumbled everything. I stopped to look Two or three times—he made me feel so queer— To see if he was talking in his sleep. He ran on Harold Wilson—you remember— The boy you had in haying four years since. He’s finished school, and teaching in his college. Silas declares you’ll have to get him back. He says they two will make a team for work: Between them they will lay this farm as smooth! The way he mixed that in with other things. He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft On education—you know how they fought All through July under the blazing sun, Silas up on the cart to build the load, Harold along beside to pitch it on.’

‘Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.’

‘Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream. You wouldn’t think they would. How some things linger! Harold’s young college boy’s assurance piqued him. After so many years he still keeps finding Good arguments he sees he might have used. I sympathize. I know just how it feels To think of the right thing to say too late. Harold’s associated in his mind with Latin. He asked me what I thought of Harold’s saying He studied Latin like the violin Because he liked it—that an argument! He said he couldn’t make the boy believe He could find water with a hazel prong— Which showed how much good school had ever done him. He wanted to go over that. But most of all He thinks if he could have another chance To teach him how to build a load of hay—’

‘I know, that’s Silas’ one accomplishment. He bundles every forkful in its place, And tags and numbers it for future reference, So he can find and easily dislodge it In the unloading. Silas does that well. He takes it out in bunches like big birds’ nests. You never see him standing on the hay He’s trying to lift, straining to lift himself.’

‘He thinks if he could teach him that, he’d be Some good perhaps to someone in the world. He hates to see a boy the fool of books. Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk, And nothing to look backward to with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope, So now and never any different.’

Part of a moon was falling down the west, Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills. Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw it And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand Among the harp-like morning-glory strings, Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, As if she played unheard some tenderness That wrought on him beside her in the night. ‘Warren,’ she said, ‘he has come home to die: You needn’t be afraid he’ll leave you this time.’

‘Home,’ he mocked gently.

‘Yes, what else but home? It all depends on what you mean by home. Of course he’s nothing to us, any more Than was the hound that came a stranger to us Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.’

‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.’

‘I should have called it Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.’

Warren leaned out and took a step or two, Picked up a little stick, and brought it back And broke it in his hand and tossed it by. ‘Silas has better claim on us you think Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles As the road winds would bring him to his door. Silas has walked that far no doubt today. Why didn’t he go there? His brother’s rich, A somebody—director in the bank.’

‘He never told us that.’

‘We know it though.’

‘I think his brother ought to help, of course. I’ll see to that if there is need. He ought of right To take him in, and might be willing to— He may be better than appearances. But have some pity on Silas. Do you think If he’d had any pride in claiming kin Or anything he looked for from his brother, He’d keep so still about him all this time?’

‘I wonder what’s between them.’

‘I can tell you. Silas is what he is—we wouldn’t mind him— But just the kind that kinsfolk can’t abide. He never did a thing so very bad. He don’t know why he isn’t quite as good As anyone. Worthless though he is, He won’t be made ashamed to please his brother.’

‘I can’t think Si ever hurt anyone.’

‘No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back. He wouldn’t let me put him on the lounge. You must go in and see what you can do. I made the bed up for him there tonight. You’ll be surprised at him—how much he’s broken. His working days are done; I'm sure of it.’

‘I’d not be in a hurry to say that.’

‘I haven’t been. Go, look, see for yourself. But, Warren, please remember how it is: He’s come to help you ditch the meadow. He has a plan. You mustn’t laugh at him. He may not speak of it, and then he may. I’ll sit and see if that small sailing cloud Will hit or miss the moon.’

It hit the moon. Then there were three there, making a dim row, The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.

Warren returned—too soon, it seemed to her, Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.

‘Warren,’ she questioned.

‘Dead,’ was all he answered.

Translation

Mary sat thinking about the flame of the lamp on the table Waiting for Warren. When she heard him coming, She quietly ran down the dark hallway To greet him at the door with the news And alert him. 'Silas has returned.' She pushed him outside with her through the door And closed it behind her. 'Please be kind,' she said. She took the groceries from Warren's arms And placed them on the porch, then pulled him down To sit next to her on the wooden steps.

'When have I ever been anything but kind to him? But I won't take him back,' he said. 'I told him that last haying season, didn't I? If he left then, I said, that was the end. What good is he? Who else will take him in At his age for the little he can do? You can't rely on him for help. He always leaves when I need him the most. He thinks he deserves to earn a little money, At least enough to buy tobacco, So he won't have to beg or owe anyone. 'That's fine,' I say, 'I can't afford to pay Any regular wages, though I wish I could.' 'Someone else can.' 'Then someone else will have to.' I wouldn't mind him improving himself If that's what it really was. You can be sure, When he starts like that, someone is trying to lure him Away with money, During haying time, when help is hard to find. In winter, he comes back to us. I'm done.'

'Shh! Don't speak so loudly: he'll hear you,' Mary said.

'I want him to: he'll have to eventually.'

'He's exhausted. He's sleeping by the stove. When I came back from Rowe's, I found him here, Curled up against the barn door, fast asleep, A pitiful sight, and frightening, too— You don't need to smile—I didn't recognize him— I wasn't expecting him—and he's changed. Just wait until you see.'

'Where did you say he had been?'

'He didn't say. I dragged him to the house, And gave him tea and tried to get him to smoke. I tried to make him talk about his travels. Nothing worked: he just kept dozing off.'

'What did he say? Did he say anything?'

'Not much.'

'Anything? Mary, admit it He said he came to ditch the meadow for me.'

'Warren!'

'But did he? I just want to know.'

'Of course he did. What would you expect him to say? Surely you wouldn't deny the poor old man Some simple way to maintain his dignity. He added, if you really want to know, He meant to clear the upper pasture as well. That sounds like something you've heard before? Warren, I wish you could have heard how He mixed everything up. I stopped to look Two or three times—he made me feel so strange— To see if he was talking in his sleep. He rambled on about Harold Wilson—you remember— The boy you had during haying four years ago. He's finished school and is teaching at his college. Silas insists you'll have to bring him back. He says the two of them will make a good team: Together they will make this farm run smoothly! The way he mixed that in with other things. He thinks young Wilson is a good lad, although foolish About education—you know how they argued All through July under the hot sun, Silas up on the cart to stack the hay, Harold beside him to pitch it on.'

'Yes, I made sure to stay out of earshot.'

'Well, those days still trouble Silas like a dream. You wouldn't think they would. Some things linger! Harold's young college boy's confidence annoyed him. After so many years, he still finds Good arguments he thinks he could have used. I sympathize. I know how it feels To think of the right thing to say too late. Harold is associated in his mind with Latin. He asked me what I thought of Harold's saying He studied Latin like the violin Because he enjoyed it—that's an argument! He said he couldn't make the boy believe He could find water with a hazel stick— Which showed how little good school had done him. He wanted to revisit that. But most of all He thinks if he could have another chance To teach him how to stack a load of hay—'

'I know, that's Silas' only skill. He organizes every forkful in its place, And labels and numbers it for future reference, So he can find and easily remove it When unloading. Silas does that well. He takes it out in bunches like large bird's nests. You never see him standing on the hay He's trying to lift, struggling to lift himself.'

'He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be Some good perhaps to someone in the world. He hates to see a boy fooled by books. Poor Silas, so worried about others, And nothing to look back on with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope, So now and never any different.'

A part of the moon was falling down the west, Dragging the entire sky with it to the hills. Its light poured softly into her lap. She saw it And spread her apron to catch it. She reached out her hand Among the harp-like morning-glory vines, Taut with dew from the garden bed to the eaves, As if she played some unheard tenderness That affected him beside her in the night. 'Warren,' she said, 'he has come home to die: You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.'

'Home,' he gently mocked.

'Yes, what else but home? It all depends on what you mean by home. Of course he's nothing to us anymore Than the hound that came to us as a stranger Out of the woods, worn out on the trail.'

'Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.'

'I should have called it Something you somehow don't have to deserve.'

Warren leaned out and took a step or two, Picked up a small stick, and brought it back And broke it in his hand and tossed it aside. 'You think Silas has a better claim on us Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles As the road winds would bring him to his door. Silas has probably walked that far today. Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich, A somebody—director at the bank.'

'He never told us that.'

'We know it though.'

'I think his brother ought to help, of course. I'll see to that if there's a need. He ought to, And might be willing to— He may be better than he appears. But have some compassion for Silas. Do you think If he'd had any pride in claiming kin Or anything he expected from his brother, He'd have kept so quiet about him all this time?'

'I wonder what happened between them.'

'I can tell you. Silas is what he is—we wouldn't mind him— But just the kind that family can't stand. He never did anything so very wrong. He doesn't know why he isn't quite as good As anyone. Worthless though he is, He won't be ashamed to please his brother.'

'I can't think Silas ever hurt anyone.'

'No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back. He wouldn't let me put him on the couch. You must go in and see what you can do. I made the bed up for him there tonight. You'll be surprised at how much he's broken. I'm sure his working days are done.'

'I wouldn't be quick to say that.'

'I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself. But, Warren, please remember how it is: He's come to help you ditch the meadow. He has a plan. You mustn't laugh at him. He may not mention it, and then he may. I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloud Will hit or miss the moon.'

It hit the moon. Then there were three there, making a dim row, The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.

Warren returned—too soon, it seemed to her, Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.

'Warren,' she questioned.

'Dead,' was all he answered.