[Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) being scattered chapters from the history of the Cooper, Pomeroy, Woolson and Benedict families, with extracts From their Letters and Journals, as well as articles and poems by Constance Fenimore Woolson |
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ON A HOMELY WOMAN, DEAD. |
 | [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) |  |
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ON A HOMELY WOMAN, DEAD.
And hast thou served the purpose of thy life,Poor helpless clay, that many times did ask,
“Why was I born?” Not thine the daily task
Of direst Poverty that, with its strife
For bread, doth crush all faces to one mould
Of haggard care; nor thine the grace of age,
Which covereth all our lack with reverence
For silver hairs. No: in thy pilgrimage
Thou knewest always that all eyes did hold
Thee as a blot upon their loving sense
Of beauty: there was discord in the air
When thou passed by.
Thou couldst not ope thy mind,
Shed out a radiance, or compel the ear
To listen while the eye forgot; no kind
Relenting Fortune turned and gave thee wit
Or eloquence as compensation. Spare
And lean thy stores of pleasure through the years—
Some thanks, some small remembrance; thou didst sit
And gather thankfully a breath, a crumb
Of happiness thrown to thee, as the dumb
And patient dog doth wait. And if there came
One who professed to love thee, in thy shame
At thine own bitter sad deficiency,
Thou hatedst him for his dull mockery
Of love, when it was household need alone
That wanted thee. And if a kinder tone
Did sue, thou knewest, through thy hidden tears,
It was but pity, and thy pale cheek turned
Paler as thou saidst—no! Thy pulsing years,
That radiant should have been, have dimly burned
In their cramped darkened prison: couldst thou dream
Of love, of motherhood? Thou wouldst not take
The false for want of true, the gilt for gold,
The tinsel for the gem; so thou didst hold
Thy dreary life alone. And, for the sake
Of womanhood, thou wouldst not condescend
To things beneath thee; but didst ever seem
To walk with fixed endurance on thy brow
Through life, nor e'en look upward toward the end,
Lest thou shouldst lose the path that thou didst trace
In early years for all thy life.
O Face!
Poor homely Face, still, rigid, dead, and now
Soon to pass out forever from our sight
Beneath the sod, no more to vex the light,
Wert thou a mask? Then, oh! how fair must be
The face she weareth now, for wearing thee!
| [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) | |