 | Between Doubting and Daring |  |
7
The Unwelcome Guest
(Holy Eve, 1915)
Oft, since 'tis old she has grown,
Whom the grudging days bereave,
Year on long year and lone,
Till her thoughts on their dim path tire,
Turned back so far to grieve—
Oft, when falls Holy Eve,
Part hoping, part adread,
She has heaped the sods of her fire,
And here in its flickering glow
Has the meal, remembering, spread
For you, O her heart's desire,
For you faring home from the Dead.
Whom the grudging days bereave,
Year on long year and lone,
Till her thoughts on their dim path tire,
Turned back so far to grieve—
Oft, when falls Holy Eve,
Part hoping, part adread,
She has heaped the sods of her fire,
And here in its flickering glow
Has the meal, remembering, spread
For you, O her heart's desire,
For you faring home from the Dead.
Nay, but she knows not this night
If the lad yet wake or sleep,
Lost in the far-off fight,
Where beyond the sound of our sea
Fierce battle-thunders sweep
Swift down a shoreless deep
Full many a dear-rued head.
Until dawn from fear set free,
Her heart can find no rest,
Still awaiting, sore bestead,
That loved unwelcome guest:
Lest loner than lone I be,
Come not home to me with the Dead.
If the lad yet wake or sleep,
Lost in the far-off fight,
Where beyond the sound of our sea
Fierce battle-thunders sweep
Swift down a shoreless deep
Full many a dear-rued head.
Until dawn from fear set free,
Her heart can find no rest,
Still awaiting, sore bestead,
That loved unwelcome guest:
Lest loner than lone I be,
Come not home to me with the Dead.
| Between Doubting and Daring | |