 | Voices from the Lakes, and Other Poems |  |
163
NAOMI.
Two sad-faced women, haggard, worn, and wan,
Passed wearily thro' Bethlehem's sun-scorched street;
The city, moved to pity, round them ran,
And some with wondering cry the strangers greet,
“What! Is this Naomi?” She quickly broke
Upon them trembling, as they thus began,—
“Call me not Naomi,” she weeping spoke,
“For Naomi is numbered with the dead;
My name is Mara, for, O friends, with me
The Lord hath dealt exceeding bitterly!
Passed wearily thro' Bethlehem's sun-scorched street;
The city, moved to pity, round them ran,
And some with wondering cry the strangers greet,
“What! Is this Naomi?” She quickly broke
Upon them trembling, as they thus began,—
“Call me not Naomi,” she weeping spoke,
“For Naomi is numbered with the dead;
My name is Mara, for, O friends, with me
The Lord hath dealt exceeding bitterly!
The hand of God has touched me, and I mourn,
Has robbed me both of husband and of son,
Woe worth the bitter day that I was born!
My prop, my stay, my life of life is gone;
I went out full, empty come back to you,
A widow, childless, desolate, forlorn,
The graves in Moab hold my dead heart too,
I left it with them where they sleep in peace.
So from my years has gone the sun, the light,
I grope as one thro' some dark dreary night.”
Has robbed me both of husband and of son,
Woe worth the bitter day that I was born!
My prop, my stay, my life of life is gone;
I went out full, empty come back to you,
A widow, childless, desolate, forlorn,
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I left it with them where they sleep in peace.
So from my years has gone the sun, the light,
I grope as one thro' some dark dreary night.”
| Voices from the Lakes, and Other Poems | |